The Master's Wife (26 page)

Hearing a cascade of water, she realised he was receiving similar attention. Setting the little pot on the table, she towelled her hair some more, then sat on the edge of the bed and began to comb out the tangles.

Warm air from outside flowing in through the louvers would soon dry it enough to put up.

A few minutes later Jago padded in on bare feet, a towel round his hips. ‘It was a relief to wash off the desert. How are you feeling now?’

‘Clean. It’s wonderful. Sabra sent up fresh clothes. She has been so kind.’

He dressed quickly then searched the bag.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘My comb.’

‘Here, use mine.’ As he took it she reached for the pot of salve.

‘What’s that?’ With a few swift sweeps his tousled hair was neat, his beard smooth.

‘A salve for my bruises.’

Handing back the comb he took the little pot and sniffed the contents. ‘It smells pleasant enough.’ He dropped to his knees. ‘Show me.’

‘It’s all right, Jago, I can –’

‘Finish your hair?’

She extended her leg and winced. Her foot looked worse now than when it was caked with mud, blood and dust.

‘Dammit, Caseley.’

‘It’s really not that bad.’ As he eyed her she admitted, ‘It’s uncomfortable but not painful.’

Kneeling in front of her he cupped her heel in his hand then bent to kiss the livid bruise. His lips were warm and soft. Caseley’s heart fluttered.

Dipping his fingertips into the salve he began to massage it gently into the discoloured, abraded skin. She looked at his bent head, his hair curling on his strong, tanned neck. He was a proud man, aware of his achievements and his position in society. Now he knelt at her feet.

As if sensing her gaze he raised his head. Their eyes met. On his feet in an instant he drew her up, held her close, his head resting against hers. He waited, allowing her to choose what happened next. She felt the tension in him, recognised the cost of his control.

It was too soon.
No, the past was past. He had given her his word. She breathed in the familiar scent of his skin, welcomed the comfort of his strong arms. Too long away, she had come home.

Her hands crept up to rest briefly on his shoulders, then slid around his neck. She pressed her lips to his throat, his jaw, and felt a tremor run through him. ‘Oh, Jago, I’ve been so lonely without you.’

He turned his head so his mouth brushed hers then covered it. For a long moment the kiss cherished. Far better than words it conveyed his gratitude, her forgiveness, his grief, her solace. It broke down walls and bridged chasms.

Then his tongue moved lightly across her lower lip and lingered on the scar where she had bitten it. Passion arced like lightning. As the kiss deepened she met his hunger with her own. As she gloried in his strength and need for her, her fears dissolved. His hand swept down her spine, moulding her against him. They fitted together so well, but not close enough. She wanted – ached – burned.

A knock on the door made them both start. Tearing his mouth from hers he raised his head. Breathless, bereft, trembling, Caseley rested her hands on his shoulders to steady herself.

He eased away, raked a hand through his hair. ‘I –’ he cleared his throat.

Stepping away from him, heart racing, she took a deep breath and pulled the layers of cotton away from her heated skin.

There was another knock. They glanced at each other, then Caseley went to the door with Jago close behind. A manservant bowed and repeated the message he’d been given. Caseley thanked him and, with another bow, he retreated silently along the passage.

‘Our meal is ready and Mr Pawlyn is back,’ she said as Jago closed the door. ‘He will join us downstairs as soon as he has changed.’ She picked up her comb.

‘Caseley, I –’ Jago began.

‘Don’t,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t say you’re sorry. Unless you really do regret –’

‘
No!
God, no. How could I? I have craved – but I didn’t intend –’ He stroked his fingertips down her face. ‘You are so beautiful.’ His fingers rested lightly on her lips as she drew a soft breath, her heart too full. ‘Don’t argue.’ He dropped his hand, stepped back. ‘Please.’

Instinct told her to lighten the moment. His love gave her strength. ‘Did I seem reluctant?’ Still watching him, she tipped her head sideways and drew the comb from root to tip in swift strokes.

One corner of his mouth tilted up. ‘Not that I recall.’

Straightening up, she swung the wavy bronze curtain back over her shoulder. Handing him the comb she gathered her damp hair into a twist, coiled it on top of her head, and quickly pinned it in place.

By the time she had put on her scarf and headband, he had finished dressing.

‘I’m ready,’ she said.

