Miriam looked away and spoke in a leaden voice. “He sailed yesterday for England.”
“For England? What did you tell him? What did you do? Mama”—she shrieked and the sound echoed back into the stone church—“it’s not true.” She was gagging with pent-up sobs. “Baba, is it true?” Nadeem nodded, looking so grieved she almost embraced him. Instead she took the veil that she still had in her hand and threw it to the floor in front of her mother. “Here is your veil!” She stomped on it with her foot. “I don’t want to see you. Any of you!” She picked up her skirts and ran out, mounted Gala, and rode toward home. No one followed her. What was there to say? There was a little valise that Nadia had packed to bring with her to the hotel, and she picked it up and remounted. It was strange, but through it all she knew precisely where she would go. There was only one place to go.
She would go to the stone cottage at the orchards. No one would be there, for the harvest was still a month away. She would be able to think there. She would be able to ride and think and plan her escape. Not for a moment did she stop to remember that the place of refuge she so eagerly sought belonged to her new husband.
My dear,
The pain of what you see as a callous rejection will blind your understanding of what I’m about to say. I’ve really acted in your best interest. My darling girl, I wouldn’t have brought you happiness.
By nature I’m a man who walks easiest without attachments. This dashing, cheerful fellow, when held down by another’s needs, turns moody, sarcastic, cold, and ultimately mean-spirited. I deluded myself into thinking that you were young enough to be independent and resourceful. We would each go our own way and come together when it suited us. But in my heart, I know this would prove untrue. I was using you as insurance to outwit the loneliness that hits us dashing fellows of a certain age. That was callous. You deserve a full life with children and an adoring husband who will be devoted to your happiness. You deserve your family and friends and culture to give you strength and support. In time, after our return to England you would have felt cheated and displaced. It would have been a lonely household, for although we never discussed it, I doubt that I could reconcile myself to beginning another family.
You are a woman of depth and passion and dignity. Please find it in your heart to forgive your devoted friend,
Victor
She tore the letter into tiny pieces and rode out beyond the scrub to the barren desert. There, still atop her horse, she picked out each bit of paper out of her pocket until all of the hateful letter was scattered to the wind. She had given herself to a man who had thought of her as no more than a convenience.
Once rid of the letter, she lifted her shoulders. “No more tears for Victor Madden,” she said aloud. On her way back to the cottage, she stopped at the small paddock where several foals, no more than six months old, were cavorting. “They’re so young,” she said to the trainer.
“Yes, madam. Some are still babies, but still, they’ve got work to do. In the paddock they develop their shoulder muscles. My name is Farid.”
“Hello. What happens when they’re no longer babies?”
“The older ones go into the rectangular paddock twice a day to try and outrace the gazelles. They learn what competition is all about. They build up their quarters and hocks.”
“Do they all make it?”
“Oh, yes. Out of this stock, yes. Some are stronger than others, but by eighteen months they’re ready to be saddled.”
“Could I help you? Could I work with them?”
“Of course, madam,” he said respectfully. She was puzzled by his deference. No one had ever called her madam. “Mary Thomas alerted me that you might be coming here and we were prepared.” It wasn’t until she was tucked in bed that night that it hit her. She was the madam. She was Madam Saleh, mistress of everything. All these splendid animals belonged to her.
Farid patiently answered all her questions, frankly surprised and gratified that a woman took an interest in his work. Nadia spent all of the mornings and most of the afternoons grooming and exercising the horses. She stroked them and talked to them and cheered when they outran the gazelles. The rest of the time she rode all around the property, past the orchards and olive groves, eastward. There was a transition area where the cultivated land merged with the land of the Bedouin farmers who were the bridge between the town and the desert. The sheik had not been ashamed of cooperating with his neighbors and was in partnership with them in the horse-breeding business.
The Salehs had large herds that they grazed farther and farther afield as the grass grew scarce. Occasionally while riding Nadia would come upon a lone shepherd—and once, a shepherdess, who seemed so young that she offered to take her home, but the girl smiled with embarrassment. “No, madam, I must stay with the herd.”
“But where do you sleep? How do you eat?”
“In the tent.” She pointed to a piece of canvas draped over four poles. “There are dates in my pack and hard cheese. I have a goat for milk and bake bread here every day.” She dragged out of piece of sheet metal and placed it over some rocks sitting in a pile of ashes. She was proud of her resourcefulness; no one had ever been interested in how she managed.
“Suppose a wild animal comes?” Nadia wasn’t convinced of the girl’s safety. How could she sleep at night, knowing this waif was out here in the wilderness at the mercy of wolves and foxes? It was totally desolate.
“My dogs warn me.”
“Wolves can rip the dogs apart.”
“Oh, no. I kill them first.”
“You shoot them?” Could this tiny girl handle a gun? Was it safe?
The girl laughed heartily. “No madam, that would scatter the flock. I kill them with my lance and the knife.”
“Oh, no! You don’t mean it. Who put you here? It’s not safe.”
“Please, madam, it’s very safe. I’m happy for the job. My brother had it, but he’s too old now. Don’t worry.”
