No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 (9 page)

Ali stiffened. “Wait,” she said. “Handray—he did leave something. I have a book. Uri said he found it in my father’s coat pocket—it is the one thing the Turkomen did not take.”

Andre took her by the shoulders. “A book? Here? With you?”

“Yes. I cannot read it, but I have always kept it with me. It is in my bundle. Do you think you might be able to understand it?” She was pleased by the sudden excitement she saw in his eyes.

Andre jumped up. “I have an odd feeling I will. If I can’t, I’m not much use, am I? Come. Take me to this book of yours.”

Ali fetched her bundle from under her bedroll and untied it, drawing out the little square book. She gave it with both hands to Andre, who carefully opened the crumbling leather cover.

He held it close to the lantern. “Good God. No wonder Hadgi called you an infidel,” he said, glancing up at her briefly. “He must have recognized the Cross on the inside cover. This is a copy of the Holy Bible, Ali. It’s the Christian version of the Qur’an.”

“Oh,” Ali said, her expectant smile fading. Allah was going to be very angry. She probably wouldn’t be allowed into heaven at all now.

Andre turned the fly leaf and she heard the long exhale of his breath. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered. “I don’t damned well believe it.”

He sat very still for a number of minutes, staring at the page, then lifted his dark head, his eyes filled with something she didn’t understand at all. Tears.

“Handray?” she said uncertainly, touching his knee. “What is it? Please, what is it? Am I a Greek infidel, perhaps? That is not so bad. You
like
the Greeks.”

He shook his head. “No,” he said tightly, putting the Bible down on his mattress. “No, Ali, you are not a Greek.” He took both her hands gently between his own and looked into her eyes for a long moment, his gaze searching.

Ali swallowed, wondering what he saw there. “If it is not too dreadful,” she said in a small voice, “will you tell me who I am?”

“Your name is Alexis Minerva Lacey,” he said, his voice ragged. “You are sixteen years old. And you have been missing and presumed dead for the last twelve of them.”

Ali stared at him. “What?” she whispered. “What are you saying?”

“That you are the daughter of Sir Frederick Lacey, who died in a presumed ambush near Myra twelve years ago.”

“No,” she said in fiat denial. “No.”

Andre took her cold face between his hands. “Listen well, Ali, for this is going to be difficult for you to believe. Damn, it’s next to impossible for me to believe.”

Ali had never seen him like this before, so clearly shaken, not even trying to disguise it. “Tell me, Handray,” she said firmly, moving away from him and sitting up very straight. “Tell me everything.”

“All right,” he said, his voice still rough. “I will tell you everything, at least as much as I can.”

“Please. Do not leave anything out. Not anything.” She felt most peculiar, as if she were two people in one. But surely she was still Ali, not this strange Alexis?

He drew in a deep breath. “Twelve years ago Sir Frederick Lacey was working in a remote area of Anatalya. Lady Lacey was an adventurer as well as a devoted wife, and refused to leave her husband’s side, even after the birth of their daughter.”

Ali absorbed this. She liked the sound of Lady Lacey. “Was she Turkish?”

“Lady Lacey? No, Ali, she was English.”

“Oh,” Ali said, disappointed.

Andre smiled. “In any case, they lived much as I do, spending their winters in Italy, or Constantinople, and traveling in the summer months. Sadly, Lady Lacey contracted cholera and died in the little village near Anatalya where they had made their summer home.”

“Cholera?” Ali echoed, her head swimming.

“Yes. It’s an unfortunate illness that affects the intestines. In any case, Sir Frederick was grief-stricken and took his daughter away, intending to bring her to England himself. He had booked passage for both of them from Myra—what you know as Dembre.”

“Yes … my village is not so far from there,” she said, her mouth dry. All the pieces were falling into place with a nasty thud of finality.

“That’s right, for you said you lived on the Dembre plain, which Sir Frederick and his daughter would have had to cross to get to Myra.”

“But they never arrived,” Ali said.

“No, they didn’t. There was a search, of course, but nothing came of it, and eventually it was called off.” Andre paused. “Now we know for certain that Sir Frederick didn’t survive his journey. But now we also know that you did.”

