Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets)

by Jennifer Blake

  As Julia listened to the expressionless voice of the older woman, she stared at the familiar face of the man below, her lips curling. “Marcel de Gruys,” she said, without realizing that she had spoken the name aloud.

  “Yes, I believe that is how he is called,” the Lady Fatima answered composedly.

  “I wonder why he has not left Algiers?”

  “Who can say? He is employed at the moment by the consulate. Perhaps, they see a way to use his influence with the king of France to inform him of the dangers in these waters to French shipping? Or possibly, since he is such an opportunist, he sees some other profit to be made from staying. He has been seen lately in the company of Kemal. One wonders if the grandson of the dey grows tired of waiting for the throne to be vacated and begins to treat with those who might have reason to have a grudge against the present ruler of Algiers.”

  Jawharah nodded as the Lady Fatima finished speaking. Leaning across Julia, she said, “It would also be of interest to know if Ali Pasha is aware of this possible alliance between the French consul and Kemal.” She paused, then grimaced as she tilted her head toward a man just entering the chamber below them. “Speak of an afreet and you hear the whip of his pinions!”

  “Kemal?” Julia asked.

  “None other,” Jawharah replied.

  He was a stout beast of a man, fatter even than Abdullah, although his corpulence had the hard look of congealed lard. His muslin turban was adorned by an enormous ruby, which supported a trio of aigrette plumes that nodded at his very movement. His beard, reaching nearly to his small, cruel eyes, was frizzed into a bush, and the ends of his mustache curled into ringlets. He wore a tunic of lilac silk fastened down the front with gold-braid frogs and slashed to reveal an undergarment of cloth-of-gold. His pantaloons were composed of yard upon yard of billowing rose satin. Rings covered his stubby fingers, while a number of pearl and ruby brooches had been pinned to his rotund chest. On either side of him walked a beautiful boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years dressed in identical garments with the exception of the turban. Being Christian, they were denied this Muslim headpiece and wore instead linen head scarfs held in place by rolled silk ropes.

  At a gesture from the dey, a cushion was brought forth and placed on a slightly lower level than the older man’s dais. Kemal saluted the hand of his grandfather and with an effort lowered himself to the floor to take the place of honor. One of his boys seated himself at his feet, while the other stood to one side plying a fan of ostrich plumes. By leaning forward, Mehemet Dey could converse with his grandson, and he did so despite the growing anger of the French consul at being virtually ignored.

  “What can be his purpose in coming here?” Jawharah asked.

  “Only to show his interest in the governing process and to remind those present that it is the will of his grandfather that he be raised one step higher when Allah, whose name be exalted, condescends to remove Mehemet Dey to paradise.”

  Julia barely heard the question or its reply. With a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, she watched in disbelief as Kemal and Marcel de Gruys acknowledged each other across the width of the audience chamber.

  When the court came to an end, the three women left the viewing balcony and descended a flight of stairs to bring them to the level of the audience chamber. Trailing their guards, they traversed a series of rooms and started down a long hallway which led toward yet more stairs.

  Catching sight of a group of men ahead of them, they lowered their eyes and adjusted their veils, preparing to brush past them. As they drew even, the guards came to a halt. A voice spoke.

  “Well met, my wife Fatima.”

  Glancing up, they beheld the dey. The Lady Fatima salaamed deeply, and Julia and Jawharah copied the obeisance exactly. “Well met, indeed, O Prince of the Faithful and Dispenser of Justice,” his wife declared. “I kiss the ground before your feet. My heart rejoices to see you so well.”

  A smile lit the ascetic face of the dey. “Your beauty does not wane, nor does your dignity, O Fatima, daughter of the desert. It is always a pleasure to greet you when you have long been from my sight. You have the rare ability to make me believe you mean your honeyed phrases.”

  “May my tongue wither if I ever speak other than the truth in your hearing, my master.”

