by M. M. Kaye
“You could say, for instance, that you did not like being gaped at by crowds; which is a thing that all the local people are sure to understand. Do you think that could be arranged?”
Thérèse Tissot nodded her head and said generously: “I make you my compliments. Mademoiselle. Certainly it shall be arranged. I myself will see the Seyyida Cholé and she shall give the order. And tonight when it is dark and all are asleep, the gold shall be brought here, yes?”
“Oh, yes indeed!” agreed Olivia, enthralled. “And now all that we need is a good excuse for paying several visits to Beit-el-Tani during the next few days, before Hubert and Jane return.”
“Lessons!” said Thérèse with a little crow of laughter. “We learn Court Persian. The Seyyidas have graciously offered to teach us, and so each morning we go to school.”
“That will do excellently,” approved Hero. “Besides, it will give you the opportunity to confine your calls to the hottest part of the day, and there is something so very unsuspicious about the mid-morning. Quite different from the late evening or the night I suppose the Beit-el-Tani servants are to be trusted?”
“If they could not be, the Seyyidas and their brother, and all who plot for them, would long ago have been betrayed. Of that you may be sure.”
“And your own?”
“They have been bribed,” said Thérèse with a twinkle. “As we shall bribe Olivia’s. It is the best way with these people. If one pays them well they will keep a shut mouth.”
“Then that’s all right. Now, are there any other points that we have not yet covered?”
The meeting resolved itself into an animated discussion of minor problems, and any passers-by hearing the babble of feminine voices that proceeded from the drawing-room of the Platts’ house might have been forgiven for supposing that nothing more innocuous than a ladies’ tea-party was in progress. But the results of that morning’s work were to prove far-reaching and anything but innocuous.
The first ripple was felt by Hero and Cressida, who on returning to the Consulate met with a reception that bid fair to rival, in the matter of temperature, the heat of the sun-baked streets outside. The Consul had been waiting for them for at least two hours, during which time his temper had risen to boiling point, and it now erupted in an impressive manner to castigate not only his daughter’s too frequent visits to Beit-el-Tani and her friendship with Olivia Credwell and Thérèse Tissot, but the English as a whole, the entire French nation, and every member of the Arab and African races.
Cressy had speedily been reduced to tears, but Hero had remained admirably calm, and waiting until her irate uncle had run out of breath, said placatingly:
“Dear Uncle, I do beg you to forgive me if I am being dense, but won’t you please tell me what all this is about? I am quite bewildered. And pray stop teasing poor Cressy. All we have done is to pay a short call on some charming Arab ladies, and a longer one on Mrs Credwell, who was kind enough to offer us refreshments. Speaking for myself, I found it all most interesting and have seldom spent a more enjoyable morning, and if we have kept you and Aunt Abby waiting for luncheon, I am truly sorry. But it’s been so long since I have been able to enjoy a little feminine gossip that I guess I lost all count of time. You know what we girls are like, Uncle Nat. Once we get to talking…”
She paused artistically, thereby avoiding, in time-honoured feminine fashion, the lie direct, and Mr Hollis not only capitulated but offered a handsome apology to his weeping daughter.
“And you will let us continue to visit these charming little Princesses, won’t you?” coaxed Hero, ruthlessly following up her advantage: “You have no idea how interesting it is to make the acquaintance of women whose lives are so very different from our own, and I am sure it can do nothing but good for them to see that all women are not mere chattels. As for Madame Tissot and Mrs Credwell, I just know they’ll be deeply hurt if Cressy and I decline all further invitations from them, but if you really wish it, of course we shall do so. Won’t we, Cressy?”
“No, no,” protested the Consul, hastily retreating from the whole position. “It’s just that I had thought maybe…Well, I guess I may have got it all wrong. Now, now Cressy, stop sniffling. I’ve said I’m sorry I bawled you out. I didn’t understand the situation, that’s all. I thought—well, never mind. We’ll say no more about it.”
