Tamra nodded ceremoniously. “Inshallah. Let it be so.”
“Please, my lord, taste this!” Aynur kneeled gracefully on the floor before André and offered him a silver tray.
He propped himself up on the cushions and looked at the appetizing morsels. “Stop calling me that. I am neither your lord nor your master. What is this?”
The aroma was enticing. He had accepted Aynur’s invitation out of guilt. After all, he had hardly been very accommodating since her arrival at Qasr el Bahia. He had ignored her and, tomorrow, he would send her away like a misdelivered package. Dining with her this evening was the least he could do. But if he was truly honest with himself, he was also curious to find out who the veiled little person with the mysterious dark eyes really was.
Her servant had come to fetch him when the sun began to disappear behind the top of the Atlas Mountains. Since then, he had been lying on a mountain of cushions in a small room. Aynur floated like a shadow in the almost-dark room lit with an oil lamp and served him one temptation after another. Her arm and ankle bracelets jingled softly in harmony with her caressing voice as she offered him the little mouthfuls, each one a new surprise for his palate. He had long forgotten his resolution to stay only a short while. He sprawled lazily on the cushions and his thoughts were as blurred as if he’d had many glasses of red wine. At one point, the thought crossed his mind that she might have drugged his food. After each successive bite, he felt more relaxed and content.
He watched as Aynur balanced the tray on her knees. Her round breasts were visible through the gossamer garment. Was he mistaken or had she colored her nipples?
“It is steamed quince, stuffed with couscous. They should really contain lamb as well, but since you do not own any livestock yet . . .” With a little smile, she took one of the round, stuffed fruits and placed it between his lips.
“Mon Dieu, that’s spicy!”
She smiled mischievously. “Chili. The spicier it is, the happier it makes you. But wait! Some sweet tea will counteract the spiciness.”
She placed the tray on the floor and clapped her hands. Tamra rushed in and handed her mistress a glass of lukewarm tea. André saw the two women exchanged a quick glance. When Aynur was about to hand him the glass, he shook his head.
“Come on, tell me. What are you two up to?”
She opened her dark-rimmed eyes wide. “Are you not happy, my lord? Do you not like it? Drink some tea. It will do you good.” She leaned forward to hand him the glass. He smelled her intoxicating scent of roses, vanilla, and ambergris and had to force himself not to stare at her breasts, with their large, dark nipples. He hastily gulped the tea. When Aynur extended one hand to take the glass, he grasped her small wrist and turned it around.
“What did you do here? It looks pretty.”
She looked at the artful ornaments that Tamra had drawn with henna on her palms and whispered, “It is mehndi. A bride uses it to adorn herself before her wedding night.” The spirals spun before André’s eyes. He let go of her hand and fell back on the cushions. “How old are you, Aynur?”
“Seventeen,” she replied shyly. Seventeen and still a virgin, a disgrace! She feared the Frenchman would reject her because she was so old, but to her surprise, Rouston mumbled, “You’re much too young for me, child. You could be my daughter.”
She regarded the chiseled masculine contours of his face, his skin, which shimmered like gold in the light of the oil lamp, his curly black hair, and his eyes, drowsy from the effects of the opium she and Tamra had mixed into his food. The feelings she had for him were not at all like those of a daughter for her father. She rose lithely. “Do you want me to dance for you, Monsieur Rouston?”
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and began to laugh uncontrollably. Sibylla appeared in his mind’s eye. She was the woman he loved, and not this little seventeen-year-old siren.
“Don’t dance for me, Aynur,” he protested with a heavy tongue. “Go to sleep! Leave me alone!”
But already he heard the melodious sounds of the al rababa coming from behind the screen, accompanied by Tamra’s voice, deep and raspy. Aynur moved toward André. Her arms moved like snakes, her breasts bobbed, and her hips swayed to the music. He watched with fascination as the tips of her hair swept along the floor as she bent back her supple and immaculate body.