Ali stared at her hands. She didn’t want to be Alexis Minerva Lacey. She didn’t want to be Alexis Minerva Lacey at all. She wanted to be just plain Ali, who loved her master with all her heart and served him with devotion.

Ali felt sick.

“My God, Ali, do you understand what this means?” he asked, taking her by the arms.

Crushed, Ali forgot to tell him not to blaspheme. “Yes,” she said despondently. “It means that I am a dreadful Englishwoman. And that is almost as bad as being a Syrian.”

The tent rang with Andre’s laughter, but for the first time Ali was not pleased with it.

“
A
li, listen,” Andre said impatiently, trying to teach her English as quickly as possible, which she was equally determined not to learn. “Try again. This is a pencil. Please. At least make an effort to say it correctly?”

“Why?” Ali shot back. “You will only send me away to your horrible country sooner.”

“You are going whether you damn well like it or not. And if you think your resistance is going to make the slightest difference in my decision to send you, then you have lost your mind.”

“I have not,” Ali said, pounding her fist on the carpet. “It is
your
mind that has gone crazy. Can you not see that I do not want to go? Why will you not listen to me?”

“Because I have an obligation to return you to your family. I realize it will be a big adjustment, but this is how it must be.”

Ali scowled. “It is how
you
think it must be. It is not how it is. I see no reason why I cannot stay here with you, just as things have been.” She folded her arms across her chest.

Andre fought for patience. “Look here. I have explained this to you a ridiculous number of times over the last month. You are going to England to be reunited with your family. I am staying here to do my work. If you don’t learn English, fine. It won’t affect me, only you.” He tapped his finger on the page for emphasis. “Either way, you are going.”

“The only reason you do this is because you admired my father. I am happy you admired him. I am sure his work was very fine, and I am pleased it prepared you for your own studies. But it is nothing to do with me.”

“Indeed, your father was a very fine scholar and a fine man, and yes, I admired his work tremendously, as I’ve told you many times. As a result I feel a responsibility to his only daughter. That has everything to do with you.”

“And as I have told you many, many times, I do not care.”

Andre threw the pencil down. “I am not the villain here. It’s not my fault that your father was killed trying to get you back to England, any more than it is my fault that no one found you before this!”

“How do I know you have not invented this story?” she demanded.

“Oh, for the love of God, why would I bother to invent something so farfetched? How many renowned historians who mysteriously disappear with young daughters in the wilds of Turkey do you think there are?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care,” she said stubbornly. “You could have made a mistake.”

“There is no mistake, and as God is my witness, if your father wanted you in England badly enough to risk the journey across treacherous territory, then that’s where you’ll go. Why can’t you understand the point?”

“There is no point,” Ali said, wishing it was raining so that she could escape the confines of the tent, the lesson, and his stupid argument.

It had been a miserable month. No more bathing Handray, no more giving him the massages he so enjoyed. No more sharing the tent with him. Now he insisted on sleeping either outdoors or in Jojan’s tent when the weather was bad.

No more of anything except these ridiculous lessons in the hideous language called English. She hated every minute of it. But worst of all was the gnawing fear of being sent away from her beloved master.

“No, I don’t suppose there is a point,” Andre said, standing. “Not if you refuse to see it.”

Ali grabbed his hand. “But it is so simple. You bought me. I am yours. No one ever has to know about this other problem. Oh,
please,
can you not just forget?”

“Ali,” he said, pulling his captured hand away and rubbing it over his eyes, “there is nothing simple about this situation, and no, I can’t just forget. I realize this is difficult for you—”

“Difficult?” she said with a snort. “It is not difficult, it is impossible! You wish to turn me into something I am not, something I have no wish to be.”

“Only because you have no idea of what that is.”

“You loathe Englishwomen!” Ali howled. “Why do you want to make me into one?”

Andre leaned his forehead on his palm. This was proving to be the most thankless task in the world, and the hell of it was that he agreed with Ali.

Yet he didn’t feel he had a choice—not that he thought he was going to be able to manage the job, not while she was still here in Turkey, not while she stayed with him. If he could turn history around, move it back to how their fives had been before that fateful day in the market a month ago, he would have done it in an instant.

