The Master's Wife Page 6

  She forced herself to focus on the plump man whose red face, shiny with sweat above a white collar and dark cravat, was seated in a high-backed chair behind a large desk covered with papers.

  He looked up with a harassed expression. ‘Yes? So?’

  ‘You received telegraphs, sir,’ his aide reminded, ‘from Falmouth and London concerning a potential meeting with the Bedouin?’

  Realisation spread across the fleshy face. ‘Ah. Yes. Of course.’ Pushing back his chair he rose to his feet and extended his hand as Blaine ushered them in. ‘Captain Barata, Mrs Barata, I beg your pardon. The situation – you cannot imagine – we barely have time to breathe. Come to dinner tonight. My private apartments are upstairs. We will talk then. Eight o’clock.’

  ‘How kind. If your aide could direct us to a good hotel we will not detain you.’

  ‘He will take you himself.’

  ‘I have a box of photographic items for Miss Collingwood.’

  ‘My daughter is presently at the hotel. She will be delighted to receive it. Blaine, see that it’s put ...’ he gestured impatiently, ‘somewhere out of the way.’ He turned back to Jago, his smile fleeting. ‘Now I must beg you to excuse me.’

  Chapter Six

  Blaine ordered a servant to take the box to the apartment upstairs. The doorman flagged down two calèches. It seemed to Caseley they had only just settled onto the seat than the carriage was drawing up outside a hotel at the far end of the square.

  ‘We could have walked,’ she said as Jago offered his hand to help her down.

  ‘Oh no, Mrs Barata.’ Blaine hurried towards them, shocked and disapproving. Robert Pawlyn followed. ‘That would not do at all. One must maintain appearances.’

  Catching Jago’s bland glance, Caseley had to look away, her smile swiftly followed by piercing awareness of how far apart they had grown and how much she had missed their closeness, their ability to communicate without a word being spoken.

  Jago drew her hand through his arm. Though his solicitude was salt in the still-raw wound of his betrayal, she was helpless against her response to his touch.

  Another porticoed entrance opened into an even grander foyer with a tiled floor and two wide, shallow steps leading up to a reception counter of gleaming dark wood. Against the wall at one end a large arrangement of cream and orange lilies perfumed the air.

  A gilded easel supporting an elegantly penned notice caught Caseley’s attention. It announced an exhibition of photographs by Miss Antonia Collingwood in the Rose Room.

  She tugged gently on Jago’s arm, drawing his attention to the notice. ‘I wonder why Sir Douglas didn’t mention it. You’d think he’d be proud.’

  Jago looked down at her and raised one dark brow. ‘Did he strike you as the kind of man who would welcome his daughter drawing attention to herself?’

  ‘I take your point.’

  ‘George, Captain and Mrs Barata require a room,’ Blaine said loudly to the manager, immaculate in a dark blue coat and cravat over a snowy starched collar. ‘With facilities.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ The manager bowed.

  ‘I’d like one, too,’ Pawlyn said. The undercurrent of amusement in his mild tone increased Caseley’s respect for him.

  The manager snapped his fingers to summon servants and directed them to carry the bags upstairs.

  While Jago was signing the register, Caseley saw a statuesque woman approaching along the wide passage. A green silk gown styled in the latest fashion emphasised her voluptuous figure and a small hat decorated with green silk bows and a curled ostrich plume perched on her dark hair.

  Mentally catapulted back to Falmouth and engulfed by a wave of dizziness, Caseley bent her head, chiding herself for such foolishness. The hair was different and this woman was ten years younger. But for an instant –

  She willed the pain away.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Jago murmured.

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m still finding my land legs, that’s all.’

  ‘Miss Collingwood! Antonia!’ Blaine called, starting towards her.

  Caseley saw her hesitate then continue forward.

  ‘Yes, Spencer, what is it now?’ Her smile was polite rather than warm and her tone betrayed impatience.

  Before Blaine could speak, Pawlyn moved from behind Jago.

  ‘Hello, Antonia.’

  ‘Robert!’ Her smile grew warmer. ‘This is a surprise.’

  ‘A pleasant one, I hope?’

  ‘How could you doubt it? When did you get back?’

