Authors: Jane Jackson
‘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.
‘Do men not shake hands?’ Jago asked Pawlyn, his voice low.
‘Not with women. For a Bedouin to touch a woman to whom he is not related by blood or marriage would dishonour her.’
Pawlyn’s expression as he looked at Antonia told Caseley he envied Sheikh Imad the warmth of her greeting.
Gesturing towards Jago, Pawlyn and Caseley, Antonia led the newcomers forward and switched to French. ‘Allow me to present Captain Barata and his wife.’
As Jago bowed, Caseley made a brief curtsey then said in French that she and her husband were honoured to make their acquaintance. Unfortunately, her husband did not speak French. Then, with a polite smile to Sheikh Imad she murmured, ‘
Salaamu aleikum
.’ His brown eyes met hers as he bowed and responded, ‘
Wa aleikum as-salaam.’
Antonia frowned at her. ‘You never said you could speak Arabic.’
‘A few words, that’s all. On our voyage from Gibraltar Mr Pawlyn was kind enough to teach me a greeting and how to say thank you. That was hard enough.’ It wasn’t strictly true. But she sensed Antonia liked having the advantage and she had no desire to compete.
‘You have a good ear, Madame Barata,’ Sabra said in French. Then she turned to Robert Pawlyn. ‘Good evening, Mr Pawlyn. Welcome back. Your articles have been much missed by those who prefer a balanced presentation of the facts to biased rhetoric.’
As Pawlyn bowed Caseley was touched to see the tips of his ears were bright red. ‘You are too kind, ma’am.’
‘I’m nothing of the sort, Mr Pawlyn.’ She turned to Jago. ‘I assume it is business rather than pleasure that brings you to Alexandria at this difficult time, Captain?’
Jago waited while Caseley translated. ‘That is so, ma’am.’
‘And you, Madame Barata, what do you know of the situation in Egypt?’
‘Before I left Cornwall I knew only what the English newspapers reported. But after Mr Pawlyn joined us I learned the situation is not as we had been led to believe.’
Sabra studied her. ‘What an unusual person you are.’
‘Because I think, ma’am?’
Sabra laughed. ‘We will be friends, you and I.’
‘You flatter me, ma’am.’
‘You will learn that is something I never do.’
Sheikh Imad was speaking to Antonia, complimenting her on the exhibition. She beckoned him across to see his portrait. He followed, keeping a distance between them, his bearing dignified.
Antonia said something in Arabic. He responded in French. After a brief pout she shrugged then smiled at him, clearly delighted to be in his company. Caseley heard Pawlyn’s indrawn breath and felt sympathy.
Sabra went to Antonia and drew her away by asking about one of the photos. Pawlyn went with them.
Sheikh Imad returned, asking Jago if his presence in Alexandria was related to the arrival of the combined French and English fleets.
Jago held the Bedouin’s gaze as Caseley quickly translated.
‘Not directly, sir. I am here on behalf of Her Majesty’s government in hope of speaking to the leaders of the Tarabin Bedouin tribe.’
As Caseley gave Jago’s reply Sheikh Imad’s brows rose.
Jago continued. ‘Her Majesty’s government recognises the influence the Tarabin might have over the outcome should the present situation deteriorate.’
‘The present situation,’ Sheikh Imad spoke without inflection, ‘is that Egyptians wish to rule themselves. Colonel Arabi has given his promise to repay the massive debts incurred by the present khedive’s father. Yet the English government wants the Bedouin to fight against these people?’
As she finished translating, Casley wondered if the Sheikh would decline on his tribe’s behalf without even putting it to them.
She could see Jago was thinking the same. As he glanced at her, his reply showed he was facing the risk head-on.
‘Is it your opinion that the Bedouin might decline this opportunity to discuss their potential influence over a matter of great importance to all concerned?’
As Caseley struggled to translate accurately, perspiration dampened her skin so her undergarments clung.
‘Bedouin owe allegiance to no government or country. They are free to choose whom to support.’
‘Her Majesty’s government is aware that commitment to the English cause may involve disruption and expense. That being so, they wish to make an offer of financial compensation in order to demonstrate good faith.’
Sheikh Imad listened politely but Caseley sensed his scepticism. ‘Is this compensation a promise to be fulfilled at some point in the future?’
Jago shook his head. ‘No, sir. Such promises are too easily given and too easily forgotten. On receipt of a firm commitment from the Tarabin made to myself as agent for Her Majesty’s government, a token of gratitude in the form of gold will be handed over to seal an agreement bound by honour on both sides.’
‘I see.’
Concentrating fiercely, Caseley still had time to recognise that the Sheikh had offered neither opinion nor commitment. But at least he was listening.
‘I would consider it an honour and a privilege,’ Jago continued, ‘to be granted an opportunity to meet the tribal elders so I could put forward my government’s case for their consideration. Naturally they would need to be assured that I am who I say I am, and that I have the authority to act in this matter.’
The Sheikh gestured dismissively. ‘I know who you are, Captain. Alexandria is a city of many layers. With access to reliable sources – which I possess – information is easily gained.’