No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 (31 page)

“Saint-Simon is ridiculous. People surely must be aware that I’m estranged from my parents. What would I be doing sending my wife there?”

“Andre, to the best of my knowledge the only people who know you’re estranged from your parents, other than the entire village of Saint-Simon, are myself, your family, and the Daventry family. Oh, and Ali, of course, not that she knows any of the details,” he added when Andre looked at him in sharp question. “We have all been careful to keep the situation quiet for your sake. So I see no logical reason not to use Saint-Simon as an excuse.”

Andre’s mood, already black, only turned blacker. “I won’t hear of it.”

“Why not? It’s just a story after ah, and you don’t have anything better up your sleeve, have you?”

“Nothing at the moment, no,” Andre admitted reluctantly.

“Well, then. I will write your parents informing them of the situation, and—”

“No! No, for God’s sake don’t do that,” he said with a fresh surge of panic. “Please. If the word has to go out that Ali is in France, so be it. But it will damned well be left there.”

Jo-Jean nodded. “A sensible decision. Very sensible. And if we have to wait a fortnight before leaving, then we might as well make the best use of our time.”

Andre regarded him suspiciously, having already made what he considered an extraordinary concession. “What do you have in mind?”

“I think we should both be as visible as possible. After ah, I’m the perfect person to help you suppress the story. If something was said that upset Ali badly enough to send her to Turkey, then some serious
quashing
is going to be in order.”

Andre nodded. “Yes. That’s wise, I suppose.”

“And your job is to behave as casually as possible. If you suddenly revert to your previous behavior, people are going to make the correct assumption that Ali has bolted.”

“What previous behavior?” Andre asked, puzzled.

Jo-Jean gazed at the ground, rubbing his forehead. Then he looked directly at Andre, and Andre couldn’t read his expression to save his life. Probably because Jo-Jean’s face was completely devoid of one.

“Just try to be your usual cheerful self,” Jo-Jean said. “Now get some sleep. You look like a wreck.”

“Thank you so much,” Andre said dryly, but in all truth he felt like one.

“My pleasure,” Jo-Jean said. “Good night.”

Andre took his glass of cognac and headed straight upstairs. But as exhausted as he was, sleep didn’t come. At four in the morning he finally gave in to sheer desperation and pulled Sherifay up from her position at his feet, curling her warm little body against his chest. But even that didn’t soothe the gnawing ache that had taken up residence there.

“Oh, Ali,” he whispered, succumbing to the fear that he’d been trying to keep at bay ever since he’d read her letter. “Please stay safe until I can bring you home. Please, sweetheart? Be careful. Don’t do anything foolish.”

All that answered him was the soft snuffle of Sherifay’s breathing. Andre buried his face in her fur and concentrated on stilling the desperate pounding of his heart.

Andre stood near the stairs in Lord Umbersville’s ballroom, grateful for a moment alone. The last two weeks had been sheer hell, between worrying about Ali and pretending he didn’t have a care in the world.

On top of that, he missed her terribly. He missed the ring of her laughter, her spontaneity, the way she lit up a room when she walked into it. He missed her easy conviviality, the pleasure she took in everything and everyone about her, her whimsy, the sunny effect she had on people.

Now they constantly asked after her, and it was all he could do to keep a smile on his face and his posture relaxed as he forced an easy reply. He lied through his teeth, wanting to know exactly what they did—if she was well, when she was coming home.

But most of all he missed holding her in his arms, feeling her vibrant response to his touch, losing himself in their lovemaking.

Just like the first time, Ali had gone and taken the sunshine with her, he thought with a heavy sigh. But this time it was a thousand times worse. Thank God they left for Turkey in the morning. At least he wouldn’t feel quite so helpless.

His wandering gaze fell upon a familiar figure, and he looked again in disgust. So. Thomas Weselley had returned from his last disastrous expedition. He stood across the room, pontificating on something or other to someone who clearly didn’t want to listen.

Well, Andre thought dryly, if he could find anything in his situation to be grateful for, he supposed it was that Ali happened to be out of the country at a most convenient time.

He wasn’t particularly worried that either Weselley or his foul servant would recognize Ali, since the idea of a small, uneducated Turkish boy turning into the graceful, well-spoken, and attractive Duchess of Montcrieff would have been too enormous a leap for either of them to make. They had no way of knowing that Ali had ever left Turkey, let alone that she was female.