‘Just one thing.’

‘What?’ She glanced round to see what she’d forgotten, and caught her breath as he gently grasped her shoulders.

‘This.’ Bending his head he kissed her. It was a slow, deep kiss that made her heart turn over and her eyes sting. When his mouth left hers she opened her eyes slowly.

He was watching her, his face troubled. ‘I loved you when I married you. I loved you even more when our sons were born. That love is nothing to what I feel for you now. When you collapsed during our voyage here – I have known fear, but never like that. I had already failed you. But the possibility I might lose you forever –’ the bleakness in his eyes pierced her soul. ‘Don’t leave me, Caseley.’ His voice was rough, the words both plea and command.

‘Never.’ She caught his hand, pressed her lips to his palm. ‘You are – everything.’

His arm around her shoulders held comfort and promise as they crossed to the door.

Moments after they joined Sabra and Antonia in the salon, Robert Pawlyn hurried in, dressed in clean robes, sandals, and head cloth, his face scrubbed shiny above the stubble he had not taken time to shave.

‘Madame Caseley,’ Sabra said, combining the courtesy she observed in mixed company with the friendship that had evolved between them. ‘Please sit beside your husband. It will be easier for both of you.’

Thanking her, Caseley quickly explained to Jago as they settled on the floor. Less than two weeks ago this had felt totally alien. Now it was so familiar they thought nothing of it. A steaming platter of spiced rice, vegetables and chunks of meat in a yoghurt sauce was placed on the cloth next to a plate of thin, soft flatbreads. They helped themselves, scooping up sauce-soaked rice with the bread.

‘What –’ Antonia began in English. Seeing Pawlyn’s frowning glance she blushed and switched to French. ‘I beg your pardon. What have you found out?’

‘Colonel Arabi has continued reinforcement work on the forts,’ Pawlyn replied. ‘As minister of war he could not have stopped without orders from the Khedive. Obviously none were received. Now the commander of the English fleet, Admiral Sir Beauchamp Seymour, is threatening to bombard Alexandria.’

‘On what grounds?’ Jago demanded, as soon as Caseley had translated.

‘The danger posed by the forts to the English fleet. Colonel Arabi has repeated his promise not to interfere with the Suez Canal. It’s an honourable move that will cost him dearly. It has cut no ice with Admiral Seymour. Meanwhile, the British press has branded Arabi a villain, claiming he is hostile to both Britain and France. They demand action in the name of national pride.’

‘What is the British government’s position?’ Jago demanded after Caseley translated.

‘Both houses are deeply divided. But invasion looks certain. Marines on Malta and Cyprus are waiting for transport, and the War Office is planning to send troops from Britain, Bombay, Aden and Gibraltar.’

Caseley’s throat was dry and her hand shook as she reached for her glass. She swallowed quickly then continued translating as Pawlyn went on.

‘All foreign ships are leaving Alexandria. Admiral Conrad has taken the French fleet to Port Said. He refuses to be party to an act of aggression against a country that has every right to defend itself. The French Consulate has closed and its staff sailed with him. Trains from Alexandria are packed. Some people are coming to Cairo. But others are leaving at Banha for Zagazig and Ismailia.’

‘Ask him where they will go from there,’ Jago said.

‘North by ship down the Sweet Water canal to Port Said,’ Pawlyn replied. ‘Or south on the single track line. They might also take ship through the Suez Canal, to the Red Sea.’

‘You will want to leave as soon as possible,’ Sabra said, signalling the servants who brought water and towels for them to rinse their hands.

Turning to Caseley, Jago spoke quietly. ‘I will take you to Ismailia and put you on a ship for –’

‘No.’

The skin around his nostrils whitened. ‘It was not a request and this isn’t a debate.’

She saw through his anger to the fear that inspired it. ‘Jago, you cannot come with me and it will not be safe for me to travel alone. We came here together on
Cygnet
. We will leave together the same way.’ She met his glare, spoke for his ears alone and challenged him to remember. ‘You asked me not to leave you.’

‘That’s different.’

‘No. It isn’t.’

‘I will send for calèches to take you to the station,’ Sabra said as they left the salon. ‘The servants have packed for you and will bring your bags down as soon as you are ready.’

Jago had the bag open on the bed as Caseley emerged from the little cubicle next to the bathroom.

