Son of Adam

by Margaret Rome

  Briskly, pretending the child did not exist, she stepped past him and approached his sister. Gently smiling, she extended a hand. ‘Good morning, you must be Bibi.’ The girl nodded shy confirmation. ‘I am your new nanny, Miss Grey. Tell me, Bibi, have you had breakfast yet?’

  ‘No, Miss Grey. Alya said we must wait for you.’

  ‘Alya being the nurserymaid?’ Dove swung round to smile at the young girl who seemed undecided whether to rise to her feet or to remain crouched at Salim’s side. ‘I’m sorry, Alya, that I didn’t put in an appearance earlier. I could have done, because I awoke early, but I didn’t expect to find the children up so soon.’

  ‘Everyone here rises early, Miss Grey,’ the girl explained shyly, ‘so as to get done as much as possible before the sun is at its hottest. The children then sleep for an hour or two after their midday meal.’

  ‘Thank you for putting me right, Alya. I shall have to rely upon you a lot in the future—to tell me what the children like to eat, for instance, and where they are allowed to play. Some part of their day must be spent outside of the nursery, delightful though it is. Whoever planned the decor had a decided preference for blue.’

  Casually she tossed the conversational ball, hoping Alya would respond. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Salim’s outraged face, his pouting lip pronounced as he struggled with the unfamiliar sensation of being ignored.

  ‘Blue is a lucky colour.’ Alya deserted her charge. ‘It is said to ward off the evil eye. All Arab children wear blue beads, the girls as earrings or bracelets and the boys have them sewn on to their caps. Even donkeys and camels can be seen with them strung around their necks, and if ever you are in an Arab village you will see that all the doorframes are painted blue.’

  ‘How interesting!’ Dove stooped to examine Bibi. ‘Then where are your lucky blue beads? I cannot see a necklace, a brooch, or earrings ...?’

  Triumphantly the child held out a foot encased in an embroidered slipper. ‘Today, I am wearing them on my shoes!’

  This deep interest in a mere girl was more than Salim could stand. Quickly he scrambled to his feet and toddled across the room until he could reach out to tug the hem of Dove’s skirt.

  ‘Beads ...!’ He waved a plumb brown wrist encircled by a bracelet of brilliant blue. ‘ Salim, beads ...!’

  ‘Yes, darling, I see,’ Dove smiled, resisting an impulse to gather the engaging little bundle into her arms. Keeping her voice casual, she suggested, ‘Now that we’re all acquainted, I think we should eat, don’t you?’

  Breakfast could have been a hilarious affair had she not applied-her own brand of quiet discipline, so that the interlude passed without a repeat of Salim’s earlier behaviour even though once, after she had rebuked him for pouring milk upon the floor, the threat of a tantrum trembled in the air. This was averted by the simple expedient of distracting his attention, and as the morning progressed and peace continued to reign, Alya voiced her amazement.

  ‘You have cast a magic spell, Miss Grey. Usually at this time of the day the nursery is bedlam. Salim is always cross first thing in the morning, and Bibi does not help by teasing him into a frenzy.’

  ‘But what did the previous nannies do? Couldn’t they restore order?’

  Alya shrugged. ‘They tried, for the first few days at least, but then they seemed to give up and allowed the children to have their own way. Because of this, the nursery has become taboo to visitors around this hour—even the children’s mother can’t stand the noise.’

  ‘I was just about to ask you about her.’ Absently, Dove guided Salim’s hand, holding a paintbrush, towards a pot of paint and nodded approval when he managed to transfer a thick splosh of yellow on to a page of his drawing book. ‘Presumably she spends part of the day with the children. Does she come here to the nursery or do they have to be taken to her rooms?’

  ‘They don’t see her every day, she just pops into the nursery whenever the fancy takes her.’

  Which probably was not very often, Dove guessed from what the girl had not said. To be a mother, in her opinion, was one of the greatest privileges bestowed upon woman, yet as she had experienced so often in the past, to some women it was a privilege that was highly overrated. Philosophically, she shrugged. Were it not for such women hundreds of nannies, herself included, would be unemployed.

