by Anne Gracie
She scooted across the seat and frowned at him suspiciously. “What are you up to?”
“I’m going to London to visit the queen.”
“Be serious!”
He smiled and said softly, “I’m escorting you to your family.” He sounded quite sincere.
“Truly?”
“Truly. It’s a long trip.”
She thought it over a moment. “You promise there will be no funny business?”
He heaved a mock sigh. “Spoilsport. All right, I promise.”
She tried not to smile. Then she thought of something. “If we travel together, and especially if we stay at the same inn, my reputation will be in shreds. I’ll be ruined.”
“Ruined?” He shook his head and said firmly. “I wouldn’t harm a hair of your head, let alone ruin you. I’ve thought it all out. We shall stop overnight at Cheltenham and stay with friends of mine there. Married friends.”
“But I’ll be alone in a closed carriage with you for nearly two days.”
“Nonsense. I’ve brought along another female to chaperone you. Not to mention a driver and two grooms.”
She looked around the carriage pointedly. “Well, where is this female then?”
He waved a hand, “She’s up the front, out there with the driver. She’ll only travel inside if it’s raining. Mostly she prefers enraging other dogs who we pass and having the wind in her face.”
“Other dogs—you don’t—you can’t mean Sheba?”
He grinned.
“You’re using your dog to chaperone me?”
He said indignantly, “She’s a very good chaperone. She’s never let a cat come near me!”
She stared at him, biting her lip, but she could not prevent a giggle escaping. He was outrageous.
He immediately pulled her into his lap. “Now just relax, my love. I’m not letting you go alone, so let us just enjoy the trip.”
Grace gave in. She lay against Dominic’s chest and wrapped her arms around him. She didn’t know what he was up to, coming with her like this. It didn’t make sense to her. But she’d been offered a short reprieve and she didn’t have the strength to send him away again. Not just yet.
“I HEREBY PUBLISH THE BANNS OF MARRIAGE BETWEEN DOMINIC
Edward Wolfe, Lord D’Acre, of Wolfestone Parish and Miss Melanie Louise Pettifer of the Parish of Theale in Reading. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two should not be joined in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the second time of asking.”
This time there was hardly a ripple in the congregation. The absence of Lord D’Acre and Miss Greystoke had been noted. Most people knew by now that they’d gone off in a carriage at dawn earlier in the week. No, that was old news.
But this congregation was just as thrilled as last week’s, possibly more so, for this Sunday the Turk had, in his master’s absence, escorted Miss Pettifer to church.
What’s more, he’d escorted her to the Wolfe family pew, bowed, then retreated to a nearby commoner’s pew and remained throughout the service, sitting between two Tickel girls.
It had been rare entertainment, the village agreed afterward, for the three Tickel girls had almost come to blows over who was to sit beside the big foreigner. Tansy had lost, and had flounced off and sat with her mother, pouting and glaring throughout the service.
He, amazingly, had not turned a hair—and they could tell, for today he wore no turban, but a colorful, foreign-looking hat, which he’d removed, very properly, before entering the church. His hair was very black and very thick and curled around his collar in a heathenish manner.
He’d stood for hymns and even sung, he’d knelt for prayers and as far as anyone could tell, he hadn’t put a foot wrong, except that he didn’t utter a word of the prayers, even though both Tickel girls were holding prayer books for him. And he hadn’t gone down to the rail for communion.
The congregation paid little attention to the sermon; it was busily speculating on whether the Turk was a heathen or some sort of odd foreign Christian, and whether they should welcome him or not. Since he was bigger than most of the men present, it was decided that he should be welcomed into their midst. After all, not many villages had a real live Turk to boast of.
They filed out of the church in the wake of the minister and altar boys, well pleased with the day’s offerings.
Grandad Tasker spoke for them all when he said as he shook his minister’s hand, “A grand service, Vicar. Not too long a sermon and plenty to look at!”
Outside, Abdul waited to escort Miss Pettifer to the carriage. “I’ll walk if you don’t mind,” Melly said. She was still a little nervous of the big man. Every time he looked at her she read disapproval in his eyes. “It’s such a lovely morning. Mr. Netterton will escort me.”
