The Master's Wife Page 9

  The servant brought in a tray containing a plate of flatbread, cubed goat’s cheese, fresh dates, fat green grapes and a glass of fresh orange juice. The bread was still warm, crisp outside, soft and fragrant inside.

  Adjusting to so much that was new and strange was demanding. She owed it to both of them to build up her strength. Having insisted on coming she had no right to add to his burdens. He was in Egypt for a purpose, one of national importance. Now Cygnet was leaving Alexandria under Nathan’s command. She knew Jago had complete faith in the mate. But it was a concern he could have done without.

  She ate as much as she could, and felt better for it. After washing her hands she continued her letter, finishing it as a servant knocked and told her Miss Collingwood was downstairs.

  Caseley put on her bonnet, locked the door and went downstairs.

  ‘There you are,’ Antonia said. Over her draped and tiered skirt of apple green silk she wore a matching light jacket with three-quarter sleeves with frilled cuffs. A small hat decorated with satin ribbons and silk flowers perched on her upswept hair.

  She looked Caseley up and down. ‘White does not become you. It makes you look awfully pale, apart from your hair, of course. To be honest, you look like a lighted candle. I intend no offence, Caseley, but you really should have worn something more fashionable. Still, it’s too late for you to change now. I don’t want to keep Sabra waiting.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ Caseley agreed quietly. She was already uncomfortably warm in her multiple layers of clothing. Handing the key to the concierge, who wished her a pleasant afternoon, she followed Antonia out into the hot afternoon.

  ‘It’ll be a bit of a squeeze, I’m afraid,’ Antonia said as they reached the caliche, and Caseley realised they were sharing the carriage with Antonia’s telescopic tripod and two polished wooden boxes.

  ‘Which of these holds your camera?’ Caseley asked, stepping carefully over them into the hood’s shade.

  ‘The smaller one; the other contains spare plates. I hope you won’t mind me saying I was surprised that Sabra invited you to her villa. You may not realise how privileged you are.’

  Recognising jealousy, Caseley automatically tried to defuse it. ‘Then I have you to thank. Without your exhibition I would not have met her. I was as surprised as you. I feel honoured.’ Her smile and soft words pacified Antonia. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘On the edge of the Greek Quarter. It has the most beautiful properties in the city. She must be exceptionally wealthy.’

  Caseley wasn’t sure if the undertone she detected was envy or resentment. She looked round. ‘Where are we now?’

  ‘The street ahead used to be called the Canopic Way. At the eastern end was the Gate of the Sun and at the western end, the Gate of the Moon. Isn’t that romantic? You see that mosque?’ she pointed. ‘Alexander the Great was supposedly buried underneath it. But he may actually have been buried in the Greek necropolis. My favourite part of the city is the souk. The shops have some lovely jewellery.’ She sat back. ‘So, tell me, which of my photographs did you like best?’

  Caseley knew what was expected of her. ‘You have a remarkable talent, Antonia.’ In that at least she could be totally honest. ‘However, if I may choose only one then it must be the portrait of Sheikh Imad.’

  Antonia nodded. ‘He refused to sit and would allow me only moments to take the picture. I’m sure I could have done better if I’d had longer.’

  ‘I must disagree. I don’t think you could. I know nothing about photography. But what appealed to me about that picture was the fact that it wasn’t posed. You captured him just as he turned his head. It was the perfect moment. I doubt you could ever repeat it.’

  As Antonia stared at her, Caseley felt her stomach tighten. Then pride and delight softened Antonia’s expression and suffused her face with radiance.

  ‘I knew it was good. Here we are,’ she said as the calèche drew up outside heavy wooden gates set in a high white-painted wall.

  They climbed out. As Antonia took coins from a small purse and paid the driver, Caseley reached in and picked up the tripod. Antonia grasped each of the boxes by the single brass handle set into the lid.

  By the time they reached the gate, it was silently swinging open on greased hinges. They walked into grounds of cool green grass, banks of vivid flowers and groups of tall palms very different from the oaks, elms and beeches back in Cornwall. One servant closed the gate and another waited to escort them to the villa.

