The Master's Wife (16 page)

Louise had been a willing source of relief. She knew the rules and he was financially generous. But it was Caseley he thought of; Caseley he longed for.

His nerves were twitchy and his gut felt full of rocks. But he could wait. He would wait. She had overridden his objections and insisted on coming. That gave him hope.

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S
tirred and aching for her, Jago got up before Caseley woke. He forced himself to leave, returning to his bathroom. He opened the door to a quiet knock and found a servant with two large ewers of water, hot and cold.

Washed and dressed once more in her robes, Caseley pinned up her hair and covered it with the scarf. Tying the folded band across her forehead, she drew one end of the scarf under her chin and tucked it into the top of the band.

Hanging her towels over the rail she went back into the bedroom. Jago was dressed and waiting for her. This morning he wore his head cloth, held in place by the doubled black woven cord. One end of the white cloth hung to his chest. He had slung the other across his chest and over his other shoulder.

He was both familiar and a stranger. Once again she felt a quiver deep inside as his gaze raked her from head to foot.

She moistened dry lips. ‘Can you see my hair?’

He shook his head. ‘Pawlyn was telling me yesterday that among the Tuareg it is men, and not women, who cover their faces. In some tribes only a husband may see his wife’s hair. I find that rather appealing.’

Caseley recalled the previous night and his gentleness with the comb.

‘You always liked my hair,’ she murmured, aware only after the words were out how much sadness and yearning they held.

‘I still do. Are you ready?’

‘Almost.’ She moved around the room, wrapping her toiletries in the dry towels she had brought, quickly folding then rolling their nightwear and packing it all into the large striped cloth bag Sabra had provided. She placed it next to the small iron-bound chest containing the gold.

They started down the stairs. ‘I’m glad you are here,’ he said. Her spirits soaring, she glanced at him as he continued. ‘Without you to translate for me I’d be completely in the dark.’

‘I’m sure Mr Pawlyn would –’

‘No doubt he would. And will, once we reach the Bedouin camp. But I prefer – you have an eye for detail. Our home is testament to that. You notice things, especially about people.’

‘Are you expecting trouble?’

His hand rested briefly on her shoulder, a gesture of reassurance, and she welcomed it. ‘No. As Sheikh Imad’s guests we are under his protection. Yet it would be foolish to discount the possibility that others know the real reason I’m there.’

‘How could they?’

‘News travels fast in Falmouth. Why should it be any different here, especially with so much at stake? I may be seeing threats where none exist. But it will do no harm to be cautious.’

As they reached the bottom of the stairs a servant appeared and led them into the room where they had eaten the previous evening. Sabra, Antonia and Robert Pawlyn were already there sitting on the carpet. Pawlyn scrambled to his feet as Caseley walked in with Jago behind her. As greetings were exchanged, Caseley saw Antonia’s gaze dart from her to Jago and glimpsed envy.

Antonia saw a man and his wife coming to breakfast after a night spent together. Was she imagining herself with the Sheikh? Did she not realise that an image could be misread, that assumption was not reality?

Everyone sat. A platter of still-warm flatbread and others of cold roast mutton, white crumbly cheese, grapes and dates were brought in and set on the carpet. They were offered tea or coffee.

Everyone helped themselves; tearing the soft bread into bite-sized pieces.

Caseley helped herself to tiny chunks of cheese. It was creamy and mild. ‘S – ma’am,’ she corrected quickly as she remembered that Sabra only used their first names when no men were present. ‘What cheese is this?’

‘Feta, it is made from sheep’s milk.’

Startled, she reminded herself that at home she happily ate cheese made from cow or goat’s milk, and decided to think only of the taste, which was delicious.

‘How far is it to the camp where the wedding will be?’ Robert Pawlyn asked. Caseley translated for Jago.

‘Perhaps three days’ journey,’ Sabra replied. ‘Sheikh Imad is providing camels for us.’

Antonia glanced up. ‘Not horses?’

Sabra shook her head. ‘In the desert horses are reserved for men. I have kinsmen in Sinai who breed Arabian horses famous for their speed, agility and courage. But for our journey camels are better. Sheikh Imad will bring fine beasts. He is a Tarabin, one of the royal tribes, and owns a superb camel herd.’