  ‘An hour ago. Allow me to introduce Captain Barata of the schooner Cygnet, and his wife. But for him I would still be stranded in Gibraltar.’

  ‘Captain, Mrs Barata.’ Antonia Collingwood shook their hands. As Caseley sensed herself assessed and dismissed, Jago’s arm pressed hers gently.

  ‘Captain Barata brought a box for you,’ Blaine announced, taking control of the conversation. ‘It’s back at the Consulate.’

  ‘Is it my photographic plates?’ Her smile was eager as she turned to Jago. ‘Please say it is. I have been waiting months.’

  Jago nodded. ‘I believe so.’

  Antonia turned to Caseley. ‘Do come and see my photographs. This is my first exhibition, so I’m excited and very nervous. It officially opens this evening. My father was to have hosted it, but the demands of duty take precedence.’ Her tone and manner were light, but Caseley recognised underlying hurt.

  ‘Really, Antonia,’ Blaine chided. ‘You cannot expect everyone to feel about your little hobby the way you do. Captain Barata has far more important –’

  ‘Might we be permitted to attend the reception, Miss Collingwood?’ Jago asked. ‘That would allow us time to view the photographs with the attention they deserve.’

  Antonia’s eyes sparkled. ‘Indeed you must come, Captain. It would give me great pleasure to see you there – all of you.’

  ‘Now that’s settled,’ Blaine made no attempt to hide his impatience, ‘I really must get back to the office. This is an exceptionally difficult time and Sir Douglas needs me.’

  ‘If you can wait a few more minutes, Mr Blaine,’ Jago said, ‘I will escort my wife to our room, then Mr Pawlyn and I will return to the Consulate with you.’

  ‘Sir Douglas is very busy. May I suggest you wait until this evening to –?’

  ‘No, Mr Blaine. You may not. My business with the assistant consul is not dinner party conversation. The sooner I have spoken to Sir Douglas, the sooner we can be on our way and out of yours.’

  Blaine’s high colour deepened to crimson. ‘I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean –’

  Jago turned away, his hand beneath Caseley’s elbow as they followed a uniformed porter up the wide staircase. After tipping the man, Jago closed the door on him as Caseley looked round the spacious room.

  ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. You had better not keep Mr Blaine waiting. Who knows what disaster might occur during his absence from the Consulate.’

  ‘You see him as the power behind the throne?’

  ‘He sees himself that way. He must be clever in some ways or he would not have reached his present position. But he’s very stupid in others.’ She moved about the room, pausing to look out of the window, aware of Jago watching her.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘His open disapproval of Miss Collingwood’s little hobby is unlikely to gain her affection.’

  ‘You think that’s his ambition?’

  Caseley nodded. ‘Marriage to Sir Douglas’s daughter would certainly consolidate his position. He was definitely not pleased to see Robert Pawlyn back again.’

  Jago laughed, shaking his head. ‘You’re amazing. You saw all that in just a few minutes.’ He turned to the door. ‘If there’s anything you need just ring. I hope not to be long.’ He hesitated.

  She waited. The space between them was small in physical distance, but too great to cross. Was she disappointed? Relieved? Caseley didn’t know what she felt.
r />   ‘Turn the key,’ he reminded her and left, closing the door quietly.

  Sir Douglas leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers over his paunch. ‘I find the notion of Englishmen bribing savages to take our side utterly abhorrent for many reasons. One must hope Mr Gladstone knows what he is doing.’

  ‘In different circumstances such an alliance would not be contemplated –’ Spencer Blaine began.

  Catching Pawlyn’s eye, Jago read a reflection of his own impatience. Blaine had a gift for stating the obvious.

  ‘This upstart Arabi needs putting in his place,’ Sir Douglas continued as if his aide hadn’t spoken. ‘Should he be entertaining ideas of defaulting on Egypt’s debt –’

  ‘He isn’t,’ Pawlyn said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Sir Douglas looked down his nose at the journalist.

  ‘That was an untrue story put about by Sir Auckland Colvin. Colonel Arabi made a statement refuting it, along with the ridiculous claim that he would burn down the Stock Exchange.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ Sir Douglas glared at him.

  ‘It’s my job, sir.’

