African Enchantment

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘My father is not with me, Lady Crale.’

  ‘Not with you!’ Lady Crale swung round aghast. ‘My dear child, what do you mean?’

  Tears filled Harriet’s eyes. ‘ I am afraid that my father is dead, Lady Crale.’

  Lady Crale’s face paled. She reached out her hand, grasping the back of a chair to steady herself. ‘Dead! But where? How?’ Dazedly she walked across the room and sat down.

  ‘In the desert. Tribesmen stole our baggage camels and we were left without provisions.’

  ‘But this is terrible, terrible.’ Lady Crale stared across at Harriet horrified. ‘Your father was such a good man. He accomplished so much in Cairo and was eager to do the same here. Oh, it does not bear thinking of!’

  Harriet’s eyes were bright with tears. ‘I do not think he suffered much pain in the end. He was overcome with exhaustion and death came swiftly.’

  ‘Poor, dear child.’ Lady Crale reached out and clasped Harriet’s hand in her own. ‘What agonies you have suffered.’ Her eyes changed expression. ‘But how did you cross the desert without companions or stores?’ she asked curiously. ‘How have your reached Khartoum?’

  Harriet remembered the lie Raoul had told the Pasha in order to protect her reputation. That she was his cousin. It was a lie that could be dispensed with now. In another few days she would be his wife and that would surely silence any unkind tongue.

  ‘I was rescued by a naturalist and a geographer travelling south.’

  Relief and horror fought for mastery on Lady Crale’s finely-drawn features. ‘ My dear child. Are you telling me you have travelled from the Nubian Desert accompanied only by two gentlemen?’

  ‘By one gentleman,’ Harriet corrected, a smile curving her lips. Lady Crale pressed a hand against her palpitating heart. ‘But this is dreadful! Why, anything could have happened to you! You could have been … Have been …’

  ‘Mr Beauvais is a Frenchman and a gentleman of much standing in Cairo and Alexandria,’ Harriet said, attempting to set Lady Crale’s fears at rest.

  ‘Beauvais?’ Lady Crale murmured, a travesty of the cool, assured woman who had greeted her only moments before. ‘Did you say Beauvais?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Raoul Beauvais. He has a house in Khartoum. Are you acquainted with him?’

  Lady Crale’s face was deathly. ‘Smelling salts,’ she gasped weakly, gesturing in the direction of a rosewood secretaire.

  Hastily Harriet rose and sought out the smelling salts. It had not occurred to her that Lady Crale would be so overcome by the news of her father’s death.

  ‘There is no reason to distress yourself, Lady Crale,’ she said solicitously, as she pressed the salts into a trembling hand. ‘My father died in the country he loved and would have preferred that to dying in his bed at Cheltenham.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Lady Crale attempted to rally herself.

  ‘As for myself, I have been most fortunate and am very grateful for the fact.’

  Slight colour had returned to Lady Crale’s cheeks. ‘You are, of course, welcome to stay here for as long as you desire, Harriet. However, it may be best if arrangements are put in hand for you to return to Cairo and thence to England, suitably escorted of course. Such arrangements can be difficult to make and can take time. Unfortunately, the consul is absent at the moment.’

  ‘Please don’t worry about me, Lady Crale. I am sure that things will sort themselves out most satisfactorily.’

  Prudence warned her against telling Lady Crale that she would be marrying Raoul Beauvais and would no longer need her protection. Such news would best come from Raoul himself.

  Lady Crale summoned the strength to ring the bell at her side. ‘My maid will show you to the room that has been set aside for you. No doubt you will need a rest after your … your trials.’

  Harriet turned to say ‘goodbye’ to Hashim but the large room was empty except for themselves.

  ‘Is something amiss, Harriet? You don’t mind me calling you Harriet, do you? “Miss Latimer” sounds so cold and formal and in all my correspondence with your dear father you were referred to as “Harriet” and so I have come to know you.’

  ‘I much prefer “Harriet” to “ Miss Latimer”,’ Harriet said truthfully. ‘ I was looking for Hashim.’

  ‘Beauvais’ servant? Don’t worry about him. He will be given a cooling drink before returning to his master.’