‘These robes have no pockets, and we will need money to pay the calèche driver and for our rail tickets.’

Caseley delved into the bag and gave him a soft kid-leather drawstring purse. ‘Use this.’ She looked at the rolled felt cloaks lying on the bed.
So many memories.
‘I want to keep mine.’

He looked at her, gave a quick smile. ‘They were a gift. It would be discourteous not to.’

Her clean gowns and underwear, Jago’s jacket and trousers and their shoes filled the bag. Fastening it, Caseley rolled the cloaks and put them in the striped fabric bag. With notes and coins in the leather purse, Jago pulled the cords tight then looped them twice around his wrist.

A servant arrived for the bags. After a last look round Caseley went with Jago to the door.

In the lobby at the bottom of the stairs she gripped the Sheikha’s proffered hands. ‘I will never forget your kindness.’

Sabra kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Nor I yours. Be happy.’ She offered her hand to Jago, who bowed over it. ‘I wish you a safe and speedy journey back to Cornwall.’

‘
Shukran,
Sheikha,’ Jago said after Caseley had translated. He bowed again.

Sabra turned to bid farewell to Antonia and Robert Pawlyn.

‘You need not look so surprised,’ Jago whispered as Caseley smiled. ‘I have a clever wife and learned from her.’

When Jago insisted Caseley ride with him, Pawlyn was visibly delighted to escort Antonia. As they neared the railway station they found themselves fighting a human tide of different nationalities. Men, women and children, all laden with belongings, streamed out of the station.

As Jago paid off the driver, scuffles broke out among people wanting to claim the calèche. He roared at them in Spanish, waving them away as he reached in for the bags and helped Caseley down.

‘Let me carry the fabric one,’ she insisted and looped it across her body.

‘Link your arm through mine and don’t let go. I know we should not touch while dressed like this. But I will not risk your safety.’

‘Why Spanish?’ she asked as Jago shouldered his way through.

‘We are in Bedouin robes but I don’t speak Arabic, there wasn’t time to ask you correct French phrases, and I didn’t think it wise to use English.’

Ahead of them Pawlyn had commandeered two porters, one to carry Antonia’s camera boxes and tripod, the other their bags. Caseley stayed close.

Despite all the people leaving the station, the concourse was still crowded. Pawlyn bought their tickets, waving Jago away. ‘We’ll settle up later. The train is waiting. You find our seats while I see the luggage safely loaded.’

A few minutes later, as they settled into their carriage, there was a shrill blast from the whistle. Amid clouds of steam as the engine roared and puffed, the carriages jerked and the train slowly picked up speed as it left the station.

––––––––

C
aseley gazed out of the window for a while, but the heat and jolting were unpleasant. She rested her head against the high, padded back of the seat and closed her eyes, comforted by the pressure of Jago’s arm against hers.

‘Do you feel unwell?’ he asked quietly.

Opening her eyes, she saw the concern in his and gave a rueful smile. ‘No. But I was much more comfortable on my camel.’ Her smile widened. ‘It feels very strange to hear myself say those words.’ She pulled the loose cotton away from her damp skin, relieved that she wasn’t confined in a corset and multiple petticoats.

He pressed his arm against hers. ‘Try to sleep. You will feel better for rest, and it will help the journey pass more quickly.’

She closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift. They had been in the desert for just a few days, but so much had changed. She became aware of Robert Pawlyn talking quietly to Antonia.

‘No, you do yourself an injustice. Your photographs show artistry in the way you have framed the image. But the balance of light and dark, sharpness and diffusion demonstrates technical skill. That has to be learned, and it takes dedication.’

‘It doesn’t feel like hard work if you enjoy it.’ Antonia sighed. ‘I wasn’t very successful at the Bedouin camp.’

‘Getting permission was always doubtful. But you took your equipment anyway. I’m looking forward to seeing those you took of the camp, and of us.’ He coughed. ‘What would you say to working with me?’

‘Doing what?’

‘Providing photographic images to illustrate my articles. These are momentous times for Egypt. Someone should be documenting the changes and their effects on people at all levels of society.’

‘That someone being you?’

‘Yes. You cannot tell me the idea doesn’t appeal.’

The silence stretched. Waiting for Antonia’s reply, Caseley hardly dared breathe.