  When later that morning she was summoned into the presence of Mariam, the children’s mother, she had a halfformed impression of that lady in her mind, but the reality, as she was shown into a sumptuous apartment dimmed by closely-drawn shutters, transported her straight into the mystique of the Arabian Nights. Draped across a silken couch was a girl of enchanting loveliness, slender and graceful as the twig of an oriental willow. Dusky locks fell in a cascade to her waist and a mole like a drop of ambergris drew notice to a full, ruby-red mouth. Almond-shaped eyes, intensely black and brilliant, were softened by long silken lashes outlined by a border of kohl. Her eyebrows were thin and arched, her forehead wide, and small, tapering fingers were dyed with the deep orange red of henna. With languid interest she watched Dove approaching, then waved her towards a cushioned stool before deliberating, fingers greedily poised, over a huge box of chocolates.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Grey.’ Her voice was husky and unhurried. ‘Tell me, now that you have had time to make their acquaintance, what do you think of my children? ’

  Regaining her composure, Dove took the seat indicated and spoke the truth. ‘They are both delightful, if a little spoiled.’

  A complacent smile curled Mariam’s lips as she bit deeply into a chocolate. ‘We Arabs indulge our children, it does them no harm.’

  Dove swallowed hard. ‘There I must disagree. Children need discipline as much as they need food—indeed, without discipline their maturity is very much impeded.’ Almond-shaped eyes betrayed a flash of hauteur. ‘Are

  you implying, Miss Grey, that my children are backward?’

  ‘Indeed not,’ Dove smiled. ‘They are both intelligent and gifted children who, unfortunately, have been allowed to make up their own rules as they go along. This will have to stop,’ she spoke firmly but without heat. ‘If they are to grow up into stable young adults they must be made aware of the needs for rules within a mature, independent society. ’

  ‘Pooh!’ With a wave of her hand Mariam dismissed this point of view, then prepared once again to tackle the weighty problem of choosing another chocolate. ‘Salim will grow up to make rules, not to obey them! As for Bibi,’ she shrugged, ‘the laws of the harem are simple and few.’

  ‘But,’ Dove leant forward in eagerness, ‘can a man be expected to give orders if he has never learnt to obey them? And what if Bibi should decide against life in a harem? Arab girls are becoming liberated: schools, hospitals, even colleges are being built by progressive-minded sheikhs who want the very best for their children. By the time Bibi has grown up it may be commonplace for girls such as she to become teachers, doctors, scientists, as they already do in most Western countries.’

  Mariam lost interest in the chocolates and regarded Dove with eyes holding a glimmer of interest.

  ‘Marc was right—you are very forthright! Tell me more about the women of the West. I’m not sure I would like to live as they do, but until I know more about them I cannot compare their lives with my own.’

  ‘Well,’ Dove hesitated, ‘there are so many differences I hardly know where to begin. To start with, Western society has decreed that women must be placed on an equal footing with men—equal opportunities, equal rights in the eyes of the law, and equal pay for those doing the same jobs as men.’

  Mariam shuddered delicately. ‘I should not care to do men’s work.’ She preened, running a hand down the length of her slender body. ‘Practising the art of seduction is timeconsuming enough, if it is done well. Some days I am exhausted by the effort of preparing my body for my husband’s pleasure. How do Western women find the time to do this and cope with a career?’

  Wryly, Dove smiled, glimp
sing for the first time the enormity of the gap between her own sort and beauties of the harem. ‘They don’t, I’m afraid. They rather expect men to concentrate upon pleasing them.’

  Mariam stared, scandalised. ‘If I were to act in such a manner, Rahma would cast me aside in favour of one of his other wives!’

  ‘One—one of his other? How many wives does he have?’

  ‘Four,’ Mariam beamed proudly. ‘But I am his favourite because I’m the only one who has given him a son. Soon, Rahma intends me to be once again with child, and if it should turn out to be another boy then my position in his household will become strengthened.’

  ‘And what if it’s a girl? ’

  Mariam pouted. ‘I shall still be secure, but he will probably divorce one of his older wives and take to himself a younger bride.’ There was no rancour in her voice, just the fatalism of the East, an inbred acceptance that what will be will be, and a lack of enthusiasm for change which was probably the reason why the role of desert men had remained the same since Adam.