She looked at Frey, who nodded and said, “Yes, I’ll escort Miss Pettifer.”
Abdul bowed and strode away. As he reached the Tickel family, he paused and raised both elbows ever so slightly. There was a brief scuffle and he continued serenely on his way, a Tickel girl triumphantly hanging on each arm. Tilly hung back in the rear, looking sulky.
He turned and looked back at her. “Tilly,” he commanded in a deep voice. “There is enough of me for all of you.” Giggling, Tilly ran to catch up.
The villagers buzzed, delighted to be horrified at such openly scandalous behavior. But, well—you couldn’t blame ’em. What did Turks and Tickel girls know of respectable folks’ ways?
Melly stood next to the church door, waiting while Frey chatted to his parishioners. She didn’t mind waiting. It was pleasant in the morning sun, and besides, it was interesting hearing what people had to say.
A young woman walked up with a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. Melly had heard it crying in church. The young woman had left. She shifted the baby from one arm to the other. Melly stared, fascinated at the tiny curve of fuzz visible from the shawl.
She could not help herself. Without conscious thought she gravitated to the young mother. “May I see?”
Proudly the mother drew back the blanket to reveal a tiny infant, with button nose and the sweetest little red bow of a mouth.
“Oh, he’s beautiful,” Melly breathed. “What a dear little treasure. Oh, yes, you are,” she told the baby. “A precious treasure.”
The child stared solemnly at her with big blue eyes. One tiny hand waved aimlessly in the air and Melly caught the little fist, marveling over the perfect tiny fingernails.
“Would you like to hold ’im for a bit, miss?” the mother said. “I need to talk to Vicar a moment.”
“May I?” Melly was thrilled. Carefully she gathered the child in her arms, rocking him and murmuring gently so as not to startle him. Vaguely she heard the mother and Frey arranging for the child to be christened the following week, but all her attention was on the baby who lay so trustingly in her arms, staring up at her.
She planted a kiss on the fuzzy crown, on the silken cheek. She cradled him against her breast. The heavy, warm, weight of him felt so perfect, so right. She closed her eyes and breathed in the pure baby smell of him, crooning to him gently. She so ached for a baby of her own.
“I’ll take him now, thanks, m—” The woman broke off. “Are you all right, miss?”
“Yes,” Melly assured her, puzzled.
The young woman stared. “It’s just that you’re crying, miss.”
“Oh!” Hastily Melly wiped her cheeks. “Sorry. It—it’s nothing. The, um, the flowers in church sometimes have this effect on me.”
The woman gave her a long look. Melly avoided her eyes.
“You’ll have a bonny wee babe of your own, one day, miss, don’t worry,” she said softly and squeezed Melly’s arm.
Melly turned away. She didn’t want anyone to see how her eyes had flooded. She stood there, groping blindly in her reticule for her handkerchief.
“What did she say to you?” It was Frey’s voice, fierce, angry. He seized her by the shoulders and tried to turn her towar
d him.
“Nothing. She said nothing.” Melly tried to hide her face from him, knowing her eyes would be red, her face blotchy.
“I saw it, Melly,” he said sternly. “She made you cry!”
“No, no, she didn’t.” She tried to pull away.
He didn’t budge. “I’m not letting you go until you tell me why you’re in tears. She must have done something!”
“It was the baby! The baby made me cry!” she told him in despair.
“The baby?” He stared down at her. “Don’t you like babies?”
At that she looked up at him, and fresh tears filled her eyes and spilled down, and suddenly Frey saw it all: all the tender yearning, all the flat despair. “Come here,” he said and pulled her into his arms.
“WE’LL BE IN CHELTENHAM SOON,” DOMINIC MURMURED IN Grace’s ear. She stirred sleepily. Earlier, they’d been watching the moon rising through the chaise window and she’d fallen asleep, snuggled against him.