At this moment, he was anything but lethargic and dazed. All of his senses were keen. Tamra had now put the al rababa aside and was beating the darbouka, still hidden behind the screen. Despite the thud of the drum, he could hear Aynur’s feet, beating the ground to the rhythm. Her breath reverberated in his head. Her scent filled the room and aroused his desire, unexpectedly and overwhelmingly. The silver threads of her tunic flashed like shooting stars, and the notion that she might have colored not only her nipples with henna but also the triangle between her thighs aroused him.
Thoughts of Sibylla dissolved into nothingness. When Aynur danced directly in front of him, he reached for her. She dodged with such speed that his hand grasped only her tunic. The thin material tore and fluttered to the floor. Now all she was wearing was silk harem pants. The flickering light glittered on her shoulders, her breasts, and her stomach.
“Come here!” he commanded hoarsely.
“Of course, my master.” She slowly sank to her knees before him, placed one hand on his trousers, opened them, and clasped his hard member.
He sat up with a groan, but she placed her other hand on his chest and pressed him back onto the cushions.
“Are you comfortable, my master?” she asked softly. “Yes? Then stay as you are. I will take care of everything.” She leaned over his lap.
Late the following day, André staggered across the courtyard. Qasr el Bahia was deserted and quiet except for a few doves cooing on the rooftops.
“Salam, master.” The stable boy was hauling a bucket of water.
André suppressed a groan. At the slightest movement, his head felt ready to burst. Overwhelmed with nausea, he could not remember his stable boy’s name.
“You!” He beckoned the boy. “Come here!”
The boy shyly obeyed. André took the bucket and poured its contents over his head in one motion. The water was ice cold. He gasped for air, but at least he felt more awake now.
“Where is Feradge?” he asked the stable boy. “Where are the Chiadma and the workers?”
“The caravan with the workers and the sultan’s eunuch left for Marrakesh at the break of dawn, and the Chiadma have returned to their tribe. The sheikh said that you would keep Aynur. If not, he said you should send for him,” the boy reported.
André stared at him. His memories of the previous night ended with the moment he had entered the room where Aynur was awaiting him with the farewell meal. Everything after that was shrouded in blackness, but he did not have a good feeling. He squinted at the sky, felt a sharp pain behind his eyes, and quickly lowered his head again. “What time is it?”
The stable boy also looked up. “The sun will set in two hours, master.”
André groaned once more. What had Aynur and Tamra done to him? And where were they now? He would confront them, both of them! But first he needed some strong tea. Maybe he would also manage to eat some dry flatbread. He was about to return to the house when he heard horses’ hooves and turned around painfully. Two riders were trotting through the gate. Two women.
“Hello, André! Your directions were excellent. We had no trouble finding Qasr el Bahia.”
He was stunned. “Sibylla, what are you doing here?”
“For not having seen me for six weeks, you don’t seem particularly pleased that I am here!” She turned toward her companion. “Perhaps my idea of visiting Monsieur Rouston was not such a good one after all, Nadira.”
“Mais oui! Of course it was!” André hurriedly replied. But his head throbbed.
Sibylla looked him over. “You look ill. I’ll make you some tea and some good strong broth.” She was about to dismount but suddenly fr
oze.
He slowly turned around. There was Aynur, young and beautiful like the rising sun, wearing a pearl-studded garment with a thin red veil over her black hair. Her brown eyes flitted back and forth between Sibylla and André.
“Who is that, dearest?” Aynur asked softly. “Is she your other wife? Or just a concubine?”
The pain in André’s head suddenly became like a thunderbolt. He looked at Sibylla and tried to remember the previous night, vainly searching for words.
She scrutinized him icily. “Now I see what has kept you from visiting me! Come, Nadira, we don’t want to intrude any longer.” She pulled her horse around and galloped away through the gate.
“You surely know it yourself, don’t you, my lady?” Nadira said three days after their return from Qasr el Bahia. “You are expecting another child.”
Sibylla, who was sitting at her desk brooding over Benjamin’s list of suppliers, placed her head in her hands. “I have tried to tell myself that it was only an upset stomach.”