  The dey accepted the declaration with a slight inclination of his head. “It is said you have taken a protégée, a young woman whom you have caused to be taught all you know of the ways of men and the world,” he said, never once glancing in Julia’s direction. “It is rumored that she is an apt pupil such as must reflect honor upon her mentor.”

  “By the will of Allah, this is true, O Ruler of the Age.”

  “And, is it true also that this incomparable one, who may stimulate a man’s mental powers as well as his physical senses, has sat at the feet of the ruler of the west known as Napoleon?”

  “Verily it is so, master of my heart.”

  “It comes to me that I would give myself the pleasure of gazing upon such a paragon,” the dey said, looking only at his wife. “I request that you will order all that she may be made ready to await my command this evening.”

  “It shall be done, even as the least of your desires, my master.”

  A signal granted them the permission to pass on. When they were alone once more in the harem, Jawharah cried out in exultation. “It is as has been set forth in the Arabian Nights. He has loved her from hearing her qualities described, for sometimes the ear loves before the eye!”

  “He is intrigued,” the Lady Fatima agreed in a dry tone. “How could he not be when I have had her virtues extolled to him without ceasing? But it will be the task of Jullanar to make him love her. If she succeeds, she may count herself most fortunate among women.” Turning, the first wife of the dey left them without a backward glance.

  The preparations for the long-awaited summons began in the late afternoon. Once more Julia underwent the ritual of the bath. Jawharah accompanied her, and while Julia was tended by the slave girls, the woman kept up a running commentary of advice and admonition. Once more the scent of damask roses filled the air. It was soaped into her hair and steeped into her body by the hot water, and then, following the tepid pool, it was massaged into her skin in the form of scented oil. Julia thought that never in her life had she been so clean from crown to heel, never had her skin been such smooth perfection, never her brows so perfectly arched, her hair so luxuriant, like a gold curtain falling past her waist, or her almond-shaped nails so rosily immaculate. Even her teeth had been cleaned and her breath freshened with crushed mint.

  Her costume, chosen by the Lady Fatima for the occasion, included a short blouse and pantaloons of emerald silk covered by a barracan of softest mint green edged with gold braiding. With it went a small, close-fitting cap of emerald velvet braided in gold, and a veil of amber silk that matched her eyes.

  Returning to the common room of the harem, she ran the gauntlet of spiteful comments and vicious stares. “You have made yourself ready for nothing,” Mariyah called out in a voice made shrill with hate and ill-will. “He will forget you as soon as you have left his sight!”

  As night fell and stars began to appear in the black arch above the garden, it looked for a time as if Mariyah had the right of it. No summons came, though the time of the evening repast came and went. Since it was thought that the dey might wish her to partake of his dinner with him, she did not dare eat for fear of offending him by being unable to grant his wish. She grew so weak from hunger that she felt faintly sick, or at least, that was the excuse she gave herself for the illness that hovered at the back of her throat. She did not like to admit that it was fear that had unsettled her. Despite the months she had spent in the harem, she could not understand the convoluted oriental mind. She could not come to terms with people who accepted the total control of their lives and happiness as though it were a God-given right. It was demoralizing to realize that around her were any number of persons who could smile on her one
moment and order her whipped, tortured, or killed the next, all without an apparent qualm. She could not bring herself to trust them, and yet, she had no choice. She was in their hands.

  A serving woman pushed through the curtain of her chamber with its clashing beads. Julia turned from the window casement. The woman bowed low. “Abdullah awaits,” she said.

  The time had come. A flush of mingled alarm and triumph mounted to Julia’s face. Still, it was with firm steps and a high head that she followed the woman into the communal chamber. As an indication of her sudden change in status, Abdullah salaamed as she came into view. Jawharah, having taken her meal with the others in order not to tempt Julia’s will too much, now came forward with a happy smile to straighten Julia’s veil and place the folds of her barracan more perfectly about her. “Allah go with you,” the woman whispered. “And, for my sake, smile!” Though Julia looked around for the Lady Fatima, she was nowhere in sight. Making an effort to follow Jawharah’s sound advice, she moved beside Abdullah from the room.

