The Wild Rose (33 page)

But she was not happy. She was tortured and miserable, for her happiness had all been built upon lies. She had lied to Seamie about her ability to have children. She hadn’t told him about her miscarriage. And she’d lied again by telling him James was their son. And though she’d got away with those lies, she knew that God was nonetheless punishing her for them, because Seamie, her beloved husband, no longer loved her.

He had never said as much. He was good to her. Concerned about her. He signed all his letters to her with love. He tried his best to love her, but he did not. There was no fire in his touch anymore. His eyes, when he looked at her, were kind, but distant. There was a sadness and a heaviness to him always, as if the fire that had burned so brightly inside of him, the fire that had carried him to places like Kilimanjaro and the South Pole, that had made him brave and daring, that had kept him always on a quest, had gone out forever.

She had found the letter Willa had written to him, the one in which she told him good-bye. It was crumpled in the pocket of one of his jackets. And she’d found one he started to write to her after she left—torn into pieces at the bottom of the rubbish bin in his study. In it, he’d told her that she’d done the right thing by leaving, that she’d been stronger than he had. He told her that he was sorry for being unfaithful to his wife and that he was going to spend the rest of his life being a good husband to her and a good father to their child, but that he wanted her, Willa, to know that no matter what happened, no matter how many years passed, even if he never laid eyes on her again, he loved her and he always would. She was his heart and his soul.

Jennie had cried when she’d read those words. For her sorrow and for his. Knowing that he was sorry for what he’d done, that he wanted to try to be a good husband even at the expense of his own happiness, didn’t make anything better. It just made it sadder and harder. Willa Alden—not she, Jennie—was Seamie Finnegan’s heart and his soul, and Willa had left him. And the loss of her, for the second time in his life, had gutted him. Emptied him. Turned him into a shell.

“Come on, you little monkey,” her father said to James now. “We have to leave these ladies to their work. Our boys can’t march without nice warm socks.”

James finished the biscuit he was holding and kissed Jennie good night. She pressed him close and held him tightly, inhaling his little boy smell. He was all she had to love now, the best and brightest thing in her life.

“Ow, Mummy! You’re squoooshing me!” he squeaked.

The women all laughed. Jennie kissed his cheek one more time, then released him. She watched him take his grandfather’s hand as they walked out of the kitchen, and for a few seconds, the depth of her feeling for him completely overcame her. She desperately hoped he would never find out what she’d done. She imagined him doing so, when he was older, and hating her for it. The thought alone caused her a deep and terrible anguish. She closed her eyes and put a hand to her temple.

Lizzie noticed immediately. “Are you all right, Jennie?” she asked her.

Jennie opened her eyes again. She nodded and smiled. “I’m fine, thank you. Just a bit tired, that’s all.”

Peg grinned wickedly. “Maybe you’re expecting again,” she said.

“Peg McDonnell! What a terrible thing to say. Her husband’s away!” Lizzie scolded her.

“Oh, keep your knickers on, will you? I was only joking,” Peg said.

Jennie smiled, pretending she thought the women’s ribbing was all good fun. Deep down, though, she knew it wouldn’t have mattered if Seamie had never left, for she’d never be expecting his child. Never. Even if he still wanted to make love to her, which he did not, she couldn’t have given him a child.

“At least Jennie’s husband writes to her. I haven’t heard from Ronnie for over a week now,” Peg said, and her voice, usually loud and boisterous, had gone quiet. Now that James was gone, Peg’s mind had returned to its anxious thoughts.

Looking at her, Jennie thought she saw a shimmer of tears in her eyes. Allie must’ve seen them, too, because she suddenly said, “He hasn’t written because he’s thrown you over and taken up with a French girl. Her name’s Fifi LaBelle.”

The women all screeched laughter. Peg wiped her eyes and scowled. Allie winked at her, then elbowed her in the ribs, jollying her out of her tears. Allie knew, as they all did, that Peg wasn’t worried about her Ronnie taking up with a French girl. She was worried he’d been shot and was lying dead on the cold, hard ground somewhere far away.