  It seemed strange to hear Hashim referred to as a servant and not a friend. Disappointedly, she waited for the arrival of the maid and then followed her up a shallow flight of stone stairs to a simply, but comfortably, furnished bedroom. Only later, when she had washed and changed into fresh clothes provided by Lady Crale, did it occur to her that it was stranger still that Lady Crale should refer to Raoul as simply ‘Beauvais’. No doubt she had misheard. Such rudeness would be uncharacteristic of a lady who was obviously both kind and thoughtful.

  From the balcony of her room Harriet could see the Nile, pelicans and great maribou storks thronging the dun-coloured water. Beyond the banks there was nothing but desert stretching to the horizon on either side.

  She wondered where Raoul was: if his Khartoum house was similar to Lady Crale’s; if it was nearby. Perhaps, even now, he was only a short distance from her.

  She stepped inside and closed the shutters, lying on the bed and watching the motes of dust dance in the fierce shafts of sunlight that slanted through the wooden slats. Tomorrow they would be able to talk without Hashim or the sailors overhearing. Tomorrow he would make his intentions clear. He would inform Lady Crale that he wished to marry her and from then on their courtship would be regularised. She smiled and closed her eyes. He had still to ask her to marry him. No doubt he thought such a question irrelevant: her arms and lips had already told him of her answer.

  Lady Crale had changed into a dinner dress of emerald silk. Diamonds sparkled at her wrist and throat. A thousand miles from civilisation, she looked as if she was entertaining in her London home in Bloomsbury Square.

  ‘There will be five of us for dinner, Harriet. Dr Walther, a German and a most interesting gentleman. His daughter, Magdalene – she is a year or two your senior, but will be very pleased at having you for a companion; and my son, Sebastian.’ She patted her elaborate coiffure, once more poised and in control of the situation. ‘I think it best, Harriet, if you do not mention the manner in which you arrived in Khartoum. The European population here is small and it may be … misunderstood.’

  The gown that the maid had laid out for Harriet was a deep rose-pink with a nipped-in waist and a fashionable décolleté neckline. Over hoops, the crinoline skirt surged and billowed and Harriet found it hard to believe that she was in Africa and not at a smart evening party in Cheltenham. Only the daring plunge of the neckline assured her that it was not so. Modesty overcame fashion in Cheltenham. Such a neckline on a girl of eighteen would never have been countenanced.

  Lady Crale’s kindness had been overwhelming and if her unchaperoned journey to Khartoum was likely to cause embarrassment, then Harriet saw no reason to talk of it. All such difficulties would be resolved with Raoul’s arrival.

  In the dining room silver gleamed on white napery. Small negro boys wafted the air with long ostrich feathers. Dr Walther and his daughter were introduced to Harriet, the Doctor’s eyes warmly welcoming and incurious, his daughter’s sharply feline. With the arrival of Sebastian Crale Harriet understood the reason for her cold reception from the other girl. Sebastian Crale was in his mid-twenties and undeniably dashing. His fair hair shone sleekly, his moustaches impeccably trimmed. His eyes were an arresting grey and his well-shaped mouth smiled easily and often.

  Magdalene’s eyes followed his every move and Harriet was disconcerted as Sebastian Crale gave her his undivided attention throughout dinner, his manner blatantly appraising. She wanted to tell Magdalene that she had no cause for concern; that she had no intention of ensnaring Sebastian Crale; that her heart was given elsewhere and that in another few hours s
he would be affiancéed.

  A slight frown furrowed Lady Crale’s brow but otherwise she gave no indication that she found her son’s open admiration of Henry Latimer’s daughter disturbing. She had smoothly explained to her guests that Harriet had been escorted by friends to Khartoum and would be staying at the consulate.

  ‘It is an amazing journey from the coast to Khartoum, do you not think so, Miss Latimer?’ the little German asked, wiping his rimless spectacles on his table napkin.

  ‘It is extremely boring,’ Magdalene said before Harriet could reply. ‘Why Papa insists on remaining here I cannot imagine. We have a large establishment in Stuttgart and a magnificent summer house in the Bavarian Alps. Do you like Bavaria?’ she asked, turning to Sebastian as the servants placed iced soup before the guests.

  ‘A lovely city,’ Sebastian replied, gazing at sleekly coiled gold braids.

  ‘Bavaria!’ Magdalene hissed, her cat eyes feral as she failed to gain his attention.

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’ He did not trouble to turn towards her.

