Bell of the Desert

by Alan Gold

  Before she could answer, the crowd around them parted as a tall and rotund man sporting a huge beard and moustache, bemedalled and dressed in a frock coat, walked towards them. Hugh tried to remain calm, recognising him immediately.

  “Lord Salisbury, Mr. Prime Minister, this is a great honour,” he said.

  “Mr. Bell, Miss Bell. How d’you do? Miss Bell, I couldn’t help but overhear that you’d read history up at Oxford. As you may know, history is one of my few relaxations from the burdens of office. I wonder whether you’d care to take tea with me tomorrow at Downing Street. You seem to be an interesting young woman, Miss Bell, and I’d very much appreciate the views of somebody of your tender years concerning this movement determined to give women the vote. Shall we say four o’clock?”

  He turned and left. Now it was Gertrude who was astounded. It had all been such a whirlwind of experiences since she’d graduated with first class honours earlier in the year. She’d assumed that her just rewards for all the hard work in studying and taking her finals a year earlier than all her friends, would be the coming out balls in the season, but to take tea with the Prime Minister of England was, well, she could think of no better word than extraordinary.

  After they’d retreated from her presentation to the queen, she and Hugh had stood in a bubble. The surrounding nobility didn’t want to come too close in case Gertrude’s inexcusable lapse of protocol had caused the Bells suddenly to become social pariahs, unacceptable in British households. But now that the Marquess of Salisbury, the Prime Minister of England, had not just acknowledged them, but had invited them to tea at Downing Street, it was obvious that they were celebrities, and like waves breaking on a shore, Hugh and Gertrude were inundated by handshakes and introductions and invitations.

  The crowd of well-wishers quickly parted again as Victoria’s imperious equerry approached, nodded curtly to Hugh, smiled at Gertrude, and said, “Miss Bell, Mr. Bell, Her Majesty has asked whether you would care to accompany her to her private apartments before the ball begins and take tea with her.”

  ~

  The Honourable Eugenia Mary Louise, daughter of the Duke of Rawlthone, looked over at where the assembly had gathered around Gertrude and saw her follow Her Majesty’s Equerry towards the back of the Audience Chamber. She couldn’t understand how this could happen when this Gertrude girl didn’t even have a noble title. Eugenia scowled in anger at all the fuss and bother on the other side of the room. Why couldn’t her father do something like that for her, she wanted to know.

  ~

  Bucharest, Romania, Two Years Later

  Gertrude Bell was a girl when she came down from Oxford but she knew for certain that Bucharest would make her into a woman. In Oxford, she’d been bookish, haughty, and intellectually voracious, but since coming down and especially after her coming out party, and her two seasons of balls, two years of numbingly boring social gatherings and dinner after tedious dinner with wearisome guests where she did her best to attract some young man to be her husband, she was now disillusioned and frustrated.

  She knew she was startling to look at. Her height, her slim and athletic body and mass of red hair made her stand out from all the other young debutants desperate to ensnare the second son of some Duke or Baron. Some girls even had pretensions for a liaison with the son of a prince and did everything in their power to flaunt themselves whenever a princeling happened near.

  Gertrude was quickly bored by such nonsense and sought other means of distraction, mostly involving books or arranging discussions when she was in the city house, with men in London who were leaders in the fields of politics, arts, science, or diplomacy.

  The young men she met at the coming out balls seemed to lose interest in her after a first encounter, possibly—no, certainly—because she showed her disdain when they didn’t want to discuss the subjects which interested her. She was even given to think that she was attractive, not only because the mirror reassured her, but also because young men initially flocked around her. It was only after she began trying to find a topic of conversation which would be mutually interesting that they tended to drift away, attracted by any one of the dozens of other pretty young women who were, like her, trying not to end up as old maids at the age of twenty two.