The journey had been swift and uneventful. Recent light showers had dampened down the clouds of dust that usually accompanied summer travel. They hadn’t been heavy enough to make the roads boggy with mud, so the roads were dry and hard and perfect for travel.
The hooves of the horses beat out a steady rhythm, the chaise rocked gently—a testament to excellent springs. It was as if they’d managed to steal a moment out of time.
“I almost wish we didn’t ever have to stop,” she murmured. “It’s lovely just being here, with you. No difficulties, no arguments, no horrid decisions to be made, just the moon, and the clip-clop of the horses and us.”
His arm tightened and she lifted her head and turned her face up to be kissed. And he was more than willing to oblige.
The horses slowed a little, laboring up a hill. He glanced out of the window and stiffened. She followed his gaze and saw twinkling lights winking in the darkness.
“Cheltenham,” she said in a sad voice. “We’re back in the real world again. I wish . . .” She gave him an anguished look and kissed him with a desperation and sweetness that pierced him, wrapping her hands around his head and kissing him as if it was the last time. When the kiss finished she held him tightly for a moment, her silken cheek pressed against his rough one, before moving back to take the seat opposite him.
“Tell me about these friends of yours we’re staying with,” she said.
“Ah . . .” He thought for a minute. “Before I do, could you give me a definition of exactly what you meant by ‘funny business’?”
And then he told her about his friends.
“A harem? You are joking, surely.”
“No, it’s a genuine harem.”
Her eyes sparkled. “In Cheltenham? Are you sure?”
He laughed at her amazement. “Yes, we’re staying in a house in Cheltenham that contains a harem. It’s the home of Tariq bin Khalif, a very old friend of mine. I’ve known him since we were boys together in Alexandria. He’s immensely rich—a silk merchant, among other things—and every year he comes to Cheltenham to drink the waters. They helped cure some ailment he had in his youth. This year he has brought his wives with him for the first time.”
“A real harem? How exciting!” Then she laughed. “Oh, but if this gets out—first he chaperones me with his dog and then he takes me to a harem!”
“You won’t be ruined,” he assured her. “A harem is designed to safeguard the virtue of the inmates.”
“Oh.”
He laughed at her disappointment.
IT LOOKED JUST LIKE ANY OTHER CHELTENHAM HOUSE FROM THE outside, with a green door, a brass knocker, and wrought-iron railings. The only difference was that the windows of the upper story were covered also, though not with railings, but carved wooden screens just inside the windows. You had to look closely to see them.
Dominic rang the bell. The door opened smoothly and a servant dressed in western clothes, but wearing a white headdress, bowed to Dominic and ushered them inside. He did not acknowledge Grace by as much as a flicker of an eyelash.
The owner of the house came down the stairs to meet them, an olive-skinned man of medium height, dark browed, black bearded, and with dark, almond-shaped eyes. He was dressed entirely in western clothes.
He said in heavily accented English, “Peace be with you, old friend. Welcome to my house, and welcome, too, to your lady.” He shook Dominic’s hand and inclined his head toward Grace.
“Miss Merridew, this is my friend Tariq bin Khalif.”
Grace curtsied. “Thank you for offering us your hospitality.”
“Dominic’s friends are my friends. I have had rooms prepared for your visit and all is ready for your comfort.” He hesitated, uncertain of how she felt about other cultures. “Would you be willing to meet my wives?”
Dominic laughed. “Try and stop her.”
“If you, and they, would be so gracious,” Grace said in careful Arabic.
The black brows flew up. He responded in the same language. “The lady speaks our tongue?”
“A little only and not well,” she replied.
“She also reads it,” Dominic said quietly, and Grace thrilled at the note of quiet pride in his voice. “She has a fondness for the poetry of Ibn Safr al-Marini.”
“The celebrated poet of Andalusia? I am impressed and my wives will be well pleased. They were, you understand, a little nervous of meeting an English lady.” He clapped his hands and a large, fat, soft-looking man in Arab clothing appeared soundlessly in the doorway. “Conduct this lady to the women’s quarters,” Tariq ordered. “She speaks our language.”
The large man bowed and indicated that Grace was to precede him.