While she ate, Antonia adjusted the folds of her robe. ‘I will need an additional camel for my photographic equipment. I did tell Sheikh Imad.’

‘Then you may be sure he won’t forget,’ Sabra said.

Trying to remember all Sabra’s instructions so she would not offend her Bedouin hosts or disgrace herself and Jago, Caseley was careful to use only her right hand to carry bread and small pieces of cheese to her mouth. Glancing up, she saw Jago watching her. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked quietly.

‘No.’ He kept his own voice low. ‘It’s just – I thought I knew you. Instead –’ he shook his head. ‘You constantly surprise me.’

‘Perhaps you expected too little.’

As surprise widened his eyes she bent her head to her meal. Of course she had changed. After what had happened, how could she not have?

Yet, mired in her grief, it had not occurred to her that he, too, must have been altered by what had happened. How ironic that it had taken a voyage to Egypt for them to recognise that neither was who they had been before. Yet the bond between them, though stretched, frayed and tenuous, had not broken.

Last night she had not expected to sleep. But a combination of exhaustion and the reassuring warmth of Jago’s body close to hers had tumbled her into deep dreamless oblivion moments after she closed her eyes.

When she woke it was morning and she was alone. Panic had brought her upright, heart racing. Then she had heard him in the adjoining room.

On the way downstairs he had asked for her help. Now, though apprehension and excitement churned in her stomach, she made herself take a handful of fresh dates and a few grapes. With a long demanding day ahead, she would need all her strength.

A short while later they were preparing to leave. The servants had brought down their bags and the small, heavy chest. The trunk would remain here until their return.

Sabra joined them. She was carrying cloaks of thick black felt with colourful embroidery around the edges and armholes. She handed one to Caseley, who thanked her.

Taking hers, Antonia laughed. ‘Sabra, it is summer, anyone who can has left Cairo to escape the heat.’

‘That is true. But desert nights are bitterly cold. You will be glad of this extra layer.’

Soon Sheikh Imad arrived and greetings were exchanged. Antonia’s smile was suddenly brighter. She laughed and fluttered, every gesture seeking attention.

As Jago rolled her cloak and put it into the soft bag, Caseley recognised his impatience. It was a shame Antonia had no close female relative to guide her. She’d had Rosina Renfree. Her childhood nurse had stepped into the terrible gap left by her mother’s death, supported her with love and patience and become a treasured housekeeper. Rosina would have given Antonia a set-down she would never forget. But it was not her place to criticise, nor would her advice be welcome.

Fighting sudden homesickness Caseley pulled herself together. Without Sheikh Imad and Sabra, Jago’s task would be impossible. At the camp he would have Robert Pawlyn to translate for him. But they would be confined to male company.

Caseley knew that Cornish wives often had considerable influence over their husband’s decisions. Did this apply in Bedouin society? Thanks to Sabra she would have a privileged glimpse into a very different way of life. But would anything she observed help Jago?

Sheikh Imad motioned a servant forward. The man bowed and offered first Jago then Robert Pawlyn a neat parcel of fabric. When opened, these proved to be long, sleeveless coats of heavy, dark material bound with red and silver braid, not unlike those Sabra had given her and Antonia.

Jago quickly asked Caseley how to say thank you in both French and Arabic, and repeated the words to Sheikh Imad with care and sincerity.

The Bedouin nodded. Jago re-folded and rolled the coat, adding it to the bag. Then it was time to go.

Leaving the cool, airy apartment for outside was like walking into an oven. Caseley was deeply grateful to be free of her corset and all the additional close-fitting layers required by European fashion. Yet she felt acutely self-conscious in her loose robes and head covering, as though she had come outside in her nightgown. But, as similarly dressed women passed along the street without so much as a glance in her direction, it occurred to her that she was virtually invisible. After nearly a year of sidelong pitying looks the relief was enormous.

Six camels knelt, their legs tucked under them, in the shade of tall date palms. A length of silver chain joined the braided halter to a single rein. Two white-clad servants with blue head cloths wound like turbans and a silver dagger in the red sash at their waists each held the reins of three camels.

The camel saddles were unlike anything Caseley had seen. Covered by several tasselled blankets woven in diamond patterns of black, red, gold and blue, they had a short round post front and back.