  Unlike her friends, she’d found snaring a husband far more difficult than society made out, despite having been a debutante before the queen and attending a dozen balls and twice as many parties. In the two long and desultory years between Oxford and Bucharest, years in which she’d come to realize that her intellect was an encumbrance in the marriage market, she had grown in maturity and stature, but her intellectual and social growth had been with her father and his friends, and not with a young man by her side. She prayed that the diplomatic season with her uncle Frank Lascelles would prove positive for her morale and perhaps lead to her finding a husband.

  ~

  Watching her become increasingly dispirited at the conclusion of each ball and party, her father hoped that Romania would be a suitable place for her to learn the art of diplomacy, sadly lacking in a girl who turned discussion into energetic conversation, vigorous conversation into heated debate, and debate into a furious argument which must be won on the basis of superior knowledge, regardless of the effect it might have on the young man trying to make an impression.

  Hugh had lost count of the number of eligible sons of the nobility, some of them both handsome and from ancient families, whom she’d inadvertently managed to demolish between the dance floor and the buffet when she failed to hide her obvious disdain for their stories about hunting or holidays and instead set about trying to discuss some arcane political issue which the youths often didn’t begin to understand. She didn’t mean to be arrogant or rude, which was how she seemed to come across, but she had gained an unenviable reputation for being conceited, over-confident and haughty. She was none of these things with older men, who found her delightful and refreshing company. Most welcomed her challenging their traditional views with the voice of youth.

  He’d begged her to veil her intellect and temper her knowledge, at least until she was married, and then she could do whatever she wanted. Until she was walking down the aisle, her father advised her to defer to the young men’s interests in country life or fishing or sport, feign interest in their tales of jolly escapades like stealing policemen’s helmets when they were in a drunken rampage after a party. But she could only be true to herself and told Hugh that she was incapable of pretending to be impressed by what she called ‘their mindless infantile frolics, their total lack of interest in anything beyond themselves.’ And so she remained husbandless while plodding down the aisle as bridesmaid at an increasing number of her friends’ weddings. Bucharest, Hugh agreed, was an ideal place to send her to be chaperoned by his wife’s brother, Frank Lascelles, Britain’s Minister in Romania.

  Father and daughter kissed goodbye in the choking smoke of the Gare de l’Est in Paris and as Hugh walked back along the platform, Gertrude shed a tear as the train began the twelve hundred mile journey from Paris to Strasbourg, then onto Vienna, Budapest, Belgrade, and finally Bucharest. After her aimless and frustrating time in London, she was eagerly anticipating spending time in the ambassadorial circle. There she would meet men of stature and worldly experience, provided her aunt didn’t insist that she sit with the women, and discuss fashion, food, and the domestic help.

  Why couldn’t she find someone willing to marry her? She had enjoyed the occasional romantic escapade, escaping from the ballroom to the back stairs where she’d kissed a boy and laughed and been sporty. But more usually, after the initial introduction, the marking of her dance card, and then opening up topics of conversation to find a common interest, the boy had typically just smiled and indulged her with a single dance, and then made an excuse to return to his party. What was it about her that turned young men’s initial interest into artless apathy causing them to seek the relief of distance? She knew she was gaining a reputation as a joyless blue stocking,
but it seemed only to be with young men. Their older brothers and fathers found her delightful, even though their mothers often found her odd and different. But she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, camouflage her brain and feign interest where there was none. She’d studied damned hard at Oxford, learned a lot, and all she wanted was somebody whose mind was at least equal, if not a lot better, than hers.

  Even the dinners to which she’d been invited had invariably turned out to be painfully dull, mainly because she’d been placed at the end of the table reserved for the sons and daughters of the guests. She knew that she attracted the attention of the assembly with her cascades of burnished red hair and her piercing blue-green eyes, and she knew she was fashionable in her beautiful clothes from Paris’ finest couturiers; and she always took pride in dressing in her late mother’s exquisite jewels. But when she sat at the table, the older men and women discussed topics which she found interesting and in which she was keen to participate, whilst the young men and women around her laughed and giggled at the silliest things, like knocking over the salt cellars or surreptitiously flicking food at each other.