But she did worry. The girl looked so frail. And it was such a lonely spot. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen. Nadia went back to the spot a week later, but all trace of the girl and her camp was gone and the area was picked clean of any green scrap.
She never returned to the cottage before late afternoon and ate gratefully from whatever simple dish of food was left by Mary Thomas, a part-time caretaker who lived at the bottom of the hill. After the hours of riding and fresh air, Nadia sank into her bed at night too exhausted to think. Ultimately she would have to face up to her life, but not yet. One day she stayed out later than usual and it was almost dusk when she entered the cottage. A violet sky gentled the light coming though the windows, making the room appear more comforting than it was.
Her skin, already rosy from the outdoors, was aglow from the heat of the ride and her hair, sun bleached and unbound, fell exuberantly around her face and shoulders. Despite the healthy bronzed skin and bountiful mane, her gray eyes appeared vulnerable, as if trapped in an unfamiliar place. A thin cotton shirt was snug against her breasts and riding breeches outlined her hips. She had unbuttoned the shirt so that her long neck was visible, and also the hollow below her neck that ended with her breasts. In the cool semishadows of the stone room, she looked beautiful.
Samir gripped the mantel where he stood to keep from taking her in his arms. He hadn’t bothered with the lamp.
When she saw him, she instinctively went toward the window. Did she think she could crawl out and escape? The silence was uncomfortable and her skin crawled. There was so much to say and yet there was nothing to say. The question foremost in her mind . . . why had he done it? He had education, wealth, and good looks. He had been groomed to lead from infancy. Rasa Tabul or Jaqueline George would have gladly married him and they, like him, were prepared for such a marriage.
Her anger had dissipated during these two weeks and she was left with a leaden resentmen
t. “Why did you do it?” she finally asked.
He sat down, bending over his knees with his hands dangling before him. The pose indicated the aftermath of an emotional struggle. “Not out of arrogance,” he said. “It was nothing like that. One day—it must have been a few years ago—I caught a glimpse of you at a soccer game up in the stands. The sun had caught your hair at just a certain angle so that it seemed you were being singled out by heaven.” He gave a short rueful laugh. “Something had your attention—it wasn’t my brilliant playing—and you turned. There was a look of defiance on your face. I thought, Why should a young girl feel defiant? Defiance means you’re struggling against something that threatens your independence. I thought back to your parents, to Miss Smythe or someone else at school that could be trying to subdue you. Then I realized it went beyond that. You were defiant for some deep and personal reason that perhaps you didn’t know yourself. That’s when I fell in love with you. I was intrigued as a young man is intrigued and yes, mainly because you weren’t paying attention to the game in which I was the star. The other girls were cheering each play, but I couldn’t get anything out of you.”
He went to stand at the mantel and she was grateful for the chance to study him without having to face him. She had expected anything but this. The silence was palpable and held them in place. He was wearing Western riding breeches and boots but the traditional headgear. His face, framed by the kaffiyeh, was flushed, the dark brows prominent, the large eyes soft and earnest. His hands looked strong and capable yet were made innocent by the leather watchstrap of the student punctuating his wrist. She was surprised to find that she wanted to touch him, but then it came back to her that he had tricked her. He had willfully maneuvered her into a marriage without her consent. He was selfish, unfeeling, despotic. “Why have you come here?” she asked derisively. “To claim your bride?”
“If you mean physically,” he answered—and she was aware that his eyes swept over her body—“the answer is no. I don’t want to force myself on you. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. It’s your home now. I’ve had them bring Rami, a fine gentle horse for you to ride, and my father has sent a girl to cook for you. She’ll stay with Mary Thomas. I’ve rented a house on the old Jerusalem Road. It belonged to Dr. Malouf, remember? I’ll be waiting there for you whenever you’re ready to come.” He took another long, unnerving look at her and then left promptly. She heard the sounds outside as he mounted and galloped away.
It was the talk of the town. Samir and his new bride were not living together.
The week of festivities that followed even the most humble wedding never took place. The bride had ridden off on her horse. Poor Miriam. Poor Nadeem to have to deal with such a girl. As for Samir, there was no explaining his behavior. Why such an exceptional man would have chosen such a troublesome and plain—yes, all in all, she was hardly beautiful—and ungrateful woman, no one knew. Perhaps she was pregnant. Ya Allah, that’s what the English had done to the morals.
She stayed at the house for another week. She rode Rami, the most comfortable mount she had ever had, a magnificent horse that seemed attuned to her in every way. She tried not to think of who had brought her this wonderful horse. She purposefully exhausted herself so as not to have to think of the inevitable.
One night, though, she awoke and sat up. Her head was as clear as it had been in weeks. He had said he loved her. He had said, That’s when I fell in love with you.
26.
I WAS AFRAID OF NEVER BEING LOVED BACK.
She felt foolish knocking on the door of his house. She had waited until dark because he was more likely to be there, but she had no idea how he would greet her. Now that she wanted him, the thought that he loved her seemed remote. Maybe she should leave right now before he answered. To arrive at a strange house, looking for your husband, with no idea of how it would end.
The door opened.
“Hello.” Was that her voice?