  ‘Sir Douglas,’ Jago said. ‘I appreciate your concerns about my mission –’

  ‘Do you indeed? Then tell me this, what is to stop the Bedouin accepting British gold and still taking the Egyptian side?’

  Jago turned to the journalist. ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘Honour is a pillar of Bedouin culture,’ Pawlyn said. ‘If they give their word they will not break it.’

  ‘If,’ Sir Douglas repeated with heavy emphasis, placing his hands flat on the desk to signal the discussion was at an end. ‘Are we to rely on hope that they give it? At least we may be confident that Britain’s stand has increased Mr Gladstone’s popularity and power.’

  ‘At the cost of the Egyptian people’s freedom to choose their own government,’ Pawlyn replied. ‘I cannot see that as upholding the liberal principles that got Mr Gladstone elected.’

  ‘You are a journalist, not a politician,’ Sir Douglas snapped. ‘You will not have understood all the –’

  ‘I understand this, sir,’ Pawlyn rose from his chair and Jago followed. ‘The Consul-General is playing a very risky game.’

  Jago watched the battle between contempt, curiosity and fear play across Sir Douglas’s face. ‘How so?’

  ‘His belief that the arrival of the fleets in a show of force will intimidate Egypt into capitulation is at best naïve, at worst dangerous. What if the threat doesn’t work? What next? An invasion and occupation of the country by the British army?’

  ‘Sir Edward Malet is a most experienced diplomat,’ Sir Douglas blustered. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

  Pawlyn opened his mouth, closed it again, and gave an abrupt nod. ‘Good afternoon to you, sir.’

  Caseley stayed in the bath until her fingertips wrinkled. Cool and refreshed, her skin faintly perfumed with rose soap, she put on her shift then sat on the bed, her head turned to one side as she brushed her hair from underneath to let the air through and help it dry.

  Jago stormed in, his face tight with anger, shrugging out of his coat and practically ripping off his cravat. Knowing better than to ask – he would talk when he was ready – Caseley continued brushing her hair.

  While he was in the bath she picked up his clothes, shook out the creases and laid them on the bed, then reluctantly fastened the hooks of her corset before putting on stockings and stepping once more into her lilac gown.

  He came out of the bathroom, one towel wrapped around his hips, rubbing his head with another.

  ‘Sir Douglas may be a capable assistant consul as long as his superior is present. But right now he’s on his own and out of his depth. Damn it –’ he broke off. ‘Forgive me, but the man’s a pompous fool.’

  Caseley lifted the mass of gleaming bronze waves over her shoulders and fastened the buttons on the front of her bodice. ‘An example Mr Blaine appears to be following.’

  Jago tossed the towel over the brass rail at the foot of the bed and picked up a comb from small table. ‘I’m aware a consul isn’t a trained diplomat.’ As his gaze met hers shared memory arced between them.

  ‘No,’ she agreed.

  ‘Your father was blunt but never crass.’ He raked the comb through his hair, dropped it back on the table without looking in the mirror and ran both hands down his beard. ‘Collingwood’s attitude towards the Egyptians ... It’s their country, for heaven’s sake. But to hear him talk – He’s the worst type of arrogant Englishman.’ He blew out a gusty breath. ‘I apologise.’

  Crossing to the small table she sat down, combed her hair back and coiled it into a bun on her nape that she anchored with pins. Fine tendrils curled on her forehead, temples, and in front of her ears. Behind her she could hear him dressing.

  She set the comb down. ‘Now you have vented your anger it will be easier for you to be polite during dinner.’

  He looked up from buttoning his shirt. ‘How do you know these things?’

  ‘Experience,’ she said lightly, but kept her face averted so he would not see her mouth tremble.

  Two large chandeliers lit the long room in which Antonia’s photographs had been hung. Walls painted a soft pink that gave the room its name provided a contrasting backdrop for the mounted black and white photographs.

  Antonia greeted them warmly. Immediately, a waiter appeared with a silver tray that held flutes of champagne. Caseley would have preferred a soft drink, but Antonia pressed. ‘You must have one glass, for a toast. I never thought this day would come. Now it has. Unfortunately most of the people I invited have left Alexandria, so I am denied the pleasure of watching them eat their words.’