“A eunuch,” Dominic murmured inconspicuously in Grace’s ear.
Grace’s eyes widened. So this was what Abdul might have become? She followed the man. He led her past the main stairs to a staircase at the back of the house.
The women’s quarters were on the second floor at the rear, separated from the rest of the house by an exquisite carved screen that blocked the passageway. The large man opened the door and bowed, indicating to Grace that she should enter. She entered, her heart beating rapidly. She was eager to meet the ladies of the harem, but a little nervous, too.
He opened a door and it was like stepping into another world, an exotic world of scent and color and rich textures and intricate patterns. The air was scented: sandalwood, perhaps, Grace thought. Some sort of incense anyway, musky and exotic and exciting. Thick Persian carpets covered every inch of the floor, sometimes several layers thick and laid higgledy-piggledy, without regard to color or design, quite different from the careful balance sought in English style.
The windows were covered by delicate carved wooden screens and framed by lavish drapes of brilliant gold silk, but silver lamps swung from the ceiling, bathing the room in golden light, and casting shadows in the corners. Light also reflected from mirrors; gilt-framed mirrors in all sorts of shapes and sizes almost covered the walls—a surprise to Grace, who’d grown up in a house without mirrors and thought one mirror plenty. She’d never seen so many mirrors in one room. Patterned hangings and embroideries filled the few spaces left.
Five ladies stood staring at her, their hands clasped nervously. Grace, recalling what Tariq had told her, smiled and curtsied. “Peace be with you,” she said in Arabic. “I thank you for inviting me to your home.”
There was a flutter, a murmur, and the ladies gathered around her, chattering excitedly in Arabic.
Laughing, Grace held up her hands and explained that she was not yet very good with their language, that she could read it better than she could speak and understand.
One by one the ladies introduced themselves. The oldest wife came first, Fatima, an elegant woman who Grace thought would be in her late twenties, then came Kadije, round-faced and jolly, and Mouna, an exquisite dusky beauty who looked about seventeen. These were Tariq’s wives.
The other women, it was subtly made clear, were servants. A fourth wife had r
emained in Alexandria, to give birth. Mouna demonstrated with a graphic demonstration and a giggle.
They invited her to sit. There was little furniture—several low divans, mounds of sumptuously covered cushions and a few low tables and chests made of cedar, patterned heavily with inlaid mother-of-pearl. Grace sat on a divan and found herself sinking into lush softness.
Fatima clapped her hands and the servant girls appeared, one bearing a tall silver jug, which proved to contain a fruit drink, oddly perfumed, but delicious. The other carried a huge tray and the low table was soon covered with dozens of silver dishes containing foods Grace had never before seen. The ladies urged her to eat, and waited with interest for her reaction to each dish and pelted her with questions. Grace even managed a few of her own.
It was the ladies’ first time in England and they found it very different, they told her: quite cold and damp, even though it was summer.
By the time she’d tasted a little of everything she was full to bursting. She was in the middle of thanking the ladies when she exclaimed in English, “Oh, heavens I almost forgot!” Recollecting herself, she said in Arabic, “I brought you some small gifts.”
As soon as Dominic had told her where they would be staying the night, she’d ransacked her luggage for anything she thought might please harem ladies: a couple of ladies’ magazines, lavishly illustrated, a box of homemade toffees, and some cosmetic creams and lotions—though she was fairly sure they would have their own. She had no idea of their tastes, of course, but she imagined that harem ladies would be interested in the same things she and her sisters had longed for when they’d lived with Grandpapa, cut off from the rest of the world.
She also gave them a few things she’d bought for her sisters’ children; a box of spillikins, a dissected map puzzle, a French doll, and a kaleidoscope. She presumed the ladies had children.
The ladies exclaimed excitedly over the gifts, turning the pages of the magazine back to front and poring over the illustrations, particularly the fashions. To Grace’s amazement they fell on the children’s toys with equal delight. They loved the French doll, with clothes that could be taken off and put on. They took turns peering into the kaleidoscope and exclaimed over the beautiful patterns.