The incident, as far as Uncle Nat was concerned, was closed. And he was mercifully unaware that at his niece’s suggestion Mrs Credwell, taking unfair advantage of her brother’s absence, received that night under cover of darkness and conditions of enthralling secrecy, ten locked boxes, borne to the house on homali carts and stowed away in the room provided for her travelling trunks. Or that earlier that day Thérèse Tissot had paid another call at Beit-el-Tani.
The Seyyida Cholé had been unusually gracious and had warmly commended Hero’s scheme. Nothing, said Cholé, could be simpler, for Miss Hollis had been correct in asserting that the public arrival of unveiled women to pay calls at Beit-el-Tani might be considered shocking. It had shocked many, and in future a more decorous arrangement should prevail. She would expect Madame Tissot and Mrs Credwell for a lesson in Court Persian each morning, and it was exceedingly fortunate that there should be a route to the back door of the palace that was capable of taking a carriage. Doubtless the All Wise had arranged that it should be so, since the vast majority of the city streets were far too narrow and tortuous to permit the passage of such clumsy vehicles.
Madame Tissot had been dismissed with suitable compliments, and when she had gone Cholé laid aside the embroidered half-mask that she had worn during the interview, and calling for water, washed her hands. After which she ordered all the windows to be opened to their widest extent, and sent down a message to the aged retainer whose duty it was to provide a guard on her gate.
It was a message that presently filtered through the bazaars and streets and alleyways of the city, and would have infuriated the Western Consulates and every member of the European community had it come to their ears. For it said, in effect, that since courtesy and good manners prevented the ladies of Beit-el-Tani from resisting the intrusions of certain foreign women who shamelessly persisted in calling almost daily at the palace, the foreigners would in future be received only at the slaves’ entrance. Moreover, they would enter under cover of the servants’ porch, which was to be strictly screened in protest against the immodesty of their behaviour and attire, and they had been requested to make their visits in a covered conveyance. Should they at any time attempt to enter by the front gateway, or in an open carriage, they were to be refused admittance and turned away.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately?—Uncle Nat remained in ignorance of all this. And nothing more would have been said on the subject of the Seyyidas had not Clayton, returning from a day’s shooting with his friend Mr Lynch, surprised them all by being even more annoyed than his stepfather when he learned how Cressy and Hero had spent the morning; and saying as much in terms that rivalled the Consul’s earlier words on the same subject. He had ended by strongly advising Hero to have nothing further to do with Madame Tissot or Beit-el-Tani, and when she had demanded to know why in a voice that was itself a danger signal, he had disarmed her by saying that it must always be the concern of any man in love to protect the object of his affections from anything that might cause her the smallest degree of unhappiness.
It had not really answered her question; but Hero had not noticed that And since she was not at all anxious to discuss the subject, she had accepted it with a charming smile and changed the conversation: which had not satisfied Clayton, who for reasons of his own would have preferred to keep Hero and Madame Tissot apart.
He regretted not warning her against Thérèse before, but it was too late for that now. And though he had every intention of marrying Hero, they were not yet betrothed, and he knew that any attempt to press his authority at this stage would only lead to further quarrels and a worsening of their relationship. There was nothing
to do but hope for the best, and that evening he had taken her for a stroll in the garden, and avoiding any controversial subjects, had advanced himself in her good graces by being pleasant and attentive and refraining from any attempt at love-making—though had she been almost any other woman he would not have hesitated, for in the soft purple twilight, with the breeze ruffling her short chestnut curls into an aureole about her head, she was looking more sweetly feminine than he had thought possible. But Clayton was no fool where women were concerned, and he was well aware that her mind was on other matters and that the moment was not propitious for a display of lover-like ardour.
He did not let this worry him unduly, for there was, after all plenty of time. And with a girl of Hero’s temperament he knew that he would get there a deal faster by moving slowly. Once they were safely married, things would be very different.
15
Mr and Mrs Hubert Platt and their four-year-old twins had duly returned from Pemba, and Olivia, secure in the knowledge that her boxroom now contained nothing more than her own empty trunks and the normal complement of dust and spiders, had been able to assure them that she had not been dull during their absence.
