“My God, you English girls do not disappoint! How you have wounded my amour propre,” he said, giving me a look that was half-admiring.
“Come now,” I said briskly, “does that really work? The moonlight and the jasmine and the songbirds?”
He stroked his chin. “More often than you would think.”
“Shame on you! And in your mother’s house.”
He dropped a friendly arm around my shoulders, and this time I did not sidle away. “Forget what I said before. My mother knows that I am a man—a man who likes beautiful things.”
I rolled my eyes. “I am not a thing, Armand.”
He dropped his arm, putting his hands in front as if to ward off a blow. “How you wound me with your misunderstanding! It is as if you do not wish for us to be friends.”
“Of course I’d like to be friends. My employer is a very close friend of your mother, and I am sure we will see quite a bit of one another whilst we are in Damascus. It would be awkward if we were uncivil.”
“Uncivil! Oh, how I love the English. I could teach you a warmer word than that,” he said with a playful leer.
“I have no doubt. But I’m long practised in the art of fending off unwanted advances,” I warned him.
He dropped his head so that his lips barely skimmed my ear. “Oh, I intend to make you want them.”
In spite of the warmth of the evening, I shivered a little. There was something almost menacing in his words, in the long, slow stroke of his fingertips as they brushed over my arm, raising gooseflesh in their wake.
“I think it’s time we rejoined the others,” I managed, slipping away from him.
Behind me, he laughed in the shadows but did not follow. I smelled the mossy, greenish scent of the fountain water as I passed, and beeswax and hot metal from the lamps, but always afterwards it was the smell of jasmine that conjured that strange night for me in the fountain court and my first meeting with Armand.
* * *
The next morning I rose and washed and presented myself at breakfast to find the colonel sitting alone with a stack of newspapers and a pot of coffee. An empty basket still held a few crumbs of bread rolls, and as soon as I arrived, the waiter whisked the empty basket out of sight and brought fresh rolls with a pot of quince jam and coffee.
The colonel looked up from his newspapers in disgust. “It’s vile stuff, that coffee. Turkish and thick as honey. Full of grit, too,” he warned me. I slathered a roll in jam and bit into it. Heaven.
“What do you mean to do today, Colonel?”
He tossed aside a newspaper and retrieved another, skimming the headlines with a distracted air. “Hmm? Tour of the city. Always best to get the lay of the land, so to speak, as soon as one arrives. A spot of sightseeing is just the thing.”
“What do you want to see?”
His woolly caterpillar eyebrows jerked upwards in surprise. “Not me, child. I’ve seen every hole in Damascus twice over. I meant you. The comtesse’s driver, the fellow with the bull neck—Fareeq? Whatever his name is. He’s to take you and young Talbot around.”
I said nothing, wondering what had happened to Armand’s plan of showing me the sights of Damascus. Perhaps he’d decided English sangfroid was not as attractive as he’d initially thought. Or perhaps he had business to attend to. Whichever, if I wondered about his absence that morning, Talbot most certainly did not. We settled ourselves into the comtesse’s plush motorcar with Faruq behind the wheel, and Talbot gave a sigh of relief.
“Thank God,” he murmured. “I heard the little comte offered to take you to see the city and I have to say I didn’t much like it.”
I grinned. “The colonel’s been telling tales out of school. But whyever should you mind? He’s a lovely fellow.”
“He’s a cad,” he said brutally. “He’s trying to muscle in on you, and I don’t care for it one bit.”
I tried to lift a brow at him, but I think I only ended up wriggling it a bit. “Muscle in? You’ve seen too many pictures. You’re talking like an American gangster.”
He shrugged. “I don’t think much of him.”
“He’s very handsome,” I teased.
Talbot was in no mood to joke, but he must have realised then how grim he was being. He covered my hand briefly with his own and gave me a dazzling smile. “Forget it. I just think, well, you know what I think. And I can’t say I like other men thinking the same thing about you. Although I do certainly understand it.”
