The Master's Wife (13 page)

‘You tell him you appreciate his anxiety –’

‘For himself and his reputation, not my happiness.’

Caseley ignored Antonia’s bitter words. ‘However, as the desert trip is of national importance, would he not agree that personal matters ought to be set aside until your return?’

Antonia nodded quickly. ‘He cannot argue with that. Oh, that is such a relief. I’d better get back. Thank goodness I came. You have helped put it all in perspective. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Jago was putting on his coat as Caseley re-entered their room. ‘Where did you go?’

‘Downstairs. Miss Collingwood arrived in a highly agitated state. She and her father have fallen out. He said she cannot attend the Bedouin wedding and wants her to marry Mr Blaine. She wanted you to speak to him – to her father, not Mr Blaine.’

‘And say what?’ He adjusted his cuffs.

‘That as neither you nor I speak Arabic, but she does, we need her. I thought she might be able to help me with advice on Bedouin culture.’

‘Of which she knows nothing.’ He was scathing.

‘What makes you say so?’

‘Observation.’ Impatience compressed his lips as he shook his head. ‘I do not like you being drawn into Miss Collingwood’s dramas.’

‘I did not ask for it.’

‘I know that. But be wary, Caseley. It is in your nature to be kind. I would not like to see you taken advantage of.’

She wished she could tell him he was imagining things. But from what she had seen of Antonia’s erratic emotions, she didn’t think he was.

As they left their room, Robert Pawlyn emerged from his. Exchanging greetings, they walked downstairs together.

In the candlelit dining room tables were laid with crisp white cloths and napkins, gleaming glassware and silver cutlery. Jago held her chair while she sat, and she looked around while he and Pawlyn discussed wines. Not many tables were occupied. Caseley wondered if this was because so many people had left the city. Used to country hours and shipboard mealtimes they were eating comparatively early. Perhaps the other guests – if there were any – preferred to dine later.

While the wine was poured and a fragrant clear soup served, Pawlyn asked after Antonia. Caseley told him of their visit to the Sheikha’s villa. She described the airy comfort of the house and the colour and tranquillity of the garden. To no one but Jago would she ever speak of the confidences she and Sabra had shared.

When the waiter left, Pawlyn told them how anti-foreigner and anti-Christian feeling was creating an atmosphere of increasing tension.

‘Cairo is a powder keg,’ he said quietly. ‘All it needs is a spark to light the fuse. The ruling Turco-Circassian elite view the nationalist cause with contempt. They cannot or will not accept that their oppression and misrule are responsible for the surge of support for Colonel Arabi. Sir Auckland Colvin, the English Financial Controller, is absolutely furious. He expected his draft budget to be adopted. But the Egyptian government has its own ideas so they ignored it. Now he is vowing that if the Nationalists should ever come to power he will do all he can to ruin them.’

‘Wasn’t he against any armed intervention by England?’ Jago asked.

Pawlyn nodded. ‘He
was
. Now he’s in favour of it. He claims to have the correspondent of the
Pall Mall Gazette
in his pocket. The paper will print whatever he wants in return for exclusive information. This is the newspaper read by most English MPs and they are being given a distorted picture of the situation here in Egypt.’

‘The Sheikha said as much,’ Caseley said.

‘How would she know?’ Jago asked.

‘The
Pall Mall Gazette
and the
Times
are telegraphed back to Cairo,’ Pawlyn explained, ‘and translated into French, English and Arabic. Egyptians are bewildered, hurt and furious at the bias and outright lies being printed.’

He fell silent as their soup plates were cleared and the fish course was served. ‘Europeans make a grave mistake in assuming they are intellectually superior to every other race,’ he said when they were once more alone.

‘Peasants working in the fields are not capable of governing themselves,’ Jago pointed out. Caseley recognised his tactic of offering an opinion he didn’t necessarily hold in order to provoke a response.

‘Are farmers in rural England or the slum-dwelling poor in cities who work in factories any more able?’ Pawlyn replied. ‘Don’t they rely on their countrymen who have the benefit of education to govern on their behalf and in their best interests? Why then should it be any different here?’

‘You make a fair point.’

‘Will you excuse me?’ Caseley rose from her chair. Both men immediately stood. ‘I need to pack.’

‘Shall I –?’ Jago began.

Shaking her head, she touched his arm lightly. ‘Please, stay and enjoy your coffee.’ She knew they would talk more freely without her there, and she needed some time alone.

––––––––

T
he following morning Caseley was sitting in front of the mirror. She had released her hair from its loose braid and was brushing it out when a momentary faintness made her head swim.

Resting the brush in her lap she closed her eyes and willed it to pass, dimly aware that the splashing in the adjoining room had stopped. She tried to draw in a deep breath, but the rigid cage of her corset made it impossible. Her shift was damp and uncomfortable against her skin. Outside it would be hot, and Cairo would be hotter still.

‘Caseley?’

She started, and met Jago’s gaze in the mirror. ‘Good morning. I won’t be long.’ Putting down the brush she gathered her thick hair into a twist on top of her head. Exposed to the air, her neck felt cooler. She could do this. She was stronger than she looked, stronger than she felt.

‘There’s no rush. Pawlyn has ordered three calèches for nine o’clock, so we have plenty of time for breakfast.’

The thought of food made Caseley’s stomach lurch. She swallowed hard and drew another slow breath.
Calm. Be calm.

‘Are you all right? You’re very quiet this morning.’

She had to pull herself together. He could not afford to be distracted by concern about her.

She put all her effort into a convincing smile. ‘Having Mr Pawlyn in the party will be very useful.’

‘His fluency in French and Arabic will take the pressure off you.’