“Fifi LaBelle has bubs as big as melons and feathers in her hair and she wears pink silk knickers with diamonds on them,” Allie added.

“Fine by me,” Peg sniffed. “Fifi’s welcome to him. Randier than a goat, that man. Never gives me a minute’s peace.” She sighed deeply, then added, “Oh, how I miss him.”

There was more laughter at that, followed by more bawdy chatter. Jennie watched them as they talked, and listened to them, and envied them. She knew that French girls were not her problem. Her husband was not in love with a French girl. He was in love with an English girl and he always would be.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Willa sat, her bare feet tucked discreetly beneath her, on a soft, woven rug in a
bayt char,
or house of hair—a black Bedouin tent woven of goat’s hair. The tent was enormous and richly decorated with exquisite rugs and hangings—all signs of its owner’s wealth and power—but Willa barely noticed. Her attention was focused on the glass of hot tea in her hands, flavored with mint and sweetened with sugar. She, Lawrence, and Auda had been riding across the desert for five days, with nothing to sustain them but water, dates, and dried goat’s meat. The tea tasted so good to her, and was so restoring, she had to remind herself to sip it politely, not gulp it like a glutton, for she knew well that the Bedouin placed a high value on mannerly conduct and would not treat with those they deemed boorish and rude.

Lawrence had been searching for the Beni Sakhr, the sons of the rock, a Bedouin tribe, and their sheik, Khalaf al Mor. Earlier today, they had found his encampment. Khalaf had sent an emissary to meet them and inquire after their purpose.

“
Salaam aleikum,
” Lawrence said to the man, bowing slightly, his hand upon his heart. “Peace be upon you.”

“
Wa aleikum salaam,
” the man replied. “Peace be upon you, too.” He told them his name was Fahed.

“I come with greetings from Faisal ibn Hussein,” Lawrence said in Arabic. “I wish to speak with your sheik. To ask him for his counsel and his aid in our war against the Turks. I am Lawrence, from England. This is Auda abu Tayi, a Howeitat chief. This is Willa Alden, my secretary.”

Fahed’s eyes widened. He looked Willa up and down, frowning. Willa had never so much as typed a letter for Lawrence, but in Bedouin culture, where women were kept apart from the public life of men, it was the most easily accepted explanation for her presence at Lawrence’s side, and the one most likely to gain her admittance to the sheik’s tent, instead of banishment to his wives’ quarters. Willa didn’t give a damn what the sheik thought of her, or of any other woman; all she cared about was getting photographs of these remarkable people, their homes, their lands, their animals, their way of life.

Fahed frowned a bit more, then he said, “I will bring this news to the sheik,” giving them no promises and no commitments. He showed them where to water and rest their camels, and had water brought to them as well, and then beetled off to the largest tent in the encampment.

Half an hour later, he returned. “Sheik Khalaf al Mor instructs me to tell you that you may attend him in his tent this evening.”

Lawrence bowed. “Please tell the sheik he does us a great honor.”

Fahed then took Lawrence and Auda to one tent to wash themselves, and Willa to another. Clean robes were unpacked from their satchels. It would not do to appear before a sheik in dusty ones. Willa was grateful for the bath. It was only April, but already the days were warm, and she was sweaty and dirty after her long ride through the desert. While they waited for evening and the sheik’s summons, Lawrence and Auda talked of strategy and how best to win Khalaf al Mor to their cause, while Willa took photographs of the Beni Sakhr women and children. The women were shy, but the children were as curious about her as she was about them. They pulled up her sleeves to see her skin, pulled off her head scarf to touch her hair. They felt her artificial leg, then demanded to see how it attached to her body. They clasped her face between their hands so that they could look more closely at her green eyes. As they touched and inspected her, Willa laughed, marveling at how these desert children were so different from English children, and yet—with their shy giggles, their curiosity, their mischievous smiles—they were so very much the same.