  Where on earth had his mother’s guest sprung from? His mother had told him that she was a missionary’s daughter but he found it hard to believe. Her grace and poise were effortless. His mother was no doubt trying to dissuade him from another emotional entanglement. He tried to think who was in Cairo and Alexandria. The Duke and Duchess of Stathlone had been there recently. Had they any adventurous daughters? He didn’t recall that they had. Fish followed the soup. Whoever she was, she was captivating. He drank his chilled wine thoughtfully. Beauvais would know; Beauvais knew everything.

  ‘Did you know Raoul Beauvais arrived this afternoon?’ he asked the table at large. ‘ Things should move pretty fast now.’

  ‘I am surprised to hear you speak his name,’ Magdalene said viciously. ‘ The man is a dissolute renegade.’

  ‘Dissolute, certainly,’ her father said, ‘but he does not deserve the name of renegade.’

  Harriet could hardly believe her ears. Her eyes flashed fire. ‘He does not deserve any such names!’ she said furiously, setting down her knife and fork and glaring at them. ‘He is a courageous man: a gentleman. He has been very kind to me and I will not allow him to be vilified in such a wicked manner.’

  Lady Crale closed her eyes and sank visibly in her chair. Dr Walther, Magdalene and Sebastian regarded her with astonishment.

  ‘Beauvais has never been kind to a woman in his life,’ Sebastian managed at last. ‘He wouldn’t know how.’

  ‘They say he’s kind to his little slave girl,’ Dr Walther chuckled.

  Magdalene shivered in distaste. Harriet stared incredulously at Dr Walther.

  ‘Slave? Are you trying to tell me that Raoul Beauvais has slaves?’

  ‘Everyone in Khartoum has slaves,’ Sebastian said easily. ‘Only others do not flaunt the fact like Beauvais does.’

  ‘Certainly they do not parade their native mistresses in public,’ Dr Walther agreed.

  Harriet felt the blood leave her face. There was a pounding in her ears so that she could hardly hear her own voice as she asked,

  ‘Mistresses?’ Her eyes dilated, her breath coming in harsh gasps.

  ‘Dr Walther is unfair to him,’ Sebastian said, drinking more wine. ‘Beauvais has only one. The Circassian – Narinda.’

  Chapter Five

  From the head of the table there came a groan as Lady Crale reached weakly for her glass. Harriet was oblivious of it. The whole world seemed to have shifted on its axis. The faces around her jumped and danced; the walls of the dining room were closing in on her.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ Sebastian Crale was asking with concern.

  Dr Walther was urging a glass of water upon her.

  ‘I … Yes …’ She pressed a hand to her throbbing temple.

  Lady Crale rose smoothly in a rustle of skirts. ‘ Miss Latimer has undergone a most arduous journey. I should have realised that she needed to rest for a much longer period. Jali! Hasara! Kindly accompany me to Miss Latimer’s room.’

  A firm but kindly hand was placed beneath Harriet’s elbow. Dazedly she allowed Lady Crale to help her to her feet. Her hostess was saying smoothly,

  ‘It was most remiss of me to expect Miss Latimer to endure a dinner party in her weakened condition. If you will excuse us Magdalene, Dr Walther …’

  With the decorously dressed Sudanese maids hurrying in her wake, Lady Crale escorted Harriet from the dining room and towards her bedroom.

  ‘I’m sorry … I’ve ruined your dinner party …’ Inbred politeness asserted itself.

  ‘Nonsense. It was I who was at fault expecting you to be strong enough for such a social occasion when you have scarcely had time to rest after your arrival.’

  As Lady Crale removed her steadying arm, Harriet staggered towards the bed and sank down heavily. She looked ghastly. Her delicately-boned, heart-shaped face was pinched and drawn. The eyes that had sparkled with such delight at the sight of the rose-pink gown, were now glazed with shock and lustreless.

  Lady Crale tightened her lips. She had feared the worst when Harriet had told her the identity of her rescuer. Raoul Beauvais was a man shunned by all decent society.

  For two years he had lived quite openly with a slave girl as his mistress. He had even had the effrontery to enter European homes with her as his guest. He had offended every lady of sensibility and every gentleman of honour. Only his illustrious family name had saved him from complete ostracism. His personal wealth far exceeded that of a British consul and reduced the vast riches of the Turkish Governor-General to a seemingly trifling amount. It was rumoured that he was a personal friend of Emperor Napoleon III and certainly the authorities in Cairo and Alexandria held him in high esteem. Lady Crale shuddered. They were not insulted by being presented to a native as if she were an equal. She had heard whispers as to the indecencies that took place behind the high walls of Raoul Beauvais’ Khartoum residence. The Circassian was displayed openly: how many others were kept in secret?