The Virago had left harbour on the day following Hero’s visit to The Dolphins’ House and was still absent on her own ambiguous affairs, and the Daffodil having been away on patrol duty off Kiloa, had put in again to rest and refuel. Letters had arrived from home, and a superb Arab gelding had arrived unexpectedly at the American Consulate—a gift from the ladies of Beit-el-Tani to the Consul’s niece, who had been heard to express a desire to ride in the open country beyond the city.
“Oh, isn’t he beautiful! Isn’t he splendid!” gasped Hero, enraptured. “But I can’t possibly accept him.”
“I’m afraid you can’t possibly refuse him,” returned the Consul glumly. “It would be considered an insult. I guess I should have warned you that you can’t go saying things like that to Arab potentates without their jumping in and making you a present of whatever it is they think you want. What’s more, you ought by rights to give ‘em something as good in return.”
It was difficult to think of a reply to this, for though Hero certainly recalled mentioning to Salmé that she enjoyed riding and hoped to acquire a horse of her own while in Zanzibar, she was well aware that this princely gift was in the nature of payment for services rendered. However, it was clearly impossible to explain that to Uncle Nat, so she assured him that she would think of some suitable gift to send in return, and dispatched a gracefully worded letter of thanks to the Seyyidas.
The horse, renamed Sherif (Prince) in oblique compliment to the Heir-Apparent, who had been indirectly responsible for its appearance, provided Hero with a far better mount than anything obtainable in her uncle’s stables, since the Consul was an indifferent horseman, while Cressy’s idea of equestrian exercise was a demure trot around the maidan or along some safe, sandy road. Aunt Abby did not ride at all, so it was Clayton who invariably accompanied Hero when she rode out past the acres of clove trees and through the long aisles of coconut plantations beyond the city.
She preferred to go in the early morning rather than in the cool of the evening, and they would often be joined by other riders: among them Colonel Edwards, Jules Dubail and Lieutenant Larrimore, Joseph Lynch (who was a particular friend of Clay’s and worked for a firm of spice exporters), Thérèse Tissot and the young German Wilhelm Ruete, half-a-dozen superbly mounted Arab Sheiks and landowners, and, on one occasion, the Heir-Apparent himself; Seyyid Bargash-bin-Saïd.
The Seyyid Bargash was, as Cressy had said, a handsome man; though his complexion was darker than that of many of the Arabs whom Hero had met, and in no way comparable to the ivory paleness of his lovely half-sister, Cholé. But he had a princely bearing and a manner that nicely blended dignity with graciousness, and in his rich robes and mounted upon a wicked looking black stallion he presented an impressive picture of Eastern pride and splendour.
He had asked to be introduced to Hero, and Clayton having performed this office, had addressed her in Arabic; complimenting her upon her supposed command of that language and her proficiency as a horsewoman:
“Some of my sisters,” added the Prince blandly, in English, “have spoken to me of you. Since when I had hoped to have the honour of making your acquaintance, and to thank you for your gracious interest in their humble affairs. May I hope that you will visit us one day at Marseilles?”
“Marseilles? You are going to France?”
“Ah no, no, no!” protested Bargash, laughing. “You mistake me. It is a country estate not far from here that my father named after some French city; perhaps in compliment to a Frenchman? But it belongs now to two of my sister Salmé‘s nieces. There is a park there where one may ride, and in the stables many horses. It would interest you, I think. I shall ask them to arrange a party and hope that you and your respected uncle and his family will honour it with your presence.”
He bowed and rode away without waiting for an answer, and Lieutenant Larrimore, who had been near enough to hear this exchange, said quietly: “I wouldn’t, you know. Not if I were you. Miss Hollis.”
Hero turned sharply and looked at him as though she had not understood what he had said, and the Lieutenant, qualifying it, said: “Seyyid Bargash is a man you want to steer well clear of. I wouldn’t trust him any further than I could see him—and even then I wouldn’t be sure!”