  She hated her reputation as a stick-in-the-mud, somebody who talked about subjects such as science and history and politics. But what could she do? How could she change? And why should she change? Hopefully, she’d find some young unmarried British diplomats in Uncle Frank’s embassy with whom she could gain companionship.

  She looked out of the windows as the train gathered speed through the eastern suburbs of Paris. The books about Bucharest said that it was a meeting place between East and West, the closest point of contact between Europe and the Ottoman Empire. This, surely, was the sort of adventure for which she was born. Suddenly, those young men and their juvenile japes didn’t seem relevant any more. She sat back, picked up a newspaper, and realized that she was smiling.

  ~

  “You told the Prime Minister that!” shouted Frank Lascelles, spluttering on his early morning cup of coffee. “And how did old Salisbury react? He must have been utterly mystified.”

  “Well,” said Gertrude, “I simply said that I didn’t believe that women should be given the vote, no matter what colonies like New Zealand were planning.” Her hair suddenly burned red as the horizontal rays of the rising sun burst through the windows to illuminate her face. She, her uncle Frank, her step-mother’s sister Mary and their son Billy were sitting in the loggia as the sun rose above the distant Black Sea. It was her second morning in Bucharest, and they’d risen early so the family could ride north out of the city to the foothills of the glorious Carpathian Mountains where they would spend a week walking, talking and relaxing.

  But when she saw that Mary was looking at her quizzically, surprised that a young woman like Gertrude could possibly be against a measure which might ensure the elevation of her sex, she explained, “Look, it’s simply this. I told His Lordship that whilst all people should be allowed to vote for their governments, it should only be on the condition that they understand the grave issues which are involved in a general election, and that, unfortunately, is where most of Britain’s women are de facto disqualified. I’m against all this suffragette nonsense. You wouldn’t give the vote to a man who didn’t know what he was voting for, now would you? Just because somebody has reached a certain age and owns property, shouldn’t be a qualification for voting for a government and participating in a democracy. Frankly, and loathe as I am to criticise dear old Pericles of Athens, I have real doubts about the very underpinnings of egalitarianism earned without merit.

  “So I told the Prime Minister that whilst ever women are slaves to their husband’s requirements in the bedroom and tied to the scullery sink, they cannot be considered as having a mature understanding of the policies for which the parties are asking for their vote to be the government. I don’t really understand why he was so shocked.”

  Frank chortled, while Mary said softly, “My dear, the Prime minister is in the grand old conservative mould. He would hate the idea of electoral change. He rejected Mr. Disraeli’s bill which gave the vote to working class men. The idea of women voting would be anathema to him. The reason he invited you and your dear father to Downing Street was to find out what was in the minds of young people so he could find a countervailing argument. Now you’ve almost certainly turned his world topsy-turvy. Knowing him, I doubt whether he knows what to think.”

  The ambassador’s butler coughed softly, entered the loggia and gave Sir Frank his morning’s post on a silver salver. Frank looked though the letters quickly, saw that there was nothing to engage the mind of the British Minister and nodded to his butler, an instruction for him to give the post to the Embassy’s Second Minister, Frank’s deputy.

  After breakfast, they readied their horses for mounting and prepared to set off on the long ride to the foothills of the vast horseshoe-shaped distant mountains which cut a massive swathe through Central Europe. Their servants had already left hours before in the darkness before dawn in order to lay out a picnic for their mid-morning refreshments. Lunch would be taken in one of the many inns which were on the road between Bucharest and the mountains and they would spend the night in the private holiday residence of King Carol I, a good friend both of the ambassador and of Great Britain.

  When Frank told Gertrude they were to be guests at one of the king’s country estates, she was excited. “What a shame he won’t be there. I’ve been reading all about him. Interesting man from an interesting family,” she said. “I do hope I’ll get the chance to go to a dinner at the palace. I’d love to hear his major domo introduce him as Prince Karl Eitel Friedrich Zephyrinus Ludwig of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen . . . what a mouthful; by the time his name’s been called, the party will be half over.”