I pulled my hand away gently. “Let’s forget all about the count and enjoy ourselves, shall we?”
“I would enjoy myself more if you could bring yourself to call me Hugh,” he suggested. “Not when anyone else is around, of course, but like this. When we’re alone.”
I nodded towards the back of Faruq’s head. “Not quite alone.”
“You know what I mean,” Hugh said in a conspiratorial whisper. I knew exactly what he meant. Faruq was a servant, and as such, didn’t matter. It was a curious attitude for a valet to take, but if anyone understood the way things worked, it would be Hugh. A superior servant like a valet or lady’s maid or driver saw everything and talked about nothing, at least that was the expectation. I could call Hugh by his given name or even let him put his arm through mine and Faruq wouldn’t care.
But as tempting as it was to stroll arm in arm with Hugh, hanging on to his firm muscles, I resisted. It was a foreign country, after all, and we were representing England in a fashion. I knew the customs of Syria were different; here the women went veiled and walked sedately behind their menfolk. And in motorcars, the women sat apart. It seemed prudent to respect their ways as far as I understood them, and so I walked a few feet apart from Hugh most of the time as we trotted obediently after Faruq.
He was a fount of information, all of it delivered in a plain monotone. He was an enormous, muscled fellow, with a neck as thick as a bull’s, and wherever we parked, he looked around, giving threatening glances at any street urchins who dared to so much as look at the motorcar. Hugh and I took ourselves around the sights while Faruq stood guard, polishing the vehicle with a bit of chamois skin and the air of a fanatic. To my distinct pleasure, the tour included a visit to the Protestant cemetery to see the grave of Lady Jane Digby.
“How did you know I wanted to see this?” I demanded as Faruq negotiated with the caretaker to open the gate for us.
Hugh gave a modest shrug. “I saw you reading a book about her on the voyage out. I don’t know much about her, but she seems your type of personality.”
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted,” I told him. The caretaker accepted the coins Faruq pressed on him and opened the gate, waving us through and pointing in the general direction we were to take. We picked our way carefully over the stones and stood at the foot of the simple granite slab. The top was marked with a cross and inscribed on the stone at her side were the words:
Jane Elizabeth Digby, daughter of Admiral Sir Henry Digby GCB.
Born April 3rd, 1807. Died August 11th, 1881.
“It isn’t enough,” I said mournfully.
Hugh had come to stand at my elbow. “What isn’t?”
“Such small words to hold such a large life. She was a force of nature,” I told him. “And a famous beauty, the loveliest woman in Europe by all accounts. She was an English aristocrat and had four husbands and twice as many lovers, including the King of Bavaria. But her real claim to fame is that for the last thirty years or so of her life, she lived as the wife of a Bedouin sheikh, a Mezrab, one of the tribe who guard the desert between here and Palmyra.”
“She married a native fellow?” he asked, his brows arching upwards.
I nodded to the pink slab of limestone at her feet. “It’s a rock from Palmyra. And that is her real epitaph.”
Hugh leaned closer to read aloud, “‘Mad
ame Digby el Mezrab.’”
He straightened. “Fancy that. All the English blokes to choose from and half of Europe and she ends up with a desert chieftain.”
I tamped down a flicker of irritation. “He wasn’t just a desert chieftain,” I protested. “He was a very well-educated, highly respected fellow.”
“If you say so.” He gave me a grin. “But as far as these native chappies go, give me Saladin any day. He’s one of the colonel’s favourites, you know.”
He clearly was not interested in the exploits of Lady Jane Digby, so I gave it up as a lost cause and picked up the thread of conversation.
“You’re fond of the old fellow, aren’t you?” I asked. “The colonel, I mean.”
He shrugged. “In my way.” He was modest, but I had seen how quick he was to jump to the colonel’s side with a brandy flask when the old gent grew agitated and needed a bit of settling down. He was forever fussing with travelling rugs and water bottles and walking sticks, and I realised there was something terribly attractive about a man who could take care of others.