Willa asked them in their language if any of them belonged to Khalaf al Mor. They went silent then and looked at one another. She asked what was wrong, if she had given offense. And then one, a boy of ten or so, Ali, told her in a hushed voice that the sheik’s children, and their mothers, were all in his first wife’s tent. Her eldest child—the sheik’s firstborn son—was very ill and not expected to live. The sheik’s entire family was praying for him, beseeching Allah to spare his life.

Willa was gravely concerned when she heard this—for the child first and foremost, and for Lawrence’s petition. How could Khalaf al Mor even listen to them, much less favor them with counsel and men, when his child was dying?

As the sun was beginning to set, Fahed came for them. Willa had told Lawrence and Auda of Ali’s news. It had made them both solemn. They went along nonetheless, all three of them, carrying gifts—pearl-handled revolvers, daggers in intricately worked sheaths, compasses in brass cases, plus beautifully worked dog collars and jesses with golden bells for hunting birds—for Khalaf was known to keep salukis and hawks.

Greetings and bows were made, gifts were presented and warmly accepted. The guests were welcomed by Khalaf. He was charming and gracious, and betrayed no sign that anything was troubling him, but Willa could see the worry deep within his eyes. She knew, too, that his Bedouin pride would not allow him to share his private grief with strangers.

Instead, he expressed a jovial curiosity at her presence. “Is your sheik Lawrence so poor he cannot afford a proper secretary?” he asked her jestingly. “And must make do with a woman?”

“Ah,
Sidi
! My sheik is so clever that for me he pays half what he would pay a man, yet gets twice the work . . . and ten times the brains!” she replied.

Khalaf laughed uproariously at that, his worries forgotten for a moment, and beckoned Willa to sit beside him. Lawrence was invited to sit at his right, and Auda was seated next to Lawrence.
Day’f Allah,
Khalaf called them—“guests of God.” Finger bowls were brought, then a delicious minted tea, which Willa was now sipping. She knew that a lavish dinner would be laid on as well. The Bedouin code of hospitality demanded it. To offer guests anything less than a feast would have been unthinkable.

There was talk of superficial things to begin with—weather and camels, mainly—for to launch directly into the purpose of their visit would have been seen as awkward and unsubtle. After an hour or so, the meal was brought.

It was mansaf, a Bedouin dish of stewed lamb in yogurt sauce, spiced with baharat—a mixture of black pepper, allspice, cinnamon, and nutmeg—cooked over an open fire, sprinkled with pine nuts and almonds, and served on a bed of rice on a large, communal platter. It was one of Willa’s favorites.

Well versed now in Bedouin etiquette, Willa washed her hands in the nearest finger bowl, then rolled up her right sleeve. Only the right hand was used for eating, never the left, for the left was the hand one wiped one’s backside with.

Everyone knew why they were here, but as the desert saying advised, “It is good to know the truth, but it is better to speak of palm trees.”

“
Al-hamdu illah,
” Khalaf said—“Thanks be to God”—and the dining began. Willa moistened a portion of the mansaf with jamid, the yogurt sauce, then used her right hand to delicately fashion it into a small ball. She lifted the ball to her mouth and popped it in, careful not to touch her lips, or to drop any of the rice or meat from her hand or her mouth. She was careful, too, to keep her feet well tucked away beneath her robe, for showing the sole of your foot to an Arab was the very height of rudeness.

After the meal, sweets were served, and Khalaf had his prize salukis and his favorite hawk brought out to be admired. Auda, a Bedouin, too, was much moved by the beauty of the hawk and pronounced it an exceptional bird. Lawrence inquired after the dogs’ bloodlines. And then they got down to the reason for their visit.