  Two storeys high, dazzling white in the afternoon sunshine, the house had a flat roof, a portico entrance and tall upper windows with narrow balconies of wrought iron.

  Walking through the garden they passed a splashing marble fountain. The sun shining through falling droplets created a miniature rainbow. Pergolas supporting cascades of purple bougainvillea provided shade for marble benches.

  Carnations, geraniums and roses added bright colour and in the background the slender branches of a weeping willow bowed gracefully to trail like long skirts on the cut grass.

  Entering the house they walked through a cool, airy space with a tiled floor. Caseley glimpsed white-clad servants disappearing through archways. Their guide stood aside and bowed.

  ‘Bienvenue, mes chère amies.’ Wearing a loose, flowing robe of emerald and turquoise, with a golden silk scarf covering her dark hair, Sabra came towards them.

  Expecting a formal greeting, Casley was surprised when the Sheikha took both her hands and kissed her on each cheek.

  ‘What a pretty gown,’ she smiled. ‘So simple, yet elegant.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Relief coursed through Caseley. She hadn’t caused offence. As Sabra kissed Antonia her gaze met Caseley’s, telling her the Sheikha understood Antonia rather better than she realised.

  ‘Come,’ she continued in French, beckoning Caseley. ‘Let us be comfortable while Antonia sets up her camera.’

  Caseley followed her into another room across Persian and Indian rugs to a divan piled with cushions. Additional divans sat against the other walls with hexagonal brass-topped tables at either end.

  A servant brought in a tray containing a silver coffee pot, thimble-sized cups, and a plate of honey and almond pastries and set it on a low oblong table in front of the divan.

  Antonia had taken off her hat and was setting up her tripod.

  ‘You have a beautiful home, ma’am,’ Caseley said.

  Sabra inclined her head, acknowledging the compliment. ‘In private you may use my name. Yours is unusual.’

  Caseley nodded. ‘It was my mother’s maiden name, suitable for a son or daughter.’

  Sabra’s nod told Caseley no further explanation was necessary. ‘You are a long way from your home.’

  ‘True. But, fortunately, I am a good sailor and have been privileged to accompany my husband to other countries.’

  Sabra’s brows lifted. ‘Do you not have children?’

  Caseley had known the question would be asked at some point. She was not yet thirty. A woman with a young family would be at home with them. If only – Grief pierced, sharp as a blade. She drew a breath and swallowed the fist-sized lump in her throat. ‘I did. I had two beautiful sons. They died.’

  She waited for the condolences she had come to dread: sympathy, claims of similar loss, being told they had gone to a better place.

  Sabra tilted her head and gave a slight nod. ‘You were fortunate.’

  Caseley heard Antonia gasp and saw her mouth fall open in shock. ‘It’s all right, Antonia. I recognise the point the Sheikha is making.’ She returned her gaze to Sabra. ‘I was fortunate. I had Philip for five years and James for three. They were a joy. They died the same night.’

  Antonia had turned away and was attaching the camera to the tripod.

  ‘An accident?’

  ‘Putrid throat. There was an epidemic in the town.’

  Sabra touched Caseley’s hand and spoke softly. ‘I mourn your loss. And I envy you.’

  Caseley
met the other woman’s dark gaze. ‘Envy me?’ She was too startled to be offended.

  ‘You were blessed with something I will never know. I cannot be a wife so will never be a mother.’ She moved one shoulder in a gesture meant to indicate acceptance. But in her eyes Caseley glimpsed rage and despair.

  ‘Please don’t think me impertinent, but as you have shared this confidence, may I ask – can nothing be done?’

  Sabra gave a bitter smile. ‘Something was done.’ She paused as if gathering her thoughts. ‘All young Muslim girls are cut, down –’ she gestured briefly. ‘This is traditional in our culture so we cannot feel pleasure and will be faithful in marriage.’

  Struggling to hide her horror, Caseley was overwhelmed by memories of Jago’s lovemaking. With patience and tenderness he had kindled passions she had never suspected, ignited sensations more powerful and consuming than anything she could have imagined. Busy and apart during the day, at night they had come together to explore each other and learn. He had been profoundly moved by her response – first shy, then eager – to his kisses and caresses. She had found joy and pride in her power to arouse him.