As if sensing my mood, he tucked a hand under my elbow as we left the cemetery. “Stay close, if you don’t mind,” he said quietly. “I told Faruq I thought we could walk just a bit, but I don’t want you wandering too far afield.”
“I thought it best if we kept our distance. We aren’t related, after all. I wouldn’t like to offend anyone. Besides, the city seems calm enough,” I told him.
He shrugged. “For now. But it’s a powder keg, Poppy. The slightest spark will set it off and there will be hell to pay. And they won’t mind us walking together. They don’t expect us to abide by the customs. They know we’re different.”
We wandered into a neighbouring souk, where I was entranced to find a scene straight out of ancient history. As they had for centuries, merchants and craftsman created and sold their wares here, everything from silks to spices, although I was later to learn that each trade had its preferred souk. The markets were crowded with people and animals, and the noise was staggering. Canopies of silk and wool had been tacked overhead to provide shelter from the sun, and the twisting streets and alleyways doubled back on one another in a labyrinthine sort of configuration. As closely as I had studied my maps, I only had the general outline of the main streets. The narrow alleyways of the souks were hopeless. We walked for some time, before deciding to turn back to the motorcar and Faruq. I had not paid much attention to the direction we took, but we wound through a few rather unsavoury passages, and after a moment or two I was rather certain Hugh was lost.
“Of course I’m not,” he said testily. “I just thought we’d go back another way. Get a bit of local colour.”
I smiled to myself. No man ever admitted he was lost, and I had just resigned myself to an afternoon of sore feet and worn shoe leather when a beggar loomed out from the shadows.
He was sinister looking, with his robes streaked with filth and a long, twisting scar that started at his brow and puckered his eyelid, scoring his cheek almost in two. I felt my stomach churn at the sight of him, and one soiled hand reached out as he gabbled something at me. He moved closer still and I could see only one disgusting foot peeping out from under his robe as he leant heavily on his stick.
He made a beckoning motion with his hand, asking for alms, and I thrust a hand into my pocket to find him a coin.
“For God’s sake, don’t,” Hugh said, gripping my elbow tighter. “You’ll only encourage him.”
“He’s lame, Hugh. What greater encouragement does he need to beg in this part of the world?” I pressed a coin into the beggar’s hand, and he began to recite some sort of verse or prayer of thanksgiving. I gave him a quick nod and made to step around him, but he reached out with one wretched hand and closed it about my wrist.
I gasped, but he stared into my palm and pressed a dirty fingernail to one of the lines there. He said another word, a word I did not understand, and repeated it urgently.
Hugh raised a hand in warning and the fellow cowered, cringing away. His one sandal flapped against the stones as he left us, his walking stick scraping slowly. Hugh turned to me.
“Are you all right? The villain didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“Don’t be silly. He only touched my hand.”
Hugh took out his handkerchief and scrubbed at my palm. When he was finished, he bent and pressed a swift kiss to it, his lips brushing so lightly over the skin I almost could have imagined it. He straightened with a smile. “All better now.”
“Thank you.”
Hugh had wiped my palm clean, but for a long time after I could feel the beggar’s fingers on mine.
Eight
We returned to the hotel to find matters in a bit of an uproar. The colonel’s leg had given out as he had been coming down the stairs for luncheon, and he had taken a tumble. Nothing serious, he insisted, but he would keep to his bed for the next few days with the leg wrapped and propped on a pillow.
“A good chance to work on the memoir,” I said brightly, cursing the bad luck that had laid him low. I was meant to meet Masterman the following day, and it seemed I should be stuck in the hotel instead, shackled to the typewriter or playing games of chess to amuse the colonel.
But he waved me off. “Can’t possibly concentrate with this leg wrapped up. Itches like hellfire, pardon the expression. No, you go out and amuse yourself tomorrow. See more of the city.”