  ‘Don’t you ever feel frustrated?’ Dove tried not to sound as exasperated as she felt. ‘How do you pass the time? ’ Mariam seemed surprised that she should need to ask. ‘I sit on this sofa—and when I am tired I cross over to sit on that one! Sometimes Rahma takes me to call upon friends and there I hear the latest gossip, eat sweetmeats, discuss clothes, and am entertained by singers and dancers. I lead a very busy life!’

  Dove could find no words to combat such complacency. Completely devoid of education, Mariam could not begin to understand higher or more intellectual pleasures than those her physical senses could appreciate. To eat, to dress, to chatter, to sleep, to dream away the sultry hours on a divan, to stimulate her husband’s affections—And she actually called that living!

  She was glad to return to the comparative sanity of the nursery. As she closed the door of Mariam’s apartment behind her and began walking along the passageway her steps quickened as the sound of yelling and screaming penetrated the nursery door. She was only halfway there when a tall figure appeared, striding from the opposite end of the passageway. When they met outside the door she recognised saturnine features clamped with irritation.

  ‘You are conforming to type, Miss Grey. In common with others of your kind you allow personal pursuits to take precedence over your duties. If you can spare the time,’ he continued, heavily sarcastic, ‘would you please put a stop to that boy’s infernal screeching?’

  ‘I have not been—’ she began stormily.

  ‘Spare me the excuses, I’ve heard them all before. All I want is to be allowed to concentrate upon the mountain of paperwork that has accumulated during my absence. This is not possible while the child continues to exercise his lungs. Well, what are you waiting for?’ he barked when indignation kept her frozen to the spot. ‘Are you going to put a stop to it or shall I?’

  When a particularly raucous scream assaulted their ears he muttered savagely beneath his breath and, giving her no time to react, flung open the nursery door.

  Bedlam, she thought, leaning weakly against the doorjamb, would be considered a rest camp compared with this! The room was in an uproar, blobs of various-coloured paint were splattered all over the walls and the dish of water the children had been using to clean their brushes had been dashed to the floor, spilling its streaky contents over a priceless blue and cream rug. Alya was cowering in a corner, completely at a loss how to deal with the pair of young savages rolling on the floor locked in combat. Splashes of vivid paint outstanding on Bibi’s hair indicated a possible reason for the fracas, but Salim, whose arrogance was incredible in one so young, was obviously taking exception to being chastised for his misdeed.

  ‘Mon dieu!’ The blasphemy barely had time to register before Marc Blais swooped, grabbed each of them by the scruff of the neck, and tore them apart. ‘How dare you indulge in such disgraceful behaviour!’ He shook them until their teeth rattled, then set them upon their feet a yard apart. Stepping back, he fixed them with a cold, vexed stare, daring them to move. Transfixed, they did not flex a muscle while, without turning his head, he addressed Dove.

  ‘As from this moment, I wish to see more discipline exerted over the inhabitants of this nursery. These two have been indulged almost beyond repair—you do realise, mademoiselle,’ the irony of his voice was very obvious, ‘that part of your job is to help mould the characters of the children in your care? This boy,’ Salim, the infant, quivered beneath his scrutiny, ‘will one day be ruler of this sheikhdom. How can he be expected to master an army if he has not been taught to master his own temper? And as for you, Bibi!’ his voice did not soften as he scolded the girl, ‘your behaviour was hardly what one might expect of your mother’s daughter.’

  When tears sprang to Bibi’s eyes Dove broke the rule of a lifetime and darted forward to range with the children against their chastiser. ‘You expect too much, monsieur! They’re only infants, both of them, yet you speak as if to sages. Youth and wisdom make odd wheels for a cart!’

  An astounded hush fell, broken after endless seconds by a snigger that came from the direction of the corner where Alya still cowered, a fascinated spectator. Marc Blais’s lips thinned. With her eyes raised no higher than the angry scar pulsating against an outthrust jaw, Dove heard his command.

