African Enchantment

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘Then you must give me his name and tell me where I can find him.’

  ‘His name,’ a hard voice said from some feet behind her, ‘is Beauvais. And you’ll find him here, Miss Latimer.’

  Harriet swirled around, the blood draining from her face.

  He was leaning against the open door, his eyes black pits in which she could read nothing. He moved forward into the room, pouring himself a small measure of brandy from Dr Walther’s decanter, his manner as insolently self-assured as it had been in the Pasha’s residence.

  ‘You wished to ask me something, I believe?’ he said lazily, sitting on the edge of a mahogany table, one leg swinging free, swirling the brandy around in the glass. His expressionless eyes studied her face. Which was the real Harriet? The one he had held in his arms in the lone desert, or the outraged female proclaiming to the world that her virtue was beyond reproach? That nothing had passed between them. That she held him in the same regard as the rest of her narrow-minded, prim and proper country-women.

  Harriet fought for breath and control. If she abandoned her dream because of Raoul Beauvais he would have gained yet another victory over her, and he would know it. Her heart pounded with physical pain.

  ‘You no doubt overheard my conversation with Dr Walther,’ she said tersely, ‘and know very well what it is that I wish to ask.’

  Her eyes as they met his were contemptuous. Raoul downed the brandy. The laughing, unconventional, delightful girl of the desert had disappeared. She had been occasioned only by circumstance. This was the real Miss Latimer. No different from her contemporaries: the kind of girl who put so-called respectability above any feelings of the heart. His eyes raked her slowly, from head to toe, so that she felt naked before his gaze and then he said tauntingly,

  ‘But I wish you to ask it, Miss Latimer.’

  Harriet threw her head back defiantly, her eyes blazing. Damn him, but he would not have the satisfaction of seeing her turn tail. Eyes blazing, she said with such viciousness that Dr Walther shrank back against the wall,

  ‘I wish to join the expedition south in search of the Nile’s source. You have no nurse. I can nurse. You have no artist to record flora and fauna. I can draw.’

  ‘And are those your only credentials?’ The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile as though he were amused.

  She felt a flash of white-hot rage. ‘It is enough!’

  His eyes held hers and this time there was an expression in them that sent desire flooding through her so that she felt shameless. She clenched her fists, hating herself for the knowledge that she was as much in love with him as ever.

  ‘And what of your companions, Miss Latimer?’ he asked, with a depth of feeling that startled the doctor even further. ‘Are they not part of the reason you wish to make the journey?’

  Her throat felt tight. She could hardly speak the words. ‘Dr Walther and Sebastian Crale I barely know. The other members of your party I know not at all. As for yourself, I would be more than happy never to set eyes on you again!’

  ‘Then rest assured, madam, that you will not.’ He slid to his feet and replenished his glass. ‘No woman accompanies us: least of all yourself. Good day, Miss Latimer.’

  Tears of anger and frustration stung her eyes. She choked them back. She would not beg or plead: she would not allow him to see the depth of her disappointment. She marched towards the door, her head high.

  ‘Good day, Dr Walther. I hope we meet again in happier circumstances.’

  She threw a withering look in Raoul Beauvais’ direction, but it was lost on him. He merely shrugged and a mirthless smile tinged the hard lines of his mouth.

  Not until she regained her own room at the consulate did she stop shaking. How dare he suggest that she wanted to join the expedition in order to continue a liaison with him! Had her behaviour on the journey to Khartoum been so low and unseemly? She thought of the burning kisses given and accepted freely and her cheeks flamed with shame. She should have known from the outset that a man like Raoul Beauvais would not be the kind of man to live alone: that there would be a wife or mistress waiting for him on his return. She splashed her face with cool water, attempting to regain her composure. She had envisaged neither. Certainly she had not envisaged a slave girl enjoying the same embraces that she had cherished so dearly. She patted her face dry and looked at herself in the mirror above the wash stand. Eyes filled with misery seemed huge in her whitened face. In the brief moments in Khartoum’s square she had seen what Lady Crale had not. She had seen the expression in the Circassian’s eyes as Raoul had grasped her wrist. They had held the same expression that had once been in her own. Bought or not, Raoul Beauvais’ slave girl was as much in love with him as she herself. And he was faithful to neither of them. Desolation swept over her. She had probably set eyes on him for the last time. Soon, Africa too, would be nothing but a memory. She would live sedately in Cheltenham, the uneventful years slipping by until at last she was as old and fixed in her ways as her aunts.