He looked at Ali slumped on the carpet, her small face turned away in misery, her little chin set defiantly. He understood, oh, how he understood her fears, far better than she realized. But then she had no idea of the emptiness he was going to be left with once she’d gone, and he had no intention of telling her.

He pushed the thought away for the hundredth time.

“Ali,” he said in English, sitting down again. “Let us return to our lesson. This is a pencil. This is paper. Please, if you won’t say the words, at least write out the alphabet…”

All he got for his trouble was Ali’s back.

Andre swore fluently and stormed out of the tent into the full force of the storm. The howling wind and shearing rain were a great deal easier to bear than the force of Ali’s temper. Or the thought of sending her away.

October 1864
Izmir

“I will not go in there. I will not.” Ali planted her feet and crossed her arms, her heart pounding with panic.

“Ali,” Andre said dangerously, “you will do as you are told, and you will do it immediately. Mr. Ponesby is expecting you. He has gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange a passport, passage, and a traveling companion for you.”

“I do not want a passport,” she said, willing herself not to cry. “I do not want passage, and I do
not
want a traveling companion!”

Andre glared at her. “At this moment I could care less what you want. I’ve had enough of your infantile, impossible behavior. You will come inside now, and you will stop giving me trouble.”

“I will not!” Ali knew that the moment she stepped inside the building her life was over.

Andre’s thunderous expression suddenly sweetened. “Are you not my servant?” he said, his tone cajoling. “Did you not swear to obey me, to submit to my will when I commanded it?”

“Oh, you are cruel,” she cried. “It was different then—that was before you wanted to send me away from you.”

“It makes no difference. You gave your word.”

Ali turned her face away.

“You gave your word,” he repeated.

Ali’s word was everything to her, and he knew it. She squared her shoulders and met his steely, determined gaze full on. “You are unfair,” she said, a chill in her voice. “You invoke the oath I swore you, knowing I cannot refuse. You invoke it knowing that it will break my spirit.”

“I can’t imagine anything breaking your spirit. So let us give up the melodrama and go inside.” He walked through the door without bothering to look back at her. Of course he knew she’d be forced to follow him now. Oh, he was insufferable.

Ali didn’t miss Mr. Ponesby’s alarmed reaction when she came into the room, quickly suppressed but not quickly enough.

She imagined it was due to the female clothes Handray had bought for her the moment they approached Izmir and insisted she wear. Ali thought she looked ridiculous in the all-enveloping
thcarchaf.
At least he had stopped short of a veil, but still the only thing to be seen of her were her eyes.

“So, Miss Lacey,” Mr. Ponesby said in painful, halting Turkish after the introductions had been performed, “Banesbury Bey, he explain to me your trouble. I am sorry. You will tell your story now? I need to hear in your words.”

Ali, who couldn’t see how they were going to get through the conversation in her own language, answered him in French instead. “I thought Lord Banesbury had told you everything. I remember almost nothing of my early life.” She took a deep breath and began to recite. “The Yourooks took me in when my father was killed. I ran away when my uncle was going to sell me, and my master—Lord Banesbury,” she amended, “found me. He discovered the truth of my birth in my father’s book. He has been very kind to me”.

Mr. Ponesby smoothed a hand over his bald scalp. “I see,” he said, looking even more alarmed. “Yes. Yes, that will do.” He regarded Andre accusingly. “How is it that the girl speaks French? I thought she had been brought up in a tribe.”

“Naturally she speaks French,” Andre said, privately thinking that he was talking to a moron. “I taught it to her. That is beside the point. Miss Lacey has answered your questions and I trust you to keep the matter confidential until her family decides how they would like to handle the situation.” He glanced around impatiently. “Please, let us get on with this process. Where is the Herringer woman? And mind you, I want her to know nothing—nothing at all about who Ali is.”

“I understand. I will summon her.”

Andre, who felt his forbearance had been extreme to this point, nearly changed his mind when Mrs. Herringer came through the door. She was short and fat. Well, that was no problem. It was the look of horror on the fool’s face when she saw her charge. Her little eyes bulged and she took a step backward.

Andre stiffened. He could just imagine how Ali felt.

“Oh! Oh…” Mrs. Herringer said, faltering. “Good day, your lordship, Mr. Ponesby. And this is the— the girl?”