  Frank burst out laughing, but turned in surprise when the bell at the gates to the embassy’s courtyard was sounded. He steadied his horse which took fright at the sudden noise. A gardener ran to open the entryway, and as he did so a huge man was revealed, dressed in the clothes of a desert Arab, sitting astride a blindingly white horse. The sun was behind him, and it was hard for Gertrude to make out his face as he appeared to be shrouded in a halo of light. But as he patted his horse’s neck to steady the beast, Gertrude saw a tall swarthy man with a glistening black beard, a keffiyeh of red and white check, a gleaming white thoub which covered his whole body, and a massive scimitar which hung on a jewelled strap from his chest to his knees.

  “Good God, I didn’t know he was in Bucharest.” hissed Frank. “What the deuce does he want?”

  Gertrude looked at the lone Arab, waiting at the gateway for the entry to be wide enough for him and his horse to pass through.

  “Who is he?” asked Gertrude. But Frank didn’t have time to answer as the Arab urged his horse forwards into the embassy grounds towards where the Lascelles and Gertrude were about to mount and start their journey. The man bowed, kissed his hand, and then touched his forehead in a gesture of respect.

  “Greetings, English Lascelles,” said the Arab.

  “And greetings to you, Abd al-Rahman ibn Faisal ibn Turki ibn Abdullah ibn Muhammad of the great tribe of Sa’ud from the limitless deserts,” said the ambassador. “To what do I owe this immense honour of your visit to my humble home?”

  “I am here to seek your counsel and your wisdom,” he said, dismounting in a single fluid movement. Gertrude was impressed by the large man’s aquiline grace as he slipped from his saddle-less horse and onto the ground just in front of her uncle. A head taller than Sir Frank, the Arab moved as though he were one with his horse.

  Abd al-Rahman turned and bowed towards Mary, nodded curtly to Billy, and stared fixedly when he came face to face with Gertrude. She was about to extend her hand towards him, but suddenly remembered her manners and gave the briefest of curtseys.

  “English, you will walk with me in your garden,” said Abd al-Rahman.

  “Sir, on any other day, it would have been my heart’s desire and greatest privilege to have walked with you, but on this d
ay, I and my family are about to ride to the mountains. My niece, Gertrude, has just arrived in Bucharest and it is my desire to show her the beauty of Romania. Can these great matters of state which occupy your mind be spoken of on another occasion?”

  The tall Arab breathed deeply, and said, “I would be forever shamed if I was the cause of any delay in your journey. I will ride with you, English, and talk on the way. There are matters concerning my country, stolen from me by the sons of apes and pigs called Rashid. I must reclaim what is mine, but this can only be accomplished with the help of the English and their rifles and cannon.”

  Gertrude was suddenly absorbed. She’d assumed that she’d simply be riding and seeing the sights, but now she was embroiled in a political situation and was fascinated. She’d studied the history of the Ottoman Empire as part of the first year of her degree at Oxford, and would be riveted by an insider’s understanding. But when she looked at Frank Lascelles, she saw him breathe deeply, and his face furrow in concern.

  “Of course, Excellency. It would be an honour and a privilege for you to accompany us, but as to the help which Her Majesty’s government can provide, well . . .”

  In silence, Frank, Mary, Billy, and Gertrude mounted their horses, as did Abd al-Rahman, and together then rode out of the British Embassy onto the busy streets of Bucharest.

  For the first half an hour after leaving their embassy, they rode in silence as their horses clopped over cobblestones, then gravelled roads and finally, as they left Bucharest’s walls, the houses disappeared to the north of the city and they found themselves trotting beside fields of corn and orchards of apples. More types of apples than Gertrude had ever seen, not planted in neat rows like an English country garden, but seeming to grow haphazardly, wildly, unstructured and natural. She rode away from the party and into the nearby field and soon was tugging different apples from different trees and testing their taste.