But on the heels of the stupid Herringer woman’s story it was best that no connection be made at all, even though the rumor had all but been forgotten. Jo-Jean had been an enormous help with that, as had Nicholas and Georgia, who had come up to London to lend their support.

Weselley glanced up just at that moment and caught his eye, and to Andre’s regret he instantly excused himself and swiftly crossed the room.

“Good evening, Montcrieff,” he said, his pale gaze raking Andre up and down. “I didn’t see you in the crush.”

“Oh?” Andre said, thinking that his height made him hard to miss. “Were you looking for me?”

“Well …” Weselley said with a snide smile, “I understand congratulations are in order.”

“I suppose you’re referring to my marriage,” Andre replied, in no mood to deal with Weselley’s digs. “I doubt very much that you’re referring to my latest book.”

“See here, Montcrieff,” Weselley said, his face flushing, “you might be the darling of the British Museum at the moment, but I assure you, your star will fall, and when it does, it will be fast and furious. You will be extinguished even more thoroughly than you might imagine.”

“Really?” Andre replied indifferently. “And how is that going to happen?”

“Do you think you can hide your association with your friend Claubert forever?” he hissed under his breath. “I think not. People will begin to wonder.”

“People will begin to wonder what?” Andre said, his own temper rising. “How fortunate I am to have a lifelong friend who has been invaluable to my work?”

Weselley sneered. “And how long do you think you can keep up that pretense? You may have married for appearances, Montcrieff, yet your wife is nowhere in sight and Claubert is seen everywhere with you. I suppose it didn’t suit him very well, losing you to a wife.” His eyes glittered. “Don’t you think people will eventually begin to speculate?”

“People, my dear Weselley, are only speculating about whether I will die of loneliness before I meet up with my wife in France. You’ve obviously missed the point. But then you so often do.”

Weselley stiffened, and Andre wondered for a brief moment if he was going to make a public spectacle of them both by knocking him to the floor.

Weselley managed to control himself, although the effort left him shaking. “You bloody bastard,” he spat. “You’ve always thought yourself too good for everyone else. I ought to let the world know just what you and your pretty French friend are. And the minute I have proof, I’ll do just that. I’d love to see you swing from the end of a rope and your friend alongside you.”

Andre rubbed his forehead, resisting a strong temptation to ram his fist down Weselley’s throat. “I’m sure you would,” he said as evenly as he could manage, “but unfortunately, Weselley, your theory doesn’t hold water. I know that you’ve pinned your ambitions on it, but what the world already knows is that I’m a man who is devoted to his wife.”

Weselley’s mouth drew into an ugly line. “So say you.”

“And so say I, you damnable little weasel.”

Andre jerked around. Jo-Jean stood there, his face black as thunder, and Andre realized with dismay that Jo-Jean had overheard at least part of their conversation. “Jo-Jean,” he started to say, “I didn’t realize you were—”

But Jo-Jean cut him off. “It’s all right,” he said, flicking Andre a quick glance. “I’ve known exactly what this excuse for a man has thought all these years.” He turned back to Weselley. “And I’ve always thought you the scum of the earth, and your filthy servant with you. Furthermore, I’ve always thought you incredibly stupid and mean-spirited, not to mention completely lacking in ethics.”

“What do you—how dare you,” Weselley spluttered, his fists working at his sides. “Who do you think you are? You are nothing more than a hanger-on basking in reflected glory.”

“I am Montcrieffs friend, and count myself fortunate to claim the privilege. Furthermore, I envy him his marriage. Not because, as you obviously assume, I am jealous, but because I hope to God one day I will be fortunate enough to find a wife I can love half as much.”

Andre stared at his friend. He wasn’t at all sure if Jo-Jean had just admitted to being in love with Ali or accused him of the same. Either way, it came as a shock.

“You, Weselley,” Jo-Jean continued with a fire he rarely exhibited, “would benefit from some self-examination. Not that you’d like what you’d find. But it might at least keep you from judging people who are far superior to you.”

“The—the devil, you say! How dare you speak to me in such a fashion?” Weselley looked as if he might fall into an apoplectic fit.

“I dare because it is the truth. And that, Lord Weselley, is something you know little about.” He tapped his chin. “What do you think? Should I tell Montcrieff about the time that I saw you in Xanthos, rifling through his notes in the middle of the afternoon when you thought no one was about?”