  Had he done those same things with –? She slammed a mental door and focused on Sabra.

  ‘But – forgive me, I don’t understand. If others marry, why can’t you?’

  ‘I suffered a severe infection. The result was scarring that meant – that made it impossible for me to –’ Below the proud, calm face Caseley saw Sabra’s throat work. Though more than twenty years had elapsed, grief and anger were still strong.

  Caseley knew – who better? – that words held no comfort. Silently she turned her hand over and clasped Sabra’s. The Sheikha was right. She had indeed been blessed. She had known a man’s love. She had felt her babies grow inside her, had given birth to two fine, healthy sons and nursed them at her breast. Though her loss and sorrow sometimes felt too great to bear, at least she had known joy.

  Pressing Caseley’s fingers, Sabra withdrew her hand. Inhaling deeply, she smiled. ‘I am more fortunate than many. My wealth allows me freedom and my position gives me power. But, because my life is different from most other women’s, they are wary of me. I think you too will have found that.’

  It occurred to Caseley that she was thousands of miles from home, talking to a woman whose life bore no resemblance to hers. Yet somehow they shared a bond.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I have. Because I am no longer a mother, women who used to be friendly avoid me. Perhaps they don’t know what to say. Some have been sympathetic. Yet I also sense criticism. Other children survived, why didn’t mine? Do they imagine I have not asked myself that question a dozen times a day? I don’t know what more I could have done. But perhaps there was something –’ She broke off, grief threatening to choke her.

  ‘Do you have the power of bestowing life and death?’ Sabra demanded.

  ‘No,’ Caseley said, startled.

  ‘Then stop blaming yourself.’

  Opening her mouth to argue, Caseley closed it again. Sabra’s ordeal meant she understood. She had had to come to terms with a situation outside her control, one that had changed her life and denied her a woman’s reason for being – motherhood.

  ‘Sabra, I hate to interrupt but the light is going. Would you prefer to leave the photographs to another day?’

  In the Sheikha’s brief glance Caseley read tolerant amusement.

  ‘After you have gone to such trouble to set everything up? Certainly not,’ Sabra rose from the divan. ‘Where do you wish me to stand?’

  Caseley followed them out to the portico, staying out of the way and watching as Antonia positioned Sabra, then adjusted the folds of her robe and headscarf.

  Ducking under the black cloth covering the camera, she called instructions, exposed the plate, and emerged, flushed and pleased.

  ‘What did Mr Blaine think of your exhibition?’ Sabra asked as Antonia inserted a fresh glass plate into the frame.

  ‘Spencer relies on my father for his opinions. As he has been too busy at the Consulate to come and see my photographs, Spencer has remained silent on the subject.’ She took another picture. ‘Which is a great relief, as it spares me the pain of biting my tongue while he pontificates on matters on which he is completely ignorant. I care for only one person’s opinion – apart from yours, of course.’

  She carried the heavy camera back inside. ‘We were so caught up in arrangements for the trip into the desert I had no opportunity to ask Sheikh Imad for his reaction. He must have told you though, Sabra. You were talking for ages. What did he say?’

  ‘He thought your photographs were remarkable and that you have considerable ability. I’m sure he will have said as much to you.’

  ‘Yes, he did. But I thought – I hoped he might have said something more to you.’ Desperation tightened her voice. ‘Why else would he have come?’

  ‘He and I had several appointments last evening. Alas, our conversation was more of politics than the pleasure of viewing your photographs.’

  ‘But he must have liked his portrait?’ Antonia insisted. ‘Caseley said it was the best of the entire exhibition.’

  ‘Madame Barata shows shrewd judgement,’ Sabra said, and Caseley knew the Sheikha understood how she had been manipulated. ‘Antonia, you should know by now that Sheikh Imad takes his tribal responsibilities very seriously. For all his wealth and power he is a modest man. So though he admired the skill of the photographer, and no doubt told you so, he will say little about his image. To do so would be vanity.’