“Faisal ibn Hussein has asked us to convey his respectful greetings, and to petition you and your men to join with him in the battle for Arabia’s independence,” Lawrence said. “We have four thousand men ready and willing to march north upon the Turks in Aqaba, and then Damascus. I need more. I need the men of the Beni Sakhr.”

Khalaf made no reply. Instead he gave Auda a long, assessing look. “And my Howeitat brothers?” he asked him. “Have they joined with Faisal?”

“We have,” Auda said.

Willa held her breath, waiting for Khalaf’s reaction. Auda’s reply might have brought favor, or it might not have. The Bedouin could be extremely distrustful of one another. Allegiances between tribes often went back for generations, but so did rivalries and feuds.

Khalaf opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, a long and piercing wail ripped through the walls of the tent—a woman’s cry of grief. All heard it, but none remarked it. Khalaf al Mor’s stony look forbade it.

The cry shook Willa terribly. She was certain it had come from the sheik’s wife, the mother of his very ill son. She longed to go to the woman, to help her care for her dying child. She had Western medicines with her—quinine, aconite, and morphine. She always carried them. People who trekked across glaciers at the foot of Everest, who rode for days in the desert, she had learned, had to be their own doctors. If the first two medicines did no good, the third would at least ease the child’s suffering. She could not go, however—not without the sheik’s permission. If she asked him for it, he might grant it—or he might be gravely insulted. He might take her request as her suggesting that his own efforts to care for his child were inadequate. If that happened, if she offended Khalaf, here in his own tent, among his own men, he would never agree to join with Lawrence and Faisal.

“The Turks are very powerful,” Khalaf said now, still evasive. “Faisal may win a few battles, but they will win the war.”

“That is true,
Sidi
. . . unless you were to help us,” Lawrence said.

“Why should the Bedouin fight for Hussein? For the English? The Bedouin do not belong to Hussein, or to the English, or to the Turks. We belong to no man. We belong only to the desert.”

“Then you must fight for that desert. You must expel the Turks.”

“What will Faisal give?”

“Gold.”

“And the English?”

“More gold.”

“Why?”

“Because we have interests in Arabia,” Lawrence said. “We have our Persian oil fields to defend, and access to our colonies in India to protect. We wish also to tie up the armies of the Turks and the Germans, to draw their resources away from the western front.”

“What guarantees have I that once our Turkish masters are ousted, the English will not try to replace them?”

“You have my guarantee. And that of Mr. Lloyd George, England’s great sheik. England wishes to have only influence in the region, not control.”

Khalaf nodded. “And what of—” he started to say, but his words were cut off by yet another wail. He rose quickly, crossed the floor of his tent, and feigned interest in his hawk, perched in a large cage behind him, in order to hide his face and the despair etched upon it.

Damn these men and their wars, Willa thought angrily. She could sit still no longer. She rose and approached Khalaf.

“
Sidi,
” she began. “I have medicines with me—strong, good medicines. Allow me please to go to your son.”

Khalaf looked at her. The pain in his eyes was searing. He shook his head no. “It is Allah’s will,” he said quietly.

Willa had expected this response. It was the only one he knew how to give. She understood the hardship of his life, of all the Bedouins’ lives. Death stalked them always. They died of disease, of battle wounds, or in childbirth. How many times had she seen a Bedouin man walk into the desert with the shrouded body of a wife or child in his arms? She had expected the response, yes, but she could not accept it.

“Great sheik,” she said, humbly bowing her head before him, “is it not also Allah’s will that I am here this night? He, who with infinite care painted every speckle on every feather of this magnificent hawk? He, who sees the sparrow fall. Does He not also know that I am here with you now? Did He not will that, too?”

It was dead quiet inside the tent. Willa, a woman, had just countered the decree of a sheik. She had been heard to do it by every man there. She might well have just ruined any chance Lawrence had to secure Khalaf al Mor’s support. She raised her head slowly and looked at Khalaf. She did not see a great sheik before her then, but a heartbroken father.