Weselley turned a dull red. His mouth opened but no sound came out.

“I thought not. Although he already knows, of course. As he does about many of your other unfortunate … shall we say your ‘misadventures’? Which, I might add, he has kept silent about. So far.” Joseph-Jean smiled, but there was nothing amused in his eyes. “I think I’ve made my point.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Andre gave a faint nod of his head. “I don’t think I could possibly have said it better. Good night, Weselley. And do us all a favor and vanish, won’t you?” He followed after Jo-Jean, a smile hovering on the corners of his mouth.

Jo-Jean was full of surprises. Now if he could only work out what Jo-Jean had meant by his loaded comment about Ali. And how he felt about it, whichever way it had been directed. Andre left deep in thought, wondering if he’d developed a jealous streak, or if maybe he’d developed a heart.

July 1870
Xanthos, Turkey

A
li sat amid the ancient ruins, wondering for the hundredth time if it was possible to die of grief. She lifted her head from her knees as the light softened with the coming of dusk and gazed over the plain, not really seeing it, her thoughts turned inward.

It was here that she felt closest to Andre, as if he had left a small piece of himself behind, and sometimes she could feel an echo of him. But it didn’t ease her heartbreak.

The thought that she would never see him again hadn’t become easier to bear with time. Indeed, each day was more difficult than the one before as the grim finality of her life without Andre was brought home.

She gazed down at her wedding ring, the gold glinting in the sunlight, a tangible reminder of their bond. Her finger traced the warm circle.
Till death us do part …
Well, she’d certainly love him until death took her, and probably beyond. She didn’t have any choice in the matter.

Now she knew how Andre must have felt when his fairy-child had died. Now she knew why he had said that he had no heart, or one not worth anything, why he had been unable to love her—how could you love someone when your heart had been tom from your chest?

At least she had the comfort of knowing that Andre was still alive, that he was well and his life would go on without her. But Andre had no such solace. His true love lay cold in her grave, and he didn’t even have the consolation of believing her to be in the hands of God and His angels.

Ali gazed down at the ground, her eyes dull with pain. She picked up a handful of dirt and let it trickle through her fingers. This was the very earth she had cared so much about, and yet it meant nothing to her without Andre. All the history, all the stories in the world, meant nothing to her without him to tell them. Nothing meant anything to her anymore.

But at least there was Umar. And what a good friend he was, instantly accepting her return, not balking at her sudden change of sex, insisting on sleeping outside her tent at night to protect her, and never going far from her side, save to tend the animals. And Muzaffer and Hatije and their children had also been very kind, giving her a tent to sleep in, feeding her, urging her to eat even though she had no appetite.

But she couldn’t impose on their hospitality forever.

“Allah,” she whispered, “since you’ve taken me away from Andre, could you maybe send me a sign of what You wish for me to do now? I can’t stay with the Yourooks forever, for although they like me well enough, I’m even less one of them now than I was before. I don’t even feel like a Turk anymore.”

It was so strange being back in her country again. There were times that she felt as if she’d never left. And yet nothing was the same. She felt it from the moment she stepped off the boat into the bright sunlight of late May. It wasn’t just the intervening years in another country, or that she was no longer a peasant girl but an educated and titled woman.

When she’d left, she’d been an angry, frightened child, forced away from the side of her beloved master. Now she was a woman who knew what it was to love a man with all of her heart and soul. She knew what it was to sacrifice that love. And she really didn’t know if she could bear to go on.

“Allah, please,” she begged. “Please—I desperately need Your help. Why have You abandoned me?”

There was no answer from heaven, just the sighing of the warm wind blowing across the plain.

Ali put her hands over her face, feeling more alone than she ever had in her life. But she refused to cry. She hadn’t cried since leaving England and she wasn’t going to start now. She couldn’t. She knew she really would die if she gave in to the pain.

“Oh, Allah,” she moaned. “Am I going to feel like this forever and ever?”

“Not forever and ever. Not for one more moment.” Ali’s head shot up in shock. Her hands fell away from her face and she froze. For a moment she thought her anguish had finally driven her out of her mind, that she had conjured up a mirage, for Andre stood a few yards away, his posture still, watchful.

“Andre?” she whispered in disbelief.
“Andre?”

“Certainly not Allah.”