  ‘Damn!’ she cried explosively, throwing herself on to the bed and pummelling the pillows, giving vent to the tears she had been suppressing. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’

  Lady Crale was disturbed to discover that her son was dining with them once again. Generally he dined alone or with friends. Some suitable, as in the case of Dr Walther: some unsuitable, as in the case of the unspeakable Mr Beauvais. That he should dine at the consulate when no other guests were invited could only mean that the attraction was Harriet. Lady Crale picked listlessly at her food. When she had agreed to offer hospitality to Harriet Latimer she had never imagined that the girl would be a natural beauty, capable of turning heads in the capitals of Europe, let alone a forsaken outpost like Khartoum. She had expected a missionary’s daughter to look like a missionary’s daughter. Harriet Latimer did not. Nor did she behave like one.

  She signalled for the servants to bring in the fish course. Harriet Latimer’s outburst at Raoul Beauvais when he had stormed the consulate had been correct in that she had shown no desire to encourage his attentions, but it had shown a passionate intensity that was disturbing. Polite and well-mannered though she was, Lady Crale judged Harriet to be an unknown quantity and one that was best kept far away from her son. She shuddered involuntarily. After all these years of bachelorhood, if Sebastian should marry a missionary’s daughter, she would never be able to hold her head high in London society again.

  ‘The natives say the Nile springs from great inland lakes,’ Sebastian was saying enthusiastically to a strained-looking Harriet. ‘The Great Nyanzas, they call them.’

  ‘I am tired of hearing about the source of that wretched river,’ Lady Crale said with unexpected asperity. ‘It is all you have discussed for six months. Who cares where it springs from?’

  ‘The whole of Europe,’ Sebastian said disarmingly.

  ‘The whole of Europe should try living out here,’ Lady Crale said tartly. ‘They would soon lose interest in everything African.’

  She turned to Harriet. The bloom that had been on the girl’s cheeks had faded, her flawless skin was pale, her green-gold eyes bleak. Instead of detracting from her beauty, her distress enhanced it. Lady Crale was well aware of the effect it was having on her son. He was feeling protective as well as beguiled. It was a potent combination and one that filled her with dismay.

  ‘You will be pleased to hear, Harriet, that I have been able to make arrangements for you to return to Cairo with all speed. Mr and Mrs Pennyfax are returning early next week. Mr Pennyfax is something of an eccentric. He has already travelled extensively in South America and the East. Mrs Pennyfax is quite an indomitable traveller herself and will be an ideal chaperon. I think I can promise that your return journey will not be the nightmare your outward journey proved to be. They travel with a large contingent of servants and you will enjoy as much comfort as is possible in the circumstances.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Harriet smiled, but the corners of her lips trembled. Sebastian Crale wondered what it would
be like to kiss that soft-looking mouth. The girl did not want to return to England. She wanted to remain in Khartoum and he believed he knew why. Nothing had been said between them, but he had made his feelings obvious by the tone of his voice and the expression in his eyes. Harriet Latimer wanted to remain at the consulate until he returned. The most curious longing swept through him. It would be an exceedingly pleasant sensation to have the golden-haired Miss Latimer waiting in Khartoum for his return from the interior.

  ‘I do not think it is necessary for Miss Latimer to return to Cairo with the Penny-faxes,’ he said, smoothing his immaculate moustache with his forefinger, his eyes riveted on Harriet’s slender figure. ‘I think it would be more suitable if she remained in Khartoum for a while. She needs a longer period of rest before embarking on the journey back.’

  ‘Allow me to know what is best,’ his mother said icily, glaring at him down the length of the silver-laden table. ‘The Penny-faxes leave next week and so does Miss Latimer.’

  Harriet regarded Lady Crale with puzzled and hurt eyes. The warmth that Lady Crale had displayed on welcoming her had virtually disappeared. Had her behaviour at calling out in public to Raoul Beauvais been so reprehensible? She pushed her plate away, the food untouched. She had her own answer. He had been openly consorting with a bought slave, flaunting the intimacy that existed between them. She felt so dispirited that she wondered if she was falling ill of some tropical fever. She raised a hand to her throbbing temple.

