The Mistress of Nothing (16 page)

Ellen and I were so pleased to see each other that we couldn’t stop smiling and we snatched every moment possible away from our duties to sit with each other and talk. I couldn’t help but feel uneasy; my secret was on my lips constantly. I hadn’t worried about seeing Sir Alick, as I knew he’d benignly ignore me in the way he’d always benignly ignored me. But my sister was different; here was someone who really would look at me.

Ellen was full of gossip about the English people the Rosses knew in Alexandria and she was appalled at the state of my wardrobe, as unimpressed with the native dress I was wearing as Miss Janet was with my Lady’s clothes. “You look as though you’ve been cast in a West End play,” she said. “And you’ve got a bit—well—fat, Sally.” She laughed.

I blushed. “I left my stays behind in Luxor, I’m afraid.”

Ellen widened her eyes and lowered her face. “I’m scandalized,” she said. “Anyway, you look well enough on it. Arab food makes me sick. You’re lucky. But listen. I’m going to get married.”

“You’re what?” I shrieked.

“Shh,” Ellen laughed, “keep your voice down.”

“To whom?”

“Oh, I don’t know yet, but I’ve decided. I’m going to line some fellows up when we are next in England—either that or I’ll nab one of the young men passing through Alexandria.”

“But you’ll have to leave your position with Mrs. Ross.”

“I know that. But I can’t be a lady’s maid for the rest of my life. I’m not like you, Sally.”

I almost told her. I almost told her then, but she kept on talking.

“I want to have my own house one day. I’ll find a man with a good position in a good household, or maybe someone who has a trade—or a soldier! We’ll live in England—that’s what I want. I’m tired of this life. I hate Egypt. It’s dirty and hot and crowded and noisy. Don’t you hate it, Sally?”

“No,” I said, “no, Ellen, I do not.”

“Don’t you miss England? Don’t you miss your trips into London to see the sights? Don’t you miss a good strong cup of cocoa by the fire while the winter rains pelt down outside?”

“Winter,” I repeated, amused by my sister’s unexpected nostalgia. “No. Not one bit. I could stay in Egypt for the rest of my life.”

“Lady Duff Gordon is very lucky to have you, Sal, I hope she knows that. There’s not many Englishwomen who’d be willing to bury themselves in the sand like you have, for the sake of a mistress and her health.”

“It’s easy for me,” I said. And I stopped at that, full of guilt over what I was not telling my sister. We frowned at each other for a moment but then couldn’t keep ourselves from smiling.

THE NEXT DAY THE ROSS PARTY DEPARTED, WITH SIR ALICK IN TOW.

My Lady, Omar, and I were left behind in Cairo. She decided we would stay put and wait for Sir Alick to return; she didn’t say why, but I knew it was because she hoped her husband would change his mind about Luxor after he’d been hunting, that he’d fall in love with Egypt and decide he must see more of the country. The temperature continued to drop and my Lady’s health faltered once more. The days seemed endless, and it was not a joyful time; we were caught between missing our Luxor life and hoping Sir Alick would return early. My Lady sent Omar off in the afternoons to sit in the coffeehouses and see his old Cairo friends. And, of course, to spend time with his family.

The days were hard for me; my Lady’s spirits were so low she was not good company and, what’s more, she did not want to be kept company but preferred to pass her time on her own, which was highly unusual, if not unprecedented. Omar was off with his friends—discussing politics, no doubt, in a coffeehouse full of men like him, all worried about being overheard by the wrong person, a government official or a member of the Khedive’s police force, but unable to stop themselves from defining and refining their strongly held opinions nonetheless.

And, of course, he visited his family. I found I could not bring myself to think about this; it made me feel too alone. I forced myself to ask him questions when he returned home in the evening: “What are your parents like, Omar? Tell me about your mother.” I wanted him to believe I was calm and poised. However, this pretense of mine didn’t stretch as far as to allow me to ask questions about his wife and child.

“I will take you to meet them,” he said, but then he ducked his head in the way he did when offering to do something he did not actually want to do, “whether or not my Lady can join us.”

I shook my head. I had to stay with my Lady when Omar was gone, she could not be left on her own, and, truth be told, the idea of meeting his family was alarming. When he was with them I felt a rising tide of desperation and unhappiness and an awful sense of foreboding that I had to push hard to make go away. When he came to my room after a day away, we were awkward and slow and shy with one another. I could not bring myself to ask any further questions for fear of what might be revealed to me. Our conversation stumbled and tripped and we crashed into each other, but then we stopped talking and took solace in another way. If anything, our passion burned more intensely on those nights, our desire mixed with my confusion and anxiety. My life felt more constricted and circumscribed in those weeks in Cairo than it had for a long time.

And when Sir Alick did return, it transpired that he had been unwell during the expedition. He looked haggard and worn, as though he’d been on a forced march through the desert with the indentured
fellahin
instead of accompanying a grand party. My Lady and Sir Alick spent many hours behind closed doors, their voices low, talking, and neither Omar nor I were any the wiser; we worked extra hard on keeping the house running smoothly as a way of dispelling our worries. I could see that Sir Alick’s curiosity about Egypt and the life his wife had adopted here had turned to distaste; he did not like Omar’s cooking, he did not relish the bazaar, he complained about being woken up by the call to prayer, he claimed Cairo was crumbling and inconvenient. “Yes, it is,” I heard my Lady say, “but that’s not the point.”