I tried to hide my elation, but I was turning cartwheels in my head. “That’s very kind of you, Colonel.”
He waved me off. “Talbot will stay here and look after me. But mind you take Faruq. Talbot told me there was a bit of trouble in the souk today. You’ll need someone sturdy to look after you.”
I suppressed a sigh. Of course Hugh had told him.
“That really isn’t necessary,” I began. I was not entirely pleased at the idea of a bodyguard.
There was a flutter of silk in the doorway and the comtesse entered the room, apparently having heard the tail end of our conversation. I hadn’t realised she was hanging about, but I supposed it made sense that she should call upon the colonel since he was too indisposed to visit her.
“But how unfortunate that you should have such an experience in my city. I feel responsible,” she said, her eyes wide with outrage. “No, the dear colonel is quite right. You must take Faruq with you. I am only bereft that Armand cannot accompany you. Unfortunately, his business will detain him further, I am sorry to say.”
She didn’t look sorry in the least. In fact, she looked extremely satisfied with the situation, like a sleek cat with a plump fish to eat. She took a seat as a little maid brought in a tray with a pot and two cups.
“White coffee,” she murmured to the colonel. “I ordered it special from the hotel kitchen. Made from cardamom and very soothing.” She poured out the two cups and looked pointedly from the pair of them to me.
I didn’t miss the hint. “I’ll just be going then, Colonel.”
He waved me off and I left. It was late afternoon, almost evening, and I decided to go and read for a little while in the lobby. I found the stack of newspapers the colonel had been reading and helped myself. I settled down on a bench near the fountain, listening to the pleasant music of the water as I read.
Much of it was old news, for the situation in Damascus seemed to change almost daily. But one story caught my eye.
Famed Aviatrix Found Alive. Aviatrix Evangeline Merryweather Starke, who had disappeared into the Syrian desert a few weeks before, had been recovered. She had returned to Damascus after her exotic adventure, and refused to comment on her experience except to say that she had got herself lost when she wandered away from an archaeological site she was visiting and had been cared for by the Bedouin.
A photograph accompanied the article, a publicity picture of Mrs. Starke. She was not, strictly speaking,
beautiful. She had strongly marked brows and a mouth that was too wide to be a fashionable little Cupid’s bow. But her eyes were strikingly beautiful, and she looked as if she knew how to wring the most out of life. I felt a frisson when I looked at the picture, the same as I had felt when I had disembarked at Beirut, and then I realised why.
I had been reading the story of her disappearance the morning after I had run away. I had dropped the newspaper when Sebastian came in, and it was when he spotted the headline that his face had gone white. He had covered it smoothly, but it was that moment that he began to excuse himself and explain he must return to London.
Was Evangeline Starke the reason he had come to the Holy Land? Was he somehow mixed up in her disappearance? I scoured the article for clues, but there was nothing else of importance. I learned that she was a widow, her husband having been the famed explorer and archaeologist Gabriel Starke, lost in the Lusitania disaster just a few months after their marriage. The article mentioned her war work and how she had learned to fly from the pilots she nursed in a convalescent home in England. After the war, she had embarked upon a Seven Seas tour, flying her aeroplane across the seven seas of antiquity. During the tour, she had taken the opportunity to visit Damascus and expressed an interest in seeing a proper archaeological expedition—no doubt a relic of her husband’s influence. It was rather sweet, really, the fact that she was still interested in archaeology five years after her husband’s death.
But there was nothing else. No hint of scandal or intrigue or anything else that might bring Sebastian dashing down to Syria upon learning of her disappearance. And it was ridiculous to think her story could have provoked him to come, I reasoned. Evangeline Starke was famous and there had been people out searching for her. Surely, even if they were friends, Sebastian’s best course was to remain in London, where he would be easily accessible by wire or telephone to hear the latest news. Haring off to Damascus himself was something only a lover would do....
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