  ‘First of all, mademoiselle, you will supervise the clearing up of the nursery. One hour should be sufficient. When that hour has passed I shall expect to see you downstairs in my office.’

  The children’s sympathy, as soberly and methodically they helped to erase the results of their naughtiness, should have been comforting but, oddly, it was not. It was as if they were mutely transmitting condolences, their halffearful, half-admiring glances most unnerving, Alya did not help when, on a note of breathless awe, she confided:

  ‘You are very brave, Miss Grey.’ She shivered, as if the consequences of such bravery were more than she dared contemplate.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Dove replied briskly, subduing a sudden surge of dread. ‘I’m sure Monsieur Blais’s bark is far worse than his bite.’

  To her annoyance, Alya shook her head. ‘That is not so,

  Miss Grey. Men say of him that he can endure the unendurable, many times his strength has been tested by adversity, as gold is tested by fire. But it is also said of him that his heart is as cold as that of the basilisk who, with one look, can turn creatures into stone. Many women have attempted to disprove this, but have succeeded only in arousing his devilish wrath. Do you suppose that is his attraction?’ she whispered, running the tip of her tongue around lips parted with awe, ‘the fatal fascination of a sinner!’

  In spite of herself, Dove shivered. The man had the arrogance of the devil, no doubt of that, and his dark, razor-edged features, derisive mouth, the scar that hinted at violent passion lying dormant beneath an ice-cold surface, combined to form a satanic attraction some women might find irresistible. Don’t fall in love with me, he had demanded, the weary resignation threading through the command proof that many women already had.

  How could they possibly? questioned her stunned mind. Love, in her limited experience, was epitomised by the devotion, tenderness and respect shown to each other by her parents. Monsieur Blais frightened the life out of her!

  ‘Don’t be childish, Alya! ’ The fear in her voice sounded to the maid like irritation. ‘And don’t ever again make such observations in this nursery.’

  With inexorable stealth, the hands of her watch crept round to the fateful hour. The nursery was once again spick and span, the children settled down for their afternoon nap, when with pounding nerves and slightly sticky palms, Dove hesitated outside the door of Marc Blais’s office, willing up the courage to knock. When finally she did so his terse: ‘Entrez!’ sent her stumbling inside where, seated in a leather chair placed behind a huge, workmanlike desk, with shelves of books ranged around him, he looked master of all he surveyed.

  ‘Take a seat.’ Frostily he indicated a chair placed directly in front o
f him, then continued for long humiliating minutes writing swiftly in a black, sloping hand.

  Dove waited with eyes cast down, hands clasped loosely in her lap, erasing all traces of the resentment she felt from her expressive face. He had obviously decided she should be humbled and this was his way of showing how little she mattered, how unimportant were her bruised feelings.

  As his pen continued racing across the page, her mind wandered back to other positions she had held, recalling small courtesies extended by members of households eager to make her feel at home. Men had always risen to their feet whenever she had entered a room, had enquired if everything in the nursery was satisfactory, had often insisted upon her sharing a glass of sherry with the family before dinner, and many—if she had not firmly declined— would have been pleased to have her join them for their evening meal.

  Here there were no small courtesies, no praise, not even-a grunt of acknowledgment! She was but a grain of sand in the desert, if she went absent it was doubtful whether anyone would bother to look for her ...

  ‘You sit there like a small grey bird, mademoiselle, an English migrant who has winged its way across the ocean and landed exhausted in the alien desert.’

  She stared, unable to believe him capable of speaking in a tone of amused indulgence. He had been riding earlier that morning and looked comfortably at ease in a casual shirt open at the neck and with short sleeves that left brown, sinewy forearms bare. His hair was slightly tousled, either by perplexed fingers or by the light morning breeze, and it was easy to imagine him galloping into the cool break of dawn, sitting tall in the saddle, enjoying his mastery of the most mettlesome, the most aristocratic stallion housed within the Sheikh’s stables. She blinked her astonishment when, still in a moderately pleasant tone, he continued.

  ‘I suspect, mademoiselle, that you came to my office with the intention of acting as a dove of peace, tendering an olive branch in the hope that it might ward off the wrath you expected might fall upon your head.’