  ‘Would you excuse me Lady Crale? I have a headache.’

  Lady Crale nodded, excusing her with pleasure, grateful that her son was soon leaving on his expedition and that Harriet would shortly be travelling north. Another week of Miss Latimer’s presence and Sebastian would be on the point of proposing marriage. She rose from the table. She was worrying unnecessarily. Sebastian would continue with his foolhardy expedition. He would return disillusioned and would marry a girl of her choice.

  Sebastian sat for a long time over his port. If he didn’t marry soon, he would find himself obliged to marry a girl of his mother’s choice or have his income withdrawn. He could do far worse than marry Harriet Latimer. She would be far warmer in bed than any female of his mother’s choosing. Musingly he drained his glass and climbed the shallow flight of stairs to his room.

  When he asked her the next day if she would like to ride with him, Harriet accepted gratefully. The consulate had become claustrophobic. Friendliness on Lady Crale’s part had been withdrawn: only formal politeness remained.

  ‘The sun does not seem to affect you,’ he said as they cantered out of the courtyard and into the hot, dusty streets.

  ‘I have grown accustomed to it.’

  ‘Then you are a rarity. Few men ever do so.’

  It was still early and the city was not as crowded as it had been when she had made her fateful carriage ride.

  ‘I was born in Egypt; perhaps that accounts for my adaptability.’

  A smile curved his lips. ‘That is another mystery less. How many more mysteries do you possess, Miss Latimer?’

  With a shock Harriet realised that Sebastian Crale was flirting with her. She said politely, ‘None,’ and flicked her horse so that it moved a little further away from his mount.

  ‘Miss Latimer.’ His voice had changed. It was no longer bantering but full of emotion. ‘ I know that you do not wish to leave the city and I believe I know the reason why.’

  She felt herself pale. ‘You are mistaken, Mr Crale. I am more than ready to leave Khartoum at the first opportunity.’

  He saw that her hand trembled slightly on the reins.

  ‘Miss Latimer, I …’

  ‘Are we forced to continue this way?’ Harriet’s voice rose in alarm. In front of them lay the river and a tangle of dhows and felucca sails.

  ‘Dr Walther is supervising the loading of the boats this morning.’

  Vainly Harriet looked around for a way of escape but Sebastian Crale was already slipping from his saddle and saying,

  ‘We shall be away for at least a year and even for such a small party shall be taking three boats. This one will take the foodstuffs. The sacks the boys are carrying aboard now are full of grain.’

  He held his hand out to help her dismount.

  ‘I would rather not. I …’

  It was too late. Dr Walther had already seen her and was hurrying across to them.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Latimer! What a delightful surprise! I hope you have recovered from your disappointment.’

  ‘Disappointment?’ Sebastian Crale looked from the rotund little doctor to Harriet. ‘What disappointment?’

  Dr Walther’s voice was compassionate. ‘Miss Latimer had hoped to accompany us on our expedition, but Mr Beauvais has refused her permission to do so.’

  Sebastian Crale looked down at Harriet incredulously. ‘Is that true? Would you have gone to such lengths?’

  Harriet refused to meet his eyes, grateful for the veiling on her broad-brimmed hat.

  ‘I have no desire to discuss it,’ she said tightly, the tears welling unbidden in her eyes.

  Sebastian Crale took hold of her hands, imprisoning them in his.

  ‘Miss Latimer,’ he said, ‘will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’ and before Harriet could recover from her stupefying amazement, he lifted her veil and, taking her in his arms, kissed her full on the mouth.

  ‘A dockside is a strange choice for love-making,’ a familiar deep voice said harshly.

  Sebastian released a stunned Harriet and turned, angry spots of colour in his cheeks.

  ‘What the devil is it to you, Beauvais?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Raoul said, his eyes brilliant pin-pricks in a face suddenly brutal, ‘except that I have over ten tons of grain to load on to this boat and you and your inamorata are making the task impossible.’

  Sebastian Crale’s voice shook with rage. ‘Apologise for that remark at once, Beauvais. You are speaking of my future wife.’