“Hello.” He was in shirtsleeves and the skin around his eyes was dusky. He was tired. His hair was tousled, as if he had run his hands through it a thousand times. He was sorry that he’d married her and was anguished over how, in God’s name, he could get out of it. She trembled. “Are you cold?” he asked, but there was no emotion in his voice.
“No. I’m frightened.”
“Frightened? Of what? Of me?”
“Not of you.”
“Then of what?”
“I’m frightened that you don’t want me anymore.” Frankness might provoke that little teasing that would tell her he was on her side.
“Ah.” He nodded his head up and down. “So that’s it. Well, we could discuss it right here—if you still don’t want to come in. Or you could come in.”
His tone was lighthearted. Thank God. “I’ll come in. Thank you.”
She had tried to look her best. She was wearing a straight navy skirt covered by a long wool sweater with a belt. In a fit of anxiety over how to glamorize herself, she had cut the front of her hair and it now hung in curly bangs across her forehead. She had smeared every crazy thing around her eyes to make them look larger, but had left her mouth naked. If they kissed and he tasted lipstick, he would know that she was trying to be more glamorous than she was.
“This is where you live?” She walked a few steps here and there but retained nothing of what she saw. “Charming . . .” It was a blur of half-timbered stucco. She had passed this house a hundred times without any premonition that it would be important in her life. How odd.
“Yeah.” He rubbed his chin and then ran his hand through his hair again. “After being on my own in England, I couldn’t seem to settle in at home. It was time I had a place of my own.”
There was a deep silence that made her excruciatingly aware of him in a new way. His blood seemed close to the surface of his skin, making it glow. If he would only put his arms around her and put an end to this anxiety—but that seemed unlikely.
“Why would you think I don’t want you anymore?”
Her mouth felt dry and she swallowed. “You look tired, for one thing.”
“I could be tired for any number of reasons. Why would that necessarily mean I’m tired of you?”
“You look emotionally tired.” What did that mean? God, stop me from talking nonsense. England had changed him. He seemed much more sophisticated than when he’d left, and she was very provincial.
“Ah. If that theory makes sense, would the opposite also be true? You look marvelous. Does that mean you’re not tired of me at all?”
The compliment stunned her. She looked to see how serious he was. To answer would be to betray her feelings before he had declared his. Well, hadn’t she come to do exactly that? To tell him she’d decided to be his wife after all?
She needed courage. She felt young and inexperienced. It was so difficult to slough off pretense and commit herself. There was a lifetime of vulnerability and only her obstinacy to protect her. He had always been held up as someone unattainable and she had been the poor relation. She wasn’t even pretty. What fool in such a position would say I love you and I hope you love me back?
“It’s hard for me to answer you, Samir. I’m not good at baring my heart.” That was true enough and the strength of that statement helped her along.
“Who is?” he said somberly.
She was able to get control of her voice. “If I tell you I’ve decided to come back, you could say, ‘It’s too late, little lady. You had your chance.’ Samir”—she looked at her hands and fidgeted with a silly friendship ring, a gift from a girl whose name she couldn’t remember—“I don’t want to be alone anymore. I want to be here with you. I had to get over my resentment of what you did to Victor, but in the end . . .”
She looked up at him with wide, puzzled eyes. “Victor was so easily persuaded to leave me.” She paused for a big statement to come. What a curious little house. Ridiculously, at
that moment she noticed that the room had extra angles. “I also have to face the fact that probably”—it was difficult to say these things—“I loved you long before you considered loving me.” The room was so quiet, the words exploded in her ears. “You can understand. I was afraid of never being loved back.” Oh! What a thing to say.
He was just staring. What did that mean? A damp breeze made the hairs on her arms move. Why did his eyes look as if pain were just beneath the surface? “Samir?” She went and put her arms around his waist, feeling, with a shiver of surprise, the solid back. A warmth that included the comforting smell of his cotton shirt enveloped her. He brought his hands up and pushed back her new bangs to see more of her face. He gave her a thorough, penetrating look and placed his mouth over hers. Her will snapped in two, pathetically brittle against the onslaught of relief and exhilaration.
They kissed like lovers who have been separated by tragic events. His lips parted and she had her first taste of her new husband. He took a quick hungry tour of her mouth and then, as if wary of frightening her, stepped back. Her hand caressed his bare warm neck and that small proof of her right to him filled her with hope. She pulled away and looked at him. “Is it going to be all right?”
“You’re my wife,” he said as if she’d forgotten. He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at his shoe. “I’m deeply sorry for the way we got married. I thought you were making a mistake with Victor. Even so, I was sorry the moment it was done.”
She shrugged. She wouldn’t say it was all right. She wouldn’t say anything. “You shouldn’t blame your mother,” he added. She shrugged again. She had blamed him primarily, but now she was certain it was all her mother and a remote anger had to be tucked away. He waited. “I was going to bed when you came, but perhaps you’re hungry?”
“No. Please go to bed.” She hadn’t even thought. Things were moving too fast. She felt tall and gangly and unable to move or say anything graceful. He was going to have to handle everything, but he looked uncomfortable, too.
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