“Indeed?” remarked Hero non-committally, and jerking her horse’s head, rode off to rejoin Clayton: annoyed at being given unsolicited advice by a gentleman with whom she had only a slight acquaintance and did not count among her friends.
She was to receive more of it only two days later, and from an even less welcome source; and this time Clayton had not been with her to offer sympathy. He had remained behind to check some figures needed by his stepfather, whom he was accompanying to an official audience with the Sultan later that morning, and Hero had ridden out at dawn with only a groom in attendance. She had confidently expected to come upon Mr Lynch or some other member of the European community before she had gone very far, and had indeed done so: though the gentleman she encountered a mile or so outside the city, riding towards her on a narrow track between thickets of wild coffee, was not one whom she at all desired to meet.
He was wearing Arab dress which was perhaps why she did not recognize him in time to avoid a meeting, and he pulled his horse sideways across the path, forcing her to stop, and said in tones of genuine astonishment: “Good God—the mermaid!”
The overgrown bushes and the fact that the groom was riding close behind her prevented her from turning back, and forced by these circumstances. Hero said “Good morning’ in a frigid voice, accompanying the words with a slight inclination of the head that was less a greeting than a nod of dismissal.
Captain Frost failed to take the hint and continued to block her path, subjecting her the while to an amused and openly appreciative scrutiny that brought the blood to her cheeks and made her back stiffen with indignation.
“I didn’t recognize you, now that your face has returned to normal, “observed the Captain with unpardonable candour.’ It’s a great improvement. I’d no idea you were hiding so much admirable material behind a black eye and that impressive assortment of cuts and bruises. Perhaps it was just as well, for if I’d realized what a few weeks of care and cold compresses were going to reveal I might have been tempted to kidnap you after all. You’re not a bad looking girl. Miss Hollis, and I begin to regret my lost opportunities.”
He bowed to her from the saddle, and Hero, still angrily conscious of her heightened colour, said with less dignity that she could have wished: “I do not consider that a compliment, and if you would please move to one side I should like to continue my ride.”
“But it is a compliment,” insisted Captain Frost.’ I never trouble to—”
“Kidnap plain women!” flashed Hero, betrayed into retaliation: “So you told me once before.”
Captain
Frost flung back his head and roared with laughter.
“Did I? I’d forgotten. And you remembered that! Did it rankle so badly? I apologize. But I wasn’t to know what I’d got my hands on, was I? You looked like a bedraggled street-urchin, and I thought at first you were about fifteen and barely out of pigtails and pinafores. It was really only when you called at my house that I realized you were a good deal older than I’d imagined. Old enough, in fact to know better. And what I was about to say, when you so brusquely interrupted me, was that I never trouble to tell polite lies. It’s a waste of time. But there is something I have been wanting to say to you, so perhaps you will ride a short way with me.”
“No, I will not,” said Hero flatly; and was instantly ashamed of herself for resorting to a childish piece of rudeness. It was one of Captain Frost’s more maddening attributes that he should be capable of goading her into losing her dignity and descending to bandying words with him, and she bit her lip and said in a more restrained voice: “I’m sorry, but I do not happen to be going your way and I cannot see that we have anything further to say to each other. Good day. Captain Frost.”
“Yes it is, isn’t it?” agreed Captain Frost affably, making no effort to allow her to pass.’ I regret having to spoil it for you, but although you may have nothing further to say to me I have a great deal to say to you. Would you prefer to dismount and listen to it, or shall we ride on?”
His tone was still affable, but there was a disquieting look in his eyes that did not match it, and Hero became suddenly aware, with an odd sense of shock, that he was angry: deeply and coldly angry. The knowledge brought with it a ridiculous feeling of panic, and she threw a quick, hunted glance over her shoulder, and was preparing to pull her horse’s head round when the Captain leaned forward, and catching her reins said more or less the same words that Dan Larrimore had used only two days ago, but in a tone that neither Dan nor anyone else had ever used to her before: