“Yes, of course.” She slid the wool shawl over her head with reluctance. It was the depths of winter, yet the sun was direct and bright. Standing in the sun made the dark cloth of her traveling suit so warm she could feel her skin prickling with perspiration beneath it. She was wearing too many layers for this climate. She had no other outer garments, only the single change of undergarments in her valise. She could not walk about in those when just baring her head was considered offensive here.
The wool shawl was just as warm and muffling as her clothes, although she respected Captain Boucher’s wisdom and would keep it about her head. He had been sailing to and from Algeria for many years and knew the local customs well. She would keep her head covered and as much of her face as she could withstand without expiring.
She gripped her valise firmly. It was a battered, scratched, shapeless and oversized satchel, now. It had withstood the rigors of the open road and horseback very well. Mairin had used it as a seat, a pillow and an umbrella. She would have to thank Rhys, when she returned.
The captain nodded his approval at the arrangement of her shawl. He pointed to a file of Legionnaires who were moving down the plank to the dock. “Follow them. They are reporting in to their commander at the Legion headquarters. You can ask for your cousin there.”
“Thank you, Captain Boucher.”
“You will thank me by returning to my ship and demanding passage back to Almeria,” he said roughly.
“I will do my best,” she assured him.
She followed the soldiers down the plank, which bounced and rattled alarmingly under her boots. The dark green water sucked and dropped between the ship and the wharf. It would not do to fall in, although the idea of being dowsed in cold water had its appeal right now. She longed for a bath and to be truly clean, after the weeks on the road.
She hastened to catch up with the soldiers, who were weaving between the local residents and moving forward quickly.
Where the stone wharf ended and the hard-baked earth began was also where the noise and press of people rose around her, like heat from a radiator. White-clad figures pushed and bounced off her with no regard or apology. Everyone talked at once. She heard accented French and at least two other languages which were nothing she had ever heard before. One of them would be the language of the Berbers, she guessed. The other would be Arabic, which was a type of lingua franca here—something which everyone could speak enough of to be understood.
She could only see the eyes of the people beneath their hoods and caps and face coverings. Everyone had dark eyes, it seemed, and everyone stared at her with suspicion in their eyes.
Then she saw a camel and forgot everything. She stared at the scraggly, dun colored creature, fascinated. It was smaller than she had expected for an animal which carried entire tents and people on its back. It was far taller than her, though. Mairin gasped in happy surprise when it turned with a flick of its short tail and she saw the hump on its back. The hump was tufted with dark brown hair.
The camel gave a peculiar loud warbling sound, then trotted off through the milling people, led by a rope threaded through a ring in its nose.
Mairin let out a delighted breath. Then she remembered where she was and pushed through the crowd once more, to catch up with the last soldier, whom she could see just ahead.
There were stalls on either side of her, most of them with cloth spread over the top to cast shade. Each stall carried a miscellany of goods and produce, from slippers made from carpets, to fresh tomatoes and mint, to silver urns and trays. Everyone seemed to be burning thick brown sticks in little pots. When Mairin got close to one, she inhaled the muggy, thick and aromatic scent, then coughed heavily.
Everywhere, food cooked on little stoves. The smells were spicy and rich. Searing meat was the strongest scent, although it was not a meat she was familiar with.
Through the babble of voices was the braying of donkeys and horses nickering and snorting. Dogs sniffed about the foot of the stalls, too.
There were rolls of glorious cloth for sale, in brightest reds and greens and blues, with gold edging that glinted. There were clothes hanging on pegs—many of them the white garments which everyone seemed to wear here.
The overlong tunics and baggy pants were overlaid with an open waistcoat with square fronts, which often hung down well below the hips. The waistcoats seemed to be an indication of status. As Mairin saw more Algerians, she noticed the state of their waistcoats and shoes. There were rich brocade waistcoats and others made of poorest cloth. There were more utilitarian coats, too. The poorest men went barefoot, while more well-off men wore boots which ended just below the high leg of their baggy pants. Some of them wore the colorful carpet slippers. They also wore bright sashes about their waist—silks and brocades and embroidered cloth. They pushed a curved knife through the belt and walked with their hand on the hilt.
Mairin stayed out of their way as they stalked through the market—the souk, the Legionnaires had told her this place was called.
The women did not wear anything so bright and colorful…at least not in a way anyone could see. The Legionnaires had also explained that the women here could be richly dressed beneath their outer garments. Only their husbands ever got to see them without the white muffling garb.
Mairin made sure not to meet anyone’s gaze for too long, as she hurried after the Legionnaires. They were familiar with the souk and the sights and did not linger. She would be happy to spend the day sitting and observing everyone go by. It was so different!
The Legion’s headquarters building was on the other side of the square from the wharf, with the souk spread out across the square between. The Legion building was low and wide, with two floors. It was made of hard-packed earth, as was everything in this place, but had been painted white. The windows were tall, large French-door style. Most of them stood open, with a railing guarding the front of them so one wouldn’t step through them and fall onto the street below.
The front door was a curved arch which came to a point at the middle. Mairin had never seen a door like it.
Both sides of the door were also open. Through the wide entrance she could see another set of similar doors open on the far side of the building. It would encourage a cross breeze, which would be a welcome relief here.
It was good to step inside and out of the sun. The air was not hot, for it was February, yet the sun had a way of making the day feel warm and uncomfortable. Mairin dropped her shawl and looked around.
The ceiling was very high. The floor was made of the most beautiful multi-hued tiles. A deep blue was the primary color. Shiny gold lines ran through them, with dots of red and yellow and orange. White highlights emphasized the patterns.
There were many Algerians moving through the big room, which reached up through both floors. Many more Legionnaires in their uniforms hurried about. Western men in white suits, too. They would be off-duty Legionnaires. As it was winter, the on-duty Legionnaires all wore the dark blue tunic edged in white, with brass buttons and a white belt, and the red trousers. Their kepis were white.
The newly arrived men presented themselves at a high desk against the wall to Mairin’s right. Behind the desk, peering down at the new arrivals, was another Legionnaire. The arrivals saluted and he returned the gesture. He looked down at his desk and issued a stream of orders. Mairin was too far away to hear what he was saying.
The new arrivals saluted the officer once more, hurried down the length of the big open space, then turned to climb stairs up to the other floor. Mairin crossed the tiles to the big desk and looked up at the officer, who was scratching script in a large ledger.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” she said, in French.
He looked up, startled. His eyes widened. “My God!” he breathed. “Where did you come from?”
“The Didon, which docked just now,” she told him. “My name is Mairin Williams. Lady Mairin of Innesford, actually.” Although she did not expect the man to recognize the title as an English one or
know how to address her properly if he did.
The lieutenant continued to stare at her. “What are you doing here?”
“I was about to explain to you,” Mairin said patiently. His reaction had been common, on the journey here. Everyone seemed to find it astonishing a single woman would dare to travel alone. “I came to find Iefan—Captain Davies. I was told he was here.”
“Who told you that?” the lieutenant said, his voice remote, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. He was still staring at her as if he did not believe she stood before him.
“Your commanding officer in Paris, Colonel Vouclain.”
The lieutenant blinked and straightened. “You came here from Paris?”
“Where did you think I had come from?” Mairin asked, hiding her amusement.
“You are English.”
“I traveled to Paris from England. There, I was told that Captain Davies had been posted here. Now I am here. Is Captain Davies somewhere nearby? Can I speak to him?”
“You came here to speak to Captain Davies?” His tone was one of amazement.
Mairin reined in her growing impatience. “Yes,” she said and smiled at him. Now she was so close to seeing Iefan, the endless fortitude she had drawn upon to withstand the discomfort of days upon horseback and nights spent sleeping on the ground, while keeping half-an-eye upon the gallant but very male Legionnaires, was draining.
The officer shook his head. “You cannot. It is impossible. Captain Davies left for Sidi-bel-Abbés two days ago.”
Chapter Eighteen
The hostel to where Lieutenant Babin escorted her was also on the edge of the big market square. It was one of the tallest buildings in the town, for it had three floors. The sand-colored walls stared blankly at the square, for the windows were tiny squares with wooden screens over them and no glazing.
The sun blazed upon the walls and there were no verandahs to cast shade. Mairin stared at the visage, her heart sinking. “This is the place?” she asked Babin.
“Indeed. All French people stay here. Wives. Government officials.” He pushed open a dull red door with the heel of his hand and stalked inside. He called out, “Afif! Where are you, you lazy bones? You have a guest!”
Mairin followed Babin through an unadorned corridor so narrow she was forced to carry her valise in front of her. The corridor opened into a windowless room with a threadbare carpet on the stone floor. A scratched and battered French Empire-styled desk which looked as though it might have traveled all the way from France was the only furniture. A register, pen and ink sat upon the desk. An oil lamp burned on the wall—no one used gas, here.
“Afif!” Babin called again.
There were eight doors, including the one they had just come through, two on each wall of the room. All the doors were closed. They were made of plain planks of wood, unpainted. The wood around the handles was blackened with age and the brushing of many hands.
“Afif, damn your hide!” Babin shouted.
Mairin jumped and held in her exclamation. The farther south she traveled, the rougher men’s speech became. Curses were liberal and “damn” was the mildest she heard. She was still not used to hearing them.
One of the inner doors opened and an Algerian in all white emerged. He wore a dark brown sash and worn slippers. He had a large belly and small eyes and when he saw Babin, he smiled, displaying rotting teeth. He put his hands together and bowed toward Babin. “A guest. I am most honored.”
“Your best room, Afif. Jump to it,” Babin said. “I must return to my desk.” He spun to face Mairin. “You will be comfortable here until Captain Davies returns to Oran.”
“Which will be when?” Mairin asked, for that question was still to be answered.
“This is Algeria, mademoiselle. Who knows?” Babin gave a very French shrug and a short bow and stalked back to the corridor, leaving her alone with Afif.
Afif turned the register around to face her and dipped a pen in the ink. “If you please…?” His French was good, but accented. He held the pen toward her. His hand was dirty and stained with nicotine about the fingernails.
Mairin took the pen from him and wrote her name as “Mairin Williams” on the next available line. After a moment’s thought, she added “Paris” as her point of origin. She handed the pen back.
Afif was threading a big iron key off a metal ring holding identical keys. He closed the ring and put it in a drawer of the desk and slammed the drawer shut, then hurried around the desk, making his belly jiggle. “This way, this way, if you please.”
He pushed open the door opposite the one hiding the front corridor. Immediately behind the door was a steep flight of stone steps, as narrow as the front corridor. Mairin wondered why the door had been placed there, and also the one shutting off the front corridor. Both could be removed to encourage the flow of air in the stuffy little room.
The stairs turned upon themselves three times before the first floor was reached, through another door. Mairin glanced behind her as she stepped out into a slightly wider corridor. A second door shielded the flight of steps to the third floor.
Afif rushed down the corridor to the door at the end. There was no room number. The lock faceplate showed spots of rust. Afif pushed the key into the lock and turned it, making the lock tumble with a loud clunking sound. “Very secure,” he told her.
“I can see that,” Mairin replied carefully, for the door itself was a rickety thing. Daylight showed beneath it and through several of the planks, too.
“You will be most safe here. French ladies stay here all the time. There is even water. Voila!” He pushed the door open and spread his hand, gesturing for her to step inside.
The room was warm, possibly because the sun struck the outer wall all afternoon. Late afternoon beams shone through the high, square window, lighting a dusty, faded carpet on the floor.
An iron bed with a sheet and a net hanging over it, and a basic washstand were the only pieces of furniture. A floor lamp with no shade stood beside the bed. The glass oil chamber was half-filled with a viscous, dark oil.
Protruding from the wall above the wash basin was a big iron kitchen tap, which dripped water into the basin as she looked. Beside the basin, a three inch wide hole in the stone floor was surrounded by a shallow depression. A simple drain.
“Very modern conveniences,” Afif said proudly.
Mairin gave him a warm smile. “Remarkable!” she told him. “Even my bedroom at home does not have running water.”
Afif beamed and handed over the key. “Enjoy, mademoiselle.” He shut the door, leaving her alone in the room.
Mairin eyed the narrow bed and the washstand. Her skin itched as she watched the water drip into the basin. She longed to tear off all her clothes and wash from head to foot. Only, once she was clean, she would have to put her grimy clothes back on.
The frantic sounds of commerce out in the souk gave her an idea. She put the valise on the bed and paused as it pushed the sheet down onto the mattress beneath. There was a deep depression in the mattress, which the taut sheet hid.
That was a problem for later. Mairin raided her hidden pockets for coins and smaller notes and transferred them to her reticule. She tucked the reticule under her arm, rather than letting it swing from the handle over her forearm.
Then she stepped out of the room and locked the door and pocketed the key.
ONLY TWENTY MINUTES LATER, she returned to the room with her purchases bundled in her arms. She paused, looking down at the bed. The valise laid with the buckles undone and the flap open.
Someone had gone through the valise while she was in the souk. She put her purchases on the bed beside the valise and peered inside. If they found anything worth taking, it could only have been small items, for everything appeared to be there. She had learned not to carry anything valuable in the valise. Instead, she spent several nights on the road sewing extra pockets upon her petticoats and her pantalets to carry items she could not afford to have stolen. She had used needles and
thread she bought in a market just outside Paris.
The Legionnaires found her sewing skills invaluable. In exchange for priceless goodwill from the rough men, she had been happy to restitch buttons and mend tears and holes each night about the campfire.
The only items in the valise were her other undergarments and bulky items she could not carry on her person.
Mairin gave a shrug, imitating Babin. “after all, this is Algeria,” she told herself. She spent the next few minutes rearranging the room. She beat the carpet against the wall, to remove the worst of the dust and dirt. She shoved the bed to the other side of the room. It put the bed in front of the door and stopped the door from opening. Then she re-laid the carpet in the middle of the clear space.
From the depths of the valise, she found the washcloth which held her precious bar of soap—they had not taken that, at least.
With giddy joy, she removed every stitch of clothing and washed it all, using copious amounts of the water to rinse the soap out properly. She beat the wet garments against the wall over the drain, to remove the excess water.
She stripped the sheet from the mattress and tipped the mattress up against the wall and discovered how stained and disgusting the mattress was. The bare iron bedframe made an excellent drying rack, though. She spread her damp clothes over the bed, then turned to washing herself from top to bottom. There was no drying cloth, although in this arid climate, she dried quickly.
By the time she was done, it was nearly dark. The sun set later here than it did farther north. Mairin lit the lamp, then combed out her wet hair, working patiently to untangle knots. She donned one of the two tunics she brought in the souk. It would serve as a light, cool bedgown, for it came down to her knees. The arms were wide and airy.
Finally, she shook out and examined the bedsheet carefully, before folding it and laying it on the carpet. She settled cross-legged on the carpet and unrolled the broad leaf which held the spiced meatballs and gravy she brought from another stall.
Season of Denial (Scandalous Scions Book 7) Page 18