  Raoul’s eyes flickered from the outraged Sebastian, to where Harriet stood, her hand pressed against her pounding heart, her face devoid of colour.

  ‘My felicitations. You make a most charming couple.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sebastian said stiffly. ‘Will the grain be loaded today?’

  Raoul’s reply was lost on Harriet. She was aware only of his sarcasm; of the contempt in his eyes and of a blazing anger that she could not understand. Aware that another second of his scrutiny would break her self-control altogether, she whirled around and marched to her horse, mounting despite Sebastian’s shout of protest.

  Furiously she dug her heels in the horse’s flanks. What right had he to look at her in such a way? It was his behaviour that was at fault, not hers. He was the one who had returned to Khartoum and his mistress’s caresses. If he had been a man of any honour he would have severed the connection immediately. But he was not a man of honour; the whole of Khartoum knew and talked of it, even those who were to be his companions.

  She disregarded Sebastian Crale’s shouts that she rein in and allow him to catch up with her. Because of Raoul Beauvais she would have to leave Africa. No other course of action was open to her: unless she married Sebastian Crale.

  The idea was so amazing that she gasped. Had he really proposed to her only minutes ago? And if so, why? She had given him no encouragement, no indication that such a proposal would be welcome. Sebastian Crale was handsome, debonair, exquisitely mannered and no doubt heir to a fortune. However, he did not make her heart beat faster or her nerves throb as the detestable Raoul Beauvais did. His kiss had been remarkable only for its unexpectedness. Every kiss of Raoul’s had seared her very soul. There could be no marriage to Sebastian Crale: no marriage to anyone. She was destined to become an old maid, living in Cheltenham, talking about bonnets and gowns and nursing a consuming jealousy for a girl bought on the auction block as a slave.

  Chapter Seven

  Sebastian galloped into the courtyard as Harriet dismounted. Pantin
g for breath he slid from his horse and strode across to her.

  ‘I hadn’t realised Beauvais’ words had distressed you so much. The man meant nothing by them. His manner is naturally abusive.’

  ‘That,’ Harriet said, struggling for control, ‘ I well know!’

  Sebastian frowned. He had not been aware that Harriet was acquainted with Beauvais. He cast it from his mind. He had other, more important, things to think about.

  ‘Harriet,’ his voice was caressing, his hands reaching out once more for hers. ‘ Will you wait for me here in Khartoum, or will you return to England and wait for me there?’

  Harriet looked up at him despairingly. ‘I shall not be waiting for you at all, Mr Crale.’

  Bewilderment flashed across Sebastian Crale’s fine-drawn features.

  With her hand still held in his she said awkwardly, ‘ I am very aware of the honour you have done me in asking for my hand in marriage, but I have no desire to marry.’

  Sebastian smiled reassuringly. ‘I am well aware of the difference in our stations in life. I have taken it all into account and am uncaring of it.’

  Harriet gave a small smile. ‘That is very gracious of you, Mr Crale.’

  ‘The sooner we break the news the better. There will be storms and tears, but only for a little while. My mother has been urging me to marry for years. This marriage will not be the one she expects but she will grow accustomed to it.’

  ‘You have misunderstood me,’ Harriet said, raising her unhappy face to his. ‘I was not declining your offer because you are the son of a lord and I am the daughter of a missionary. I was declining it because I truly have no desire to marry.’

  Sebastian Crale’s face was incredulous. ‘But Harriet, I love you.’

  Her smile was wan. ‘Mr Crale, you barely know me.’

  ‘I know enough to want you for my wife.’

  ‘I am sorry.’ Very firmly she disengaged her hands from his and walked swiftly into the shadow of the consulate.

  Sebastian stared after her disbelievingly. Instead of being overcome with joy and gratitude, she had turned him down! Him! Sebastian Crale! A man regarded in the highest social circles as an enviable catch in the marriage stakes. A new feeling was born in him. He had asked her to marry him because the idea amused him. Her refusal stirred a stronger, deeper feeling. Miss Harriet Latimer was a rarity and one he would be a fool to let go. There were three days before he sailed south. In three days surely a man of his sophistication would win her heart? He had been too premature in his declaration. He had given her no warning of it: had not paid court to her. With fresh optimism he strode towards his rooms.