Since Benjamin’s death, she had been so busy ordering her life anew. She had attributed the intense fatigue, the need to sleep all day, and the queasiness to all the work she had taken on, or at least to the heartache over André. He had been such a bitter disappointment. For the first time in her life, she had opened up to a man, given herself to him with body and soul. And while she was still flushed with happiness, he had wasted no time in taking another woman into his bed!
“I wished for another child,” she said quietly. “But now . . . I feel absolutely nothing.”
Nadira carefully placed the tea tray on Sibylla’s desk. “A new life is always a gift, my lady.” She pushed a steaming glass toward her. “Will you tell Monsieur Rouston, my lady?”
Sibylla looked at her, aghast. “You know that the child is his?”
Nadira lowered her head. “I do, my lady.”
“Who else knows, apart from you?”
“The other servants don’t suspect. They don’t even know that you are pregnant.”
“But you noticed.”
“It is my job, my lady!” Nadira sounded hurt. “Of course, I noticed the symptoms. And after we went to see Monsieur Rouston, I understood.”
Sibylla found herself smiling against her will. “I am so grateful to have you with me.” She grew serious once more. “We share a secret now, Nadira. No one apart from us must know it, do you hear? No one! As far as other people are concerned, even my family, Mr. Hopkins is the father of this child. Can I trust you, Nadira?”
The servant’s face seemed carved in stone. “My lips are sealed, my lady.”
Once Sibylla was by herself again, she devoted herself to the papers on her desk. For the first time since her return from Qasr el Bahia, she felt her despair subsiding. It felt good to confide in Nadira. Now life would go on. She would forget André!
She was again engrossed in Benjamin’s lists when loud voices came from the street in front of the house.
Sibylla banged the desk with the palm of her hand. Was there no peace for her? She angrily pushed back her chair and rushed out of the room. As she neared the door, she heard André’s voice. “Why will you not let me in? What is this nonsense? Open the door!”
“I am sorry, sir. But I am not allowed,” was the gatekeeper’s reply. “My mistress has forbidden it.”
He was about to close the hatch, but André prevented him. “The hell you will!” he panted. “Let me see her unless you want the whole street to know that I am here!”
The nerve of this man! First, he stole her heart, then trampled on it, and now he even had the effrontery to show up and harass her! Sibylla stepped in front of Hamid and looked through the door hatch, straight into André’s face. He looked awful, unshaven, and pale.
“Sibylla!” he wailed. “Let me in, my love! I must speak with you.”
He looked so utterly devastated that it almost broke her heart. But then the images of Qasr el Bahia reappeared in her mind, how he had stood in the courtyard, burning with guilt. And the terrible moment when she realized he had just left the arms of another woman. And that child, who did not even deserve to be called a woman yet, had insulted Sibylla, fully cognizant of her youth and beauty, while André had stood by and done nothing!
“I don’t want to talk to you or see you ever again!” she hissed. “Why don’t you go back to your . . . your . . .” She wanted to say “Berber slut.” But she held her tongue and slammed the hatch in his face.
Part Two
The Red Gold of the Maghreb 1859 to 1862
He who has never hunted, never loved, never sought out the fragrance of a flower, and never quivered at the sound of music, is not a human being but a donkey.
—Arab proverb
Chapter Twenty
London, October 1859
Big Ben gloomily rung seven times. Rain fell from the evening sky and drummed on the wet leaves covering the sidewalk on the southeast side of Hyde Park.
Directly across Piccadilly Street was Spencer House, the impressive three-storied villa in which Oscar Spencer, owner of the Spencer & Son Shipping Company, resided with his family. A landau pulled up. Footmen with opened umbrellas ran to the carriage door to lead the guests through the majestic portal to the warmth inside, while the coachman guided the carriage to the end of the long line parked along the curb.
The second-floor ballroom’s four-paned windows were brightly lit. Gentlemen dressed festively in dark evening attire already filled the room. Ladies in gauzy ball gowns fluttered about like birds, their jewels glistening in the light of crystal chandeliers and reflecting off the gilt mirrors. The orchestra played waltzes and liveried servants bore champagne.
Oscar Spencer stood with a group of guests by the window. In a jovial mood, he beckoned one of the servants and everyone took a glass.
“Before this party in honor of your success begins, I would like to toast you privately, my dear nephew,” he said ceremoniously and raised his glass. “Thomas, as of today, you are a fully qualified doctor! May your skills always contribute to the well-being of humanity!”
The tall young man in the black academic gown bowed his head in gratitude, the tassel on his mortarboard falling into his face. His brother, John, just as tall and blond as he, playfully pulled on it. “Just don’t get a swelled head!”
“I shall see to that,” another man interjected. He was about the same age as the brothers and had a slender, athletic build. His bronze skin, the short black beard on his cheeks and chin, and the gray turban he wore identified him as an Arab.
Thomas grinned. “I don’t doubt it, bin Abdul. I am looking forward to practicing medicine with you in Mogador.”
Sabri bin Abdul and Thomas Hopkins had been best friends ever since the first time they flew a kite on the beach together. Later, they had both studied medicine, Tom in London and Sabri at the famed University of Al Quaraouiyine in Fez. The last two years, they had interned together at Charing Cross Hospital. Now they planned to return to Mogador along with John, who had come to London to learn the shipping and overseas merchant business from his uncle Oscar—after years, of course, of watching his mother.
“I believe we can take our seats.” The young woman next to John placed her hand on his arm.
John had met Victoria Rhodes at the newly opened National Portrait Gallery three years before. They had run into each other at the controversial Chandos portrait of William Shakespeare, and John had quickly realized that she was the kind of wife he was looking for.
With her pale complexion and ash-blonde hair, Victoria was hardly an exceptional beauty, but she was educated and knew how to perform her social duties. In addition, her family owned a large ironworks in Cardiff, which John regarded as part of her dowry. Steel was the building material of the future, particularly in shipping, and he had been badgering his uncle for some time to modernize the company’s fleet with state-of-the-art steamships.
Forty people were seated at the long table. It was festively decorated with flo
wer arrangements and silver candlesticks, sparkling crystal, Royal Worcester porcelain, and the magical creations of Oscar’s French chef. The room was filled with the sound of laughter and quiet conversations. Now and then, one of the gentlemen rose to propose a toast to the newly minted Dr. Hopkins.
“I wish your grandfather could have lived to see this day! He has been gone for a year already, but, oh, how proud he would have been of the first scholar in the Spencer family!” sighed Mary as she fingered the necklace containing a lock of Richard’s hair, the only jewelry she wore with her widow’s attire.
“I too am the first scholar in the Hopkins family,” John gently corrected his stepgrandmother. He thought of his mother and little sister living far away in Mogador.
Mary smiled. “Of course,” she said. “Poor Sibylla has had a difficult time of it, so far away from England, without a husband’s help, and without you two these five years! I’m sure she’s beside herself with joy, knowing that you will be back with her in Mogador for Christmas.”
“Is it not unbelievable how quickly time has flown?” Oscar interjected. “I can still remember as though it were yesterday when you arrived in London—immature young lads, seventeen and eighteen years old. You shall do the company proud, John, when you become my new business partner in Mogador!”
John laughed. “Well, I’ll support Mother initially. I doubt she’ll just hand over management of the company to me right away. She enjoys the work far too much.”
Oscar shook his head. “My sister has always been a little strange in that regard. Benjamin, God rest his soul, was right when he used to say that she was a bluestocking. No doubt there is a suffragette hiding in her.”
“You can’t be serious, Oscar!” Mary exclaimed.
“I most certainly am, Mother. If Sibylla lived in London, she would be in the street agitating for women’s suffrage, just like that horrible Mrs. Bodichon. Ah, here comes our filet de sole. Wonderful!” He nodded approvingly as the servant placed the dish in front of him.
The Lioness of Morocco Page 22