A little distance away more camels knelt. One carried Antonia’s two camera boxes half-covered by fodder sacks. Two more were laden with additional fodder sacks and water pots in nets of plaited fibre. Caseley watched as more servants, similarly dressed but without daggers, hung the bags containing their clothes, tied together by the handles, over other camels’ backs. Each beast had a long-barrelled gun wrapped in cloth suspended from the front saddle post.

That the men were armed and could provide protection was reassuring. That it might be necessary caused a tightening in her stomach.

The gold chest was placed in a fibre sling and hooked over Sheikh Imad’s saddle, next to a leather gun scabbard.

‘Hold on tight as the camel gets up,’ Robert Pawlyn advised her. ‘It’s quite a lurch: back, forward and back again. But once they are on their feet and you get used to the sway it’s a very comfortable way to travel.’

A servant brought a low wooden stool for Caseley to stand on and she hitched herself onto the blanket-padded saddle. Sabra came to her side. ‘Hook your right leg around the post and put your left foot in the stirrup. You will feel more secure.’

Caseley settled herself, arranged her robes, then caught her breath and grabbed the front post as the camel suddenly heaved itself up.

‘All right?’ Jago asked.

‘Fine.’ Caseley looked down and wished she hadn’t. The ground seemed a very long way away.

Jago nodded. ‘Well done.’ He spoke so only she could hear.

‘We haven’t started moving yet.’

Antonia gave little yelps as her camel rose to its feet making them both glance across. Sheikh Imad was talking quietly to Sabra and didn’t look round.

‘I expected her to have more sense,’ Jago said, making no effort to hide his scorn.

‘In what respect?’

‘Pretending feminine weakness is the least likely way to win his admiration,’ shaking his head he went to his camel.

He was speaking of Antonia, but were his words a warning to her as well? She knew this was not a holiday trip. He had an important job to do and nothing must be allowed to interfere.

Caseley straightened her back. Never in her life had she pretended feminine weakness. She had no intention of starting now.

With everyone mounted they set off. The Sheikh’s bodyguards led, Sheikh Imad, Pawlyn and Jago were next, followed by Antonia, Sabra and Caseley. The baggage camels were on leading reins held by two servants and two more armed guards brought up the rear.

As Antonia chattered to Sabra, Caseley was reminded of the magpies in the oak tree in the back garden of her home on Greenbank. What would Rosina and Liza-Jane say if they could see her now? How much she would have to tell them.

An unexpected stab of grief stopped her breath. She fought it off.

‘Madame Barata? You are unwell?’ Sabra had dropped back beside her.

The princess’s use of her title and married name made Caseley flinch. She looked up expecting contempt or impatience, but saw only concern. Though her eyes still stung, she managed a smile. ‘No, ma’am. I – a brief discomfort. It has passed.’

In front of Antonia, who was adjusting her head cloth, Caseley saw Robert Pawlyn riding between Jago and Sheikh Imad, turning one way then the other as he interpreted.

Sabra nodded. ‘You came to Egypt by ship. Were you seasick?’

‘No. Fortunately, I am a good sailor. I love being at sea, even in a storm.’

Sabra laughed. ‘Camels are the ships of the desert. Now you know that you can relax and be comfortable.’

‘I would feel more confident if I knew how to steer.’

‘Later I will ask one of the servants to find you a stick. Not to beat,’ she added, reading Caseley’s expression. ‘Light tapping on the neck or shoulder will make it turn.’

‘As my camel seems perfectly content to follow those in front I will not interfere.’ She looked around. ‘What are those enormous buildings?’

‘Egypt is a very old country. It has had many rulers. As is the way of men,’ Sabra’s tone was dry, ‘each wanted to be remembered. The mosque of al-Azhar is nearly a thousand years old, though it has been much altered over the centuries. It was Saladin who built the mighty citadel and part of the city walls.’ She indicated buildings on a hill behind a massive encircling wall of stone. ‘He was very clever and created bent-entrances, putting two in the walls and three in the citadel.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘To delay any army trying to storm its way in.’

Caseley pointed to a huge square building within the complex, topped by two slender minarets and a double dome. ‘And that?’