  Once more they traversed the endless hallways of the palace. They crossed moonlit courtyards where purple shadows stirred and whispered beneath the colonnades. It was that that there were more than a thousand rooms in the palace, and of that number, fully half opened out onto either a courtyard or a garden to provide the cool circulation of air. Of the doors of these many chambers, Julia thought several hundred must have guards posted before them, enormous turbaned figures with curved scimitars in their belts, standing like painted statues in the dim corridors.

  At last, they approached a massive door of carved cedar. It was guarded by sentries, who came to attention and drew their weapons at the sound of footsteps. Recognizing Abdullah, they relaxed, their eyes passing over Julia as if she were invisible.

  Beyond the huge doors was a great vaulted hall, its spangled floor sweeping to a broad-based marble stair with a gold balustrade. At intervals up the staircase were candelabra of spiraled silver holding slim, steadily burning tapers. From the top of the stairs, the same candelabra could be seen stretching down a long marble hallway, the numbers of candles they held multiplying into the hundreds.

  The guarded doors of the dey’s private chambers were opened by a dwarf who could barely reach the handle. There were several such small people about the palace, for they were considered to have baraka, or good magic, by the Turks. This particular little man was called Basim, and his influence with the dey was reputed to be great. He was a Moor and wore Muslim dress, had an Egyptian style beard, and had the saddest eyes Julia had ever seen in a human face.

  Basim dismissed Abdullah with a bow faintly ironic in its deep respect, then closed the door upon the eunuch. “If you will come this way,” he said to Julia, and started off at a swift pace, not even looking back to see that she followed.

  The dey sat directly underneath the light of a glowing double-spouted lamp. A large volume was open across his knees. He looked up as Julia entered behind Basim. She salaamed. He closed the book and extended his hand for her to kiss.

  “You may serve us, Basim,” the dey said, and he touched a velvet pillow beside his divan to signify his wish that Julia seat herself.

  The dwarf brought forth a table and set it with all manner of rich dishes. As the covers were removed, an appetizing steam rose, which caused Julia’s mouth to water. Swallowing, she looked away, trying to appear unconcerned.

  “You may go,” the dey told Basim when he had finished. As the door closed behind the dwarf, a small silence fell. Julia glanced at the dey to find him smiling with kindliness upon her, and also with a hint of understanding.

  “Will you remove your veil, or must I be treated like a stranger who has no right to view your face?”

  Julia complied with his wish, striving to give the gesture the smiling grace that she had been taught.

  “How are you called?” Mehemet Dey inquired.

  “I have been given the name of Jullanar, effendi,” she answered.

  “You have great beauty, Jullanar, to rival that of Kobah, the evening star. Since you have come to me in the waning of my days, I shall call you by that most precious name.”

  “It shall be as you wish, O Great Ruler.” The flattering title of respect did not come easily to Julia’s lips. She tried to think of it as being much like the title of “sir” tacked onto each sentence uttered to a superior officer by a soldier or a sailor; a formality, nothing more. She hoped she would be able to remember to add it when she spoke.

  A faintly cynical expression crossed his face at her reply, but he did not comment. “Will you remove your outer garment also, or is it too cool?”

  Despite the sea breeze lifting the thin curtains at the windows, the night was far from cool. Julia recognized the suggestion for what it was, exquisite politeness designed to give her an excuse to retain her barracan if removing it would embarrass her, and also, a subtle hint that he had no intent to ravish her upon the spot. Taking advantage of such an excuse would have been cowardly. She slipped the garment from her shoulders and placed it to one side.