But despite his light words, she saw that his face held a mixture of uncertainty and infinite relief. And he looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Oh, Andre!” Ali leapt to her feet as joy surged through her. Her knees almost buckled, but she tore across the three yards that separated them and flung herself into his arms. “Andre…”

“Ooph,” he said, catching her up. “Hello, sweetheart. You seem to be happy to see me after all. I wasn’t entirely sure what my reception would be.”

She couldn’t answer. She was too busy holding on to him for dear life, terrified that he might vanish as suddenly as he’d appeared. “Thank God,” she said when she could breathe again, her voice muffled against his shirt. “Thank God…”

“Ali,” he said unsteadily, “if you’d release your death grip, I might be able to kiss you. You would like to be kissed, wouldn’t you?”

Ali raised her face to his, joyously drinking in the sight of him. “It’s you. It’s really, really you,” she said, stroking his face, relishing the solid feel of him under her fingers, the scratch of his beard, the familiar outline of his cheekbones.

In answer his mouth came down hard on hers, his kiss fierce and possessive, and she gave herself fully over to him, drinking him in like a person parched for life, shaking with love and infinite gratitude that Allah had heard her prayers and answered them.

He finally broke the kiss off, then took her by the shoulders and looked down at her, his expression anything but calm. “Now that we have that re-established,” he said, breathing hard, “why don’t you damned well explain yourself? By God, Ali, I should thrash you for giving me such a fright. Do you know how worried I’ve been, what hell it’s been trying to find you?”

She swallowed hard, for she could see how upset he was. “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “How
did
you find me?”

“Do you want me to start at the part when I discovered you missing and nearly had heart failure? Or perhaps you’d like me to tell you about arriving a fortnight ago and being completely stymied,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “The only place I could think you would have gone was to Koonik—you certainly wouldn’t have gone anywhere near Dembre, where you might have run into Hadgi.”

“No,” she agreed, stroking his arm, his hand.

“And I knew you’d have to have gone by boat, since it would have been too dangerous for you to go by land. I reckoned even you weren’t that foolhardy. But then I discovered that no one who fit your description had set sail south from Constantinople, that the only European woman who had departed was a grieving Italian widow who had reportedly taken a boat to Kastellorizo.” He shook his head. “Italian, for the love of God. How was I supposed to know you spoke Italian?”

A smile flashed across Ali’s face. “Nicholas taught me. He taught me Greek and Latin, too. And I taught myself Arabic,” she added.

“Yes,” Andre said. “I figured that out too, when the grieving Italian widow mysteriously disappeared in Kastellorizo, and a mysterious veiled Arab-speaking woman hired a boat to take her to Xanthos.”

“I thought they were clever ruses, since I really was grieving, and in both cases I could also wear a veil. How did you finally work it out?”

He sat down on a flat rock and took her hands, pulling her down next to him. “I didn’t. I took a wild guess, since I’d run out of other possibilities.”

“I’m glad you did,” she said softly. “I’m very happy to see you.”

“Umar was very pleased to see me too, I must say. He practically pushed me back on my horse and sent me up here, which led me to believe that you might be happy I’d come.” He gave her a searching look. “But why did you go to such elaborate measures to cover your tracks, Ali? Why the devil did you find it necessary to run away at all, let alone to hide from me?”

“But I wasn’t trying to hide from you,” she said. “I was only trying to make sure that no one would ever connect me to you, just in case the story that I was here ever got back to England. That would have defeated the whole purpose of leaving.”

He sighed. “Why don’t we just start there? I think you owe me an explanation after the last six weeks of hell you’ve put me through.”

“I really am sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d come after me.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he said. “You’re my
wife,
for God’s sake.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” Ali said, delighted that he felt so strongly about it. “You didn’t consider divorcing me?”

“No, I didn’t consider divorcing you, and furthermore, I think I’ve earned the right to blaspheme all I want,” Andre replied. “Now. Why did you run off?” He pushed a strand of hair off her face. “Given how you reacted just now, I don’t think I drove you away.”

“Oh, Andre,” she said, “I’ve been so miserable. I couldn’t bear living without you, but I couldn’t bear the thought of your reputation being destroyed because of me, either…” Her face fell as a terrible thought occurred to her. “But oh, Andre, nothing has changed. I still can’t go home with you.”