  Lady Crale was not an unworldly woman. She had accompanied her husband to many remote and uncivilised corners of the globe. To India and Afghanistan; to the Levant and to Africa. In the course of her travels she had met adventurers, renegades, rogues and free-booters. In her opinion, Raoul Beauvais fell into all four categories. Unfortunately he had two qualities that none of the others had possessed. He was fiendishly handsome and his charm, when he chose to exert it, was phenomenal. It was hardly surprising that the gently-reared missionary’s daughter should have fallen victim to it. Nor, taking into consideration Harriet’s own charms, was it surprising that Beauvais should have sought to take advantage of her vulnerable position. A dark, unspeakable thought entered Lady Crale’s mind. Had he taken advantage of it? The sensual Frenchman had been alone with Harriet for several weeks. She sank weakly onto the bed beside Harriet.

  What she was thinking was impossible, monstrous. Harriet Latimer was an English girl; not a Circassian who could be bought for twenty pounds. She said, striving to keep her voice calm,

  ‘I had hoped to spare you the kind of conversation you heard this evening. It was for that reason that I deemed it best you did not announce the name of your companion.’

  ‘But it can’t be true!’ Harriet turned to her, wild-eyed, and Lady Crale’s apprehension grew. ‘Mr Beauvais is a man of honesty and integrity! He would not keep slaves! He would not make mistresses of them!’

  ‘I am afraid that the latter is beyond dispute, Harriet. The Circassian has enjoyed and occupied that position in Mr Beauvais’ household for over two years now. It is known all over the Sudan.’

  ‘No!’ Revulsion flooded through Harriet. ‘ I refuse to believe it! There has been a mistake! A misunderstanding!’

  ‘The European society in Khartoum is small,’ Lady Crale said firmly. ‘There can be no mistaking the manner in which Mr Beauvais has publicly paraded the girl in question. Certainly there can be no mistaking that he bought her as a slave. He did so in full view
of half Khartoum’s population.’ She paused. She was accustomed to being silent on such matters but the circumstances called for frankness. She said, ‘ Circassians are rare in Khartoum. The slaves auctioned are usually from the interior – Dinkas or Shiluks. The unfortunate creatures are bought by trades and transported to the coast. However, a few are sold into service here in Khartoum.’ She paused delicately. ‘Especially the girls if they are at all pretty. The Turkish officials in Khartoum are not in the habit of being accompanied by their wives. It makes for … regrettable behaviour.’

  Bile rose in Harriet’s throat. ‘ I have already come into contact with that side of life in Africa,’ she said through parched lips. ‘In Berber, at the home of the Pasha.’

  ‘Then you will appreciate that what I am telling you is the truth. It is British policy to put an end to the slave trade. The attempt to do so occupies a vast amount of my husband’s time. Your dear father fought valiantly against the practice in Cairo and would have done so here in Khartoum if he had lived. Of course, the Turkish Governor-General denies knowing anything about the slaves that are auctioned publicly, day in and day out. We have not, and can never hope to receive help in stamping out the abomination from such a source. The Turkish garrison in the town is composed almost entirely of Sudanese natives: natives who have been bought. Malaria constantly depletes their numbers and the garrison can only be kept at full strength by resorting to such measures.’

  ‘It is unspeakable,’ Harriet said, hugging her folded arms close to her breast. ‘I accept all that you tell me about slavery in Khartoum, Lady Crale. But one thing I cannot accept is that the Circassian is either Raoul Beauvais’ slave or his mistress.’

  ‘Circassian slaves are very rare and very beautiful,’ Lady Crale said, a tiny spot of colour in her cheeks. ‘The bidding for the girl called Narinda was extraordinarily high. An aide of the governor’s was determined to have her and outbid all the local traders. A large crowd had gathered by the time Raoul Beauvais stunned the European community by openly bidding against the Turk. Of course, Mr Beauvais is a Frenchman, not an Englishman, but his behaviour could only attract scandal. The girl was, and is, exquisite, and every man there knew the reason why Beauvais and the Turk were bidding so high a price for her.’