  Receiving permission, Julia poured mint tea and presented it to the dey. He accepted it graciously, then with a sparkle in his eyes, signaled his wish that she serve herself also, joining him in the meal rather than waiting until he had finished. As she complied, Julia flung him a look of interest. He was not at all the flint-hard monarch she had expected after witnessing his summary justice that afternoon. He had a sense of humor and a quick, intuitive understanding. In addition, there was a sensitivity lying in his dark eyes that was at variance with everything she had heard or been led to expect.

  “You do not ask permission to speak,” he said, bearing her inspection with equanimity. “Do you have no conversation, then, with which to amuse me?”

  He spoke without looking at her, but Julia did not make the mistake of thinking that he was unaware of her start of surprise.

  “Certainly, effendi,” she said, carefully choosing her words in the elegant Turkish of the court. “I thought only that you might like to enjoy your meal without disturbance.”

  “I was under the impression that the Frankistani of a certain class believe that conversation is an aid to digestion.”

  “It is so, effendi. Are you interested in the customs of the Frankistani?”

  “I will allow that I have a certain curiosity. It may even be that such knowledge would be of use to me should our dealings with the west increase.” He gave a nod. “You may speak to me of your people.”

  “To begin with, the people whom you call the Frankistani belong to many nations that are as different from each other as an Arab is different from a Tartar. My own country is young in years, but it is large and will grow greater as time passes. It is called America.”

  “Ah, yes. We have had some experience of Americans on the Barbary Coast.”

  He was referring, of course, to the contretemps between the United States and the Barbary state of Tripoli. In the early part of the century, the Barbary Pirates had captured the U.S.S. Philadelphia with her officers and three hundred crewmen. The United States marines, in an effort to free the men and retrieve the ship, had landed at the capital of Tripoli. Much of the town had been destroyed and the ship burned, since it could not be saved. A few men had been rescued, but most had languished as slaves until the end of the war in 1805. Julia hesitated, wondering if, in spite of the term the dey had used to describe the people of the west, he was better informed concerning it than she had first believed. His next words confirmed it.

  “But knowledge of this sort I can acquire elsewhere. Tell me where you lived, and how. I understand your father was a man of property who kept many slaves?”

  His request was not a difficult one to grant. As she talked, Julia saw him smile more than once and shake his head a number of times in disbelief. He appeared to find the customs of courtship and marriage extremely puzzling. “The young woman is allowed to speak to the man she is to marry, to decide for herself if she wishes the marriage?”
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  “As long as the suitor is deemed acceptable by her parents, yes. There may be some cases where pressure is brought to bear upon the girl if the match is particularly advantageous, but usually the parents of the couple wish for their happiness and abide by their choice.”

  “And, you are quite certain this is the only marriage the young man is allowed, in all his life?”

  “For those of my faith, this is so, effendi. Only death can dissolve the marriage. However, there is another religion, which allows a marriage to be terminated in the case of adultery or great dishonor. This happens very rarely.”

  “What if the man and woman discover they dislike each other? What if there is no heir?”

  “It cannot be helped, effendi.”

  “What if there is a great surplus of females due to the ravages of war among the men of your country?”

  “The women must remain spinsters, effendi.”

  “This is not sensible. We arrange matters better in Islam. A Muslim may have four wives. In this way, all women are given the protection of a man. In addition, if one wife is barren, there is always the chance of an heir with another.”

  “That only holds true if it is the woman’s fault that there is no child. If the man is at fault, then he has in his harem four or more barren women with wasted lives, instead of only one,” Julia said.

  “That is unimportant.”

  “I’m sure it is, to the Muslim husband!”

  He stared at her, his eyes dark with mingled anger and amazement, as if he had reached out to pet a kitten and it had slashed him with its claws.

  Realizing what she had done, Julia flushed. “I crave pardon, O Ruler of the Time. I meant no disrespect.” She hardly dared look at him, but sat waiting for him to raise his voice for Basim to turn her over to Abdullah for punishment.

  He did not do so. “The women would be taken care of, kept from harm, served, fed, wrapped in luxury,” he said at last. “They would have security from poverty or injury. What more can they want?”