“This is Ali,” Andre said. “As you can see I have not yet had an opportunity to attire her in European clothing. That is being arranged.”

“But I—but who
is
she? Why am I to take her to England?”

“That is no concern of yours. Your duty is to see that she arrives safely in Sussex. You need know nothing more than that. Do you understand, Mrs. Herringer?”

“Oh, naturally, my lord,” she said, still looking appalled.

“Ali doesn’t speak English. I don’t suppose by some lucky chance you speak Turkish?”

“That heathen language? Good heavens, my lord, our dear queen’s tongue is enough for me.”

“Is it? I see. So you have no French either. Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it. If I don’t send her with you now, it might be months before someone else is available to take her.”

“Oh—I am sure we will get along famously, my lord. No need to worry over the matter of the language. The little poppet and I will find other ways to communicate.”

Andre nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Ali will be delivered into your care on board the ship. Here are your instructions.” He handed her a packet. “In there you will also find the ticket to which I agreed and a bank draft which you may draw upon once you have delivered Ali safely to Ravenswalk.”

Mrs. Herringer opened the packet and drew out the draft. Her eyes nearly jumped out of her head when she saw the sum he had written out.

“Treat her kindly,” Andre said.

“Oh! Oh, yes, your lordship, as you say, your lordship! The girl will have everything she needs, every last thing.” Mrs. Herringer practically curtsied her way out of the room.

Andre nodded to the consul, took Ali by the arm, and left without another word.

Absorbed in writing the difficult letter to his godparents explaining about Ali, Andre ignored the knock on his door until it became a bang.

“Andre, are you in there?”

He threw his pen down in frustration. “Come in Jo-Jean, and stop making such a racket!”

Joseph-Jean opened the door, his arms full of packages, which he dumped on the bed. “I have the materials for Ali’s dresses, although personally, I think they’re ugly as sin. How did it go with the consul?”

“Ponesby is as big a fool as ever. But Ali has
a
companion, at least, although she’s an even bigger fool than Ponesby. Some widow who wanted to return to England but couldn’t afford the passage.”

“The seamstress will be here in a half hour, although I don’t know what sort of job she’ll be able to do.”

“It doesn’t matter. Anything is better than that damned envelope. You should have seen how those two bloody English snobs looked at her—I ought to have brought her in her
chalvars
and really given them a shock,” he said, rubbing a hand over his aching forehead. “But never mind, the Herringer woman is being paid a small fortune to forfeit her opinion.” He picked up his pen and returned to his letter.

“Andre—”

“Hmm?” He looked up again, wishing Joseph-Jean would vanish. He knew exactly what was coming.

“Are you sure you don’t wish to reconsider your decision? There’s still time to change the arrangements.”

“I’ve heard enough of this from both you and Ali,” he snapped. “She leaves for England in three days time and that’s my final word.”

Jo-Jean scratched the tip of his nose. “You don’t even know that your godparents will take her. It’s not as if they’re expecting her.”

“I’m writing them now. In any case, they don’t have to keep her for very long. All they have to do is find her relatives.”

“You don’t even know if there
are
any relatives!” Joseph-Jean said desperately. “And even if there are, who’s to say they’ll agree to take her in?”

“Of course they’ll take her,” Andre said irritably. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because,” Joseph-Jean said impatiently, “Ali does not remotely resemble a well-brought-up English girl, and she’s not likely to turn into one overnight. It’s going to take very tolerant, open-minded people to help her through the adjustment.”

Andre shoved both hands through his hair in frustration. “Do you think I don’t know that? What would you have me do? I can’t continue to drag Ali around with me for the next few years. She’s a young woman, for the love of God, even though she doesn’t look or behave like one.”

He pushed back his chair and strode to the window, gazing out across the rooftops, his hands shoved on his hips. “The way you and Ali are carrying on, you’d think I was a hardened criminal!

“Tell me,” he asked, turning around abruptly. “Suppose I kept Ali here with me as she wants. What do you think would happen when my grandfather dies and I’m forced to return to England?” He raised an eyebrow. “Can you see me explaining that I found Miss Alexis Minerva Lacey on a mountaintop and decided that she made a convenient servant? She deserves better than that, Jo-Jean.”