  ‘I don’t understand that,’ Antonia huffed out a breath.

  ‘Which is why, as your friend, I advise you to look among your own people for –’ she paused for an instant and, seeing Antonia’s mouth compress mutinously, Caseley held her breath, ‘– for future portraits,’ Sabra finished, neatly avoiding a potential argument.

  ‘Politics,’ Antonia snorted. ‘My father and Spencer talk of little else. It’s so boring.’

  Impatience crossed Sabra’s face. ‘The future of this country will be decided in coming weeks. The English have brought order to Egypt’s finances, for which we must be grateful. But the Egyptian people do not want to be governed by a foreign power.’

  ‘But the Khedive –’ Antonia began.

  ‘The Khedive is a weak man determined to be on the winning side by playing British, French, the Nationalists and the Sultan against one another.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Antonia was curious.

  ‘Because I know him. He is my cousin.’

  Impatient to tell Jago, Caseley was suddenly startlingly aware how, immersed in her grief, and the anger and blame that went with it, she had shut him out, leaving him isolated. Was that why he had volunteered for the long winter voyages to Canada? Was that why he had turned, not to her, but to his former mistress?

  Chapter Nine

  The calèche arrived outside the hotel, drawing up behind another already there. Stepping down, Caseley saw Jago and Hammer lifting out a trunk.

  ‘Thank you so much, Antonia. It has been a fascinating afternoon.’

  ‘You and Sabra certainly found plenty to talk about.’ Petulance coloured her voice. ‘I don’t know why you had to whisper. I felt quite excluded.’

  ‘Speaking for myself, I was anxious that our chatting did not disturb your concentration. I imagine you have an idea in your mind of how you want a picture to look?’ She had assumed the Sheikha lowered her voice because they were speaking of matters that Antonia, unmarried and a non-Muslim, would know nothing about. But nor had she lowered her voice until Sabra’s revelation. It had been an extraordinarily intimate confidence to share; yet so had hers. She felt as if she had taken a step forward, as if her burden of grief was a fraction lighter.

  Antonia nodded. ‘There is far more to taking a good photograph than most people realise. Anyway, I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.’ Her smile widened, grew warmer. ‘Just think – tomorrow we leave for Cairo. The city is sweltering at this time of ye
ar. I hope you will not find the heat too much.’ Instructing the driver to go, she waved then sat back under the shade of the calèche’s hood.

  Caseley walked towards Jago.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Hammer was saying. ‘Jimbo and I should be going with you to look after that gold.’

  ‘You know that’s not possible,’ Jago replied. ‘Nathan needs you to sail Cygnet to Cyprus. Besides, having you two along as guards would insult the Sheikh.’

  ‘How’s that then?’

  ‘It would imply he’s unable to guarantee the safety of his guests and their property.’

  Catching sight of her, Hammer raised a crooked forefinger to his forehead. ‘Af’noon, missus. All right, are ’e?’ Jago turned. His glance was searching and Caseley knew he was seeing more than she might have wished.

  ‘Hello, Hammer. I’m very well, thank you.’

  ‘Did you have a pleasant afternoon?’ Jago enquired.

  ‘It was certainly interesting. Shall I ask the concierge to send servants to help with the trunk? Have a safe trip, Hammer. Please pass on my good wishes to the rest of the crew.’

  ‘Thank ’e kindly, missus. I’ll tell ’em.’

  After setting the trunk down near the window, the servants left. Clean laundry had been placed in three neatly folded piles at the foot of the bed.

  Jago shrugged out of his coat, crossed to the table at which Caseley had written her letter, and poured fruit juice from the glass jug into two crystal tumblers. He handed one to her and sat on the lid of the trunk. Caseley perched on the chair.

  ‘What happened?’ The gentleness in his voice made her eyes sting. She didn’t want him to be gentle. She couldn’t be angry when he was kind. Yet she was weary of rage and grief. Her breath caught on a sob. She disguised it by clearing her throat and bent her head to stare blindly at the juice.

  She swallowed. ‘Sabra told me –’ looking up, she was jolted by the devastation on his features. It was gone in an instant, leaving her wondering if she had imagined it.