“Ali!” he cried, shoving his hands through his hair. “For the love of God,
will
you tell me what the damned problem is?”

She hesitated. “It’s Weselley and that awful Syrian,” she said in a low voice.

“Were they talking about me?”

“Yes,” she said. “They were.”

He pounded his fist against his thigh. “Damn him! Did he recognize you? What happened?”

Ali bit her lip. “They didn’t see me. But I overheard them talking. They know everything, Andre.”

“What do you mean, they know everything? I don’t see how, Ali.”

“It’s true. Weselley wants to destroy you.” She twisted her hands together. “He was going to pay me a visit to confirm his suspicions, and then he was going to tell the whole story to the trustees.”

Andre took her by the shoulders and looked into her face, hard. “What makes you think that? Tell me exactly, and I mean
exactly,
what you heard.”

She repeated the conversation nearly verbatim. “And so you see,” she said, finishing, “when he said that you were bound to slip up and when you did, he’d be there with concrete evidence, I knew there was only one thing to do.”

Ali was astonished when Andre threw his head back and roared with laughter until tears streamed down his face. “What’s so funny?” she said, shaking his arm, but got no reaction other than another wave of laughter.

“Andre,” she said, growing annoyed. “I did not sacrifice my wonderful life with you to have you go falling about in hysterics. Surely you can see the gravity of the situation?”

“Ah … oh, sweetheart,” he choked, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “Only you. Oh, Christ.” He looked at her then, the most enormous grin on his face. “I can see where you got hold of the wrong end of the stick easily enough, but
why
didn’t you tell me about it that same night? You would have saved us both a great deal of trouble.”

“Because,” she said, furious that he wasn’t taking the situation at all seriously, “I knew that you’d lose your temper and go straight to Weselley, and you’d hang yourself in no time flat.”

He burst into laughter again. “Hanging is exactly what Weselley had in mind. God, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, and you really must stop blaspheming. I wish you’d take the situation
and
God a little more seriously.”

“Wish away,” he said, still grinning. “Sweetheart. Oh, this is a comedy of errors.”

“Errors?”
she said, offended. “Andre, I’m not stupid, you know.”

“You’re anything but. However, you are innocent. You’re perfectly safe from Weselley. Trust me, he doesn’t have a clue about you, and he probably never will.”

“But if he saw me…”

“In the first place, even if he saw you, he would never dream of putting the pieces together. Secondly, if he did and somehow managed to make the connection, he’d still keep his filthy mouth shut because he knows I could ruin
him
in no time flat, not that he isn’t doing a fine job of that himself. And thirdly, not a soul would believe him.”

“But why not?” she said, feeling completely confused.

“Because he already has a reputation as a liar and a cheat, and everyone knows he detests me. Believe me, my credibility is far above Weselley’s. Furthermore, even if the story did come out, I don’t think people would be overly outraged.”

“Yes. Yes, they would,” she said adamantly. “You know what society is, how easily reputations are ruined.”

Andre shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure I could find a way to explain to everyone’s satisfaction, although I’d rather not have to.” He grinned. “Anyway, if Weselley ever tries to cause trouble, I’ll point Jo-Jean in his direction. That will take care of the problem fast enough. Jo-Jean is highly displeased with a certain assumption Weselley has made.”

“But, Andre, you’re not making any sense. What do you think Weselley and Abraham were talking about if it wasn’t me?”

He took her hands. “This is a little difficult to explain, sweetheart. You see, Weselley and his nasty friend have harbored the impression that Jo-Jean and I have a … um.” He scratched his cheek. “A
different
sort of friendship. He was hoping somehow to use that against me.”

Ali stared at him. “Do you mean that Weselley and that awful Syrian think you and Jo-Jean are lovers?
That’s
what they were talking about? Oh, Andre— how perfectly ridiculous!”

“You’re aware of such things?” he said in surprise.

“Of course I am,” she replied with exasperation. “You forget that I wasn’t brought up as a hothouse flower. But why would he think anything so silly?”

“I suppose it has to do with the fact that I didn’t show any interest toward women when I was at university,” he said. “And then later, over here … well, Jo-Jean and I were constantly together, and women weren’t part of the equation. So Weselley drew his own conclusions.”

Ali nodded. “Of course,” she said. “He wasn’t to know that you were in love with Genevieve. He must have thought you simply preferred men.”