  Jago caught Caseley’s eye. She read the warning and realised this was not Antonia’s first glass of the evening. As he turned away to talk to Robert Pawlyn, Caseley moved towards the photographs. Antonia followed.

  ‘The loss is theirs,’ Caseley said. ‘Perhaps a photograph of the exhibition in a newspaper will show them what they missed.’

  A slow smile spread across Antonia’s face. ‘That is an excellent idea. Robert can take one for me. Little hobby indeed.’ Raising the glass she swallowed a mouthful. ‘Spencer Blaine is a pompous idiot and I wouldn’t marry him if he was the last man on earth. He might suit Maud, but he certainly would not suit me. I have plans and they don’t include Spencer stuffed-shirt Blaine.’ She glanced at Caseley, then shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just –’ She shook her head.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘People say that, but they don’t. Not really.’

  ‘I do. You will have noticed that I walk with a limp.’

  ‘Yes, I did. What happened?’

  ‘A childhood accident,’ Caseley waved it aside. ‘But it means I cannot dance. Nor will my hair ever be considered anything but a disadvantage.’

  Antonia’s gaze slid away. She looked into her glass. ‘That is not what I meant.’

  ‘I hadn’t finished. Before my father died, I worked in the company office doing translation work for our foreign customers.’

  She had done a lot more besides. Though she had been successful, it had been necessary to keep what she was doing a secret to protect her father and the business. But Jago had guessed, goading her until in desperation, and for the first time in her life, she had let down her guard and spoken with total honesty to Jago. The memory reminded her she had more strength than she gave herself credit for.

  ‘My aunt called me a disgrace to the family and to womanhood.’

  Antonia’s expression brightened. ‘Really?’

  Caseley nodded. ‘So you see, I do understand. And I suggest that such people are best ignored.’

  ‘I wish it were so easy. The trouble is it’s not just my father and Spencer who disapprove. Before most of them scuttled away to Malta after the unpleasantness in Cairo, the English and European wives left me in no doubt that I was letting the side down. They measure their worth by their husband’s
position. The pinnacle of their ambition is to be decorative, amusing, and good hostesses. But I want more than that. I want adventure and colour and life.’

  Caseley looked around. ‘How many photographs are in the exhibition?’

  ‘Fifty. I selected them from two hundred. It took weeks and I’m still not entirely sure I chose the best.’

  ‘That’s the artist in you.’

  Antonia studied Caseley. ‘How would you know?’

  ‘My brother is a painter. He’s very talented but constantly doubts himself.’ And was squandering his talent, drowning it in alcohol.

  In the centre of the room, two rows of chairs in groups of four were placed back to back, allowing viewers an opportunity to sit and look at the images.

  They continued down the room, their progress slow because Caseley kept stopping. One photograph caught her attention and she moved closer. It was a life-sized head and shoulders study of a dark-eyed Arab man of about thirty with an aquiline nose and sculpted mouth. His face was in three-quarter profile as if he had been looking away from the camera then glanced towards it. A white cloth covered his head, the falling end crossing at his throat then thrown over his shoulder.

  ‘That is a striking image,’ Caseley said, aware of Jago coming to her side. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Sheikh Imad Abu Quasim al Hussein.’ A blush coloured Antonia’s face. ‘He’s a member of the ruling family of the Tarabin tribe,’ she announced with a proprietary pride.

  Caseley glanced at Jago in time to see him exchange a brief nod with Pawlyn. Then she realised. The Sheikh was the man they needed to see.

  ‘I sent his invitation with Sheikha Sabra’s. They are distantly related. It would make such a difference if –’ Her gaze shifted to the doorway. ‘They’ve come!’ Delight and excitement lit her face.

  Caseley turned. Behind an olive-skinned woman wearing a long-sleeved robe of emerald and purple shot-silk, her head covered by a loosely draped purple silk scarf, was the man from the photograph. Beneath a full-length blue sleeveless garment edged with gold braid he wore a long, white robe. His white headcloth was held in place by a thick black woven cord.

  Antonia hurried towards them, greeting them in Arabic. The Sheikha took her hands and kissed her on both cheeks. The man merely bowed.