Another week, and he was on his way back to England. When they said farewell, no one said what was plainly on everyone’s mind: this might be the last time husband and wife would meet. We knew it would be a considerable time before Sir Alick could afford to make the journey to Egypt again, if he was so inclined. And as for her two younger children, Master Maurice and Miss Rainey, no one dared to mention them, to ask if my Lady hoped ever to see them again. The truth was that she might never be well enough to travel to England. But she told Sir Alick she planned to return next summer and went as far as to begin to plan some kind of family reunion in a spa town, perhaps Germany? They made their goodbyes lightly and turned away from each other as if they would meet again in a few days, not as if it might be the end of what had been, in better times, a loving marriage.

AFTER THAT, MY LADY WANTED TO GET BACK TO LUXOR STRAIGHT
away; it took Omar a while to secure a boat and, when he did, the price was much higher than anticipated, but there was no choice in the matter. It was cold, and my Lady’s spirits were low, and we needed to be on our way “home,” she said, and I heard my mistress trying to convince herself that there was such a place for her now. We traveled as quickly as possible, and my Lady said that she felt a little better with each mile. It was as though she was attempting to slough off and forget all the hopes she had had for Sir Alick’s visit as we moved farther and farther south, away from Cairo.

DEATH

WE SAT BY THE OPEN WINDOW OF MY ROOM IN THE FRENCH
House in the evening, to watch the sun set on the Nile. It was January—we’d been back in Luxor for only a few days—and the nights were chilly still, so I wrapped us up together in my heavy patterned shawl. Having him there with me was the most tremendous feeling: I felt warm and soft and tired and sore and shocked and bewildered and happy, so wonderfully happy, all at the same time. My baby—even now these two little words give me a start of surprise and wonder. My baby in my arms: nothing—I’ll say it again—
nothing
could mean more to me. My baby was bonny and hungry, with dimpled hands, brown eyes, black hair, pale skin, and round cheeks. He was clean and swaddled, and his hand came to rest on my breast as he fed. He nibbled at me, tiny and strong. Our room smelled of sweet milk and sleep and that extraordinary, indescribable smell—baby.

Omar brought in a tray of food he had prepared specially, things he said would build up my stamina, everything smooth and pure and clean, nothing too spicy or sharp. He leaned close to kiss my hair and I caught his hand in mine and he smiled. Since that night on the Nile when my baby was born I had felt my motherlessness most acutely; having lost my own mother when I was twelve, I had no idea how to be a mother myself. But Omar moved around the room quickly, as he always does, swift and precise, reassuring, putting everything in its place. “The washerwoman will come in the morning,” he said, and he went to fetch Ahmed to help with the great pile of laundry the baby and I had accumulated. “Don’t move,” he said when he returned; he knew I felt compelled to help even before I realized it myself. No one had ever taken care of me before; I was not accustomed to having things done for me. They filled the basket, and Ahmed dragged it away. Omar came to sit beside me.

And then we heard her. Her voice traveled through the house faintly, “Omar? Omar!” I smiled. “Why don’t I go to her?” I said. “I’ll take the baby with me.”

“Don’t move,” he said, again. “Everything is fine.” And he made his way through the French House to my Lady. I leaned back on my cushion and pulled my shawl close and looked down on my baby, the most beautiful child in Egypt, and he opened his eyes and closed them again, and we were at complete peace.

I didn’t know it yet, but that peace was not mine, and would never be mine, to enjoy. And out of nowhere, that evening, I suddenly thought, I suddenly found myself thinking, Everything is fine? But why would he say that? Why would he need to say that? Everything
is
fine. It must be.

I WAS SO PLEASED TO RETURN TO THE FRENCH HOUSE, TO THE LOVELY
rooms, the beautiful garden, that I was deaf to what was going on around me. On the first day back, I settled the baby in my room and was able to help with the unpacking: a great horde of village children had greeted the
dahabieh
when it landed and they were now running back and forth from the
dahabieh
through the village, transporting everything to the house, “One cup,” Omar said, “one spoon at a time.” It felt good to be up and moving around, working once again. My Lady had been taken by a happy greeting party straight from the boat to Mustafa Agha’s house, where she was to be fed and watered and kept away from the chaos. I sorted out my Lady’s room for her, knowing she’d be glad to find all her familiar things around her as I set them out—her hairbrush, her hand mirror, the kohl she sometimes played at wearing around her eyes, her writing table, her papers, her books. Little Ahmed was overjoyed at our return and kept sneaking into my room to peer at the baby, then leaping out into the salon and dancing madly. Already all of Luxor knew about the child. One of the villagers appeared at the door with a woven basket that she said was for the baby to sleep in; it was decorated prettily with fine white cotton and lace. The woman watched while I placed the sleeping baby in it, then she exclaimed over his pale skin, and blessed me before leaving.