‘Yes.’ Caseley stood up, shook out her skirts and buttoned up her lilac jacket. In one way it was indeed a relief. At the same time it made her feel redundant. She gave another bright smile; saw his eyes narrow.

‘Caseley –’

‘We ought to go down. It won’t do to keep everyone waiting.’

He caught her hand. ‘You must tell me if –’

I’m scared? How selfish would that be when he needed to focus on the task ahead? How much attention and understanding could he spare when his mind was already engaged elsewhere? He might say he wanted her to confide, but he didn’t, not really.

‘I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.’

‘It would be strange if you weren’t.’ He drew her hand through his arm. ‘Is it the train?’

She nodded, grateful to be offered a ready-made excuse.

‘Pawlyn is a seasoned traveller. He will smooth our path.’

Forty minutes later, they stood in the shade of the portico while servants loaded their luggage and the trunk containing the chest of gold into calèches.

Antonia had arrived with her tripod and camera cases. She rode with Caseley in one carriage. Jago and the trunk were in another. Pawlyn was in the third with the rest of the luggage. Leaving the hotel, the carriage turned onto a wide boulevard that would take them to the train station.

Antonia’s gown was a ruffled and swathed confection of pale blue silk with satin trim, and a small bustle worn with a matching hat. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright with excitement.

‘I can’t believe we’re actually on our way. I’ve looked forward to it so much. I scarcely slept last night. You’re very quiet this morning. I see you took my advice. That is a much more suitable dress, though I’m not sure about that colour with your hair. I can’t wait to see Sheikh Imad! It’s going to be such an adventure. I plan to take lots of photographs. Are you ever going to speak?’

Tempted to point out she’d had little opportunity, Caseley smiled. ‘I was enjoying your pleasure.’

Antonia gripped her gloved hand. ‘This is my opportunity, Caseley. Being with Sheikh Imad, away from my father and Spencer, we’ll have time to talk and –’

‘I don’t think –’ As Antonia glared at her Caseley wished she had kept silent.

‘What don’t you think?’

‘That the Sheikh will have the free time you are hoping for’.

‘Why not?’

‘He’ll be an important guest at the wedding.’

Antonia waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m fully aware of that.’

‘So he will be expected to spend time with his relations and friends. He will also be having meetings with the elders of the tribe to discuss the political situation.’

‘I daresay. But there will be interludes when he is free and we can be together,’ Antonia said confidently. ‘Why else would he have invited me?’

He didn’t invite you. You pleaded. It was Sabra who persuaded him.
Caseley clenched her teeth to stop the words before they spilled out.

‘I’m sure you mean well, but really you’re worrying over nothing. You don’t know Sheikh Imad like I do.’

‘As you say.’ Anything Antonia did not wish to hear she simply ignored.

A few minutes later they drew up outside the station. Fronted by lawns, flowerbeds and a fountain, the long imposing building of dark red and cream brick had arched windows and a massive central portico with fluted columns supporting more tall arches.

Pawlyn took charge as a dozen porters swarmed around the calèches. He chose six and dismissed the rest. Jago escorted Caseley and Antonia and they were soon on the platform, tickets bought, watching the porters load the trunk, their luggage, and Antonia’s camera equipment into a baggage compartment at the end of the third class carriage.

Their first class carriage was built of teak and had a footboard running the full length of the deep-buttoned dark red upholstery, a matching carpet and glass windows with shutters.

After paying off the porters, and speaking to the guard, Pawlyn took his seat beside Antonia, opposite Caseley and Jago.

‘The journey will take about four and a half hours,’ he told them. ‘There will be several stops to allow people to board and leave, also for –’ he hesitated and the tips of his ears turned pink. ‘For passengers’ comfort and, of course, for food.’

Caseley had never been on a train and was surprised by the richness of the furnishings. A loud hissing and a violent jolt made her clutch instinctively at Jago’s arm. The train started moving.

‘I fear you will find it a lot less comfortable than a ship,’ Pawlyn smiled at her. ‘The springing is very harsh. Also the carriages are linked by loose couplings which make the ride rather jerky.’

Caseley nodded, still waiting for her heartbeat to slow to normal.

‘Egypt was the first country in Africa to have a railway system,’ he continued. The kindness in his eyes told her he recognised her unease and was trying to take her mind off it. ‘By 1877 there was a large network of main lines. But in the entire twenty-five years of its operation, the national rail company had never produced an annual report. The result was a financial nightmare. This was only one of Khedive Ismail’s many projects designed to make Egypt more European. Instead, his wild spending and even wilder borrowing plunged the country deep into debt.

‘Two years later the Sultan ordered Ismail to abdicate in favour of his son, the present Khedive. On June 30
^th
1879, a long baggage train left Cairo for Alexandria. It was packed with pictures, furniture, dinner services, rare carpets, bronze and silver candelabra, and plates of solid gold inlaid with jewels. Everything was loaded onto Ismail’s steam yacht and taken to Italy, where he is living in comfortable retirement.’

Recalling his description of poverty-stricken Egyptians barely able to afford seed for the next year’s crops, Caseley shook her head. ‘That doesn’t seem right.’

‘It isn’t,’ Pawlyn agreed.

‘Oh,
please
,’ Antonia begged, ‘no more politics.’

Seated by the window, Caseley was surprised at how quickly the city gave way to dusty sand and bare rock. Then she began to see areas of cultivated land surrounded by embankments, criss-crossed by narrow channels.

She watched a man swing a long pivoted pole with a leather bucket on one end and dip it into a canal leading off from a river.

‘Is that the Nile?’ she asked.

‘One of its tributaries,’ he explained. ‘The river is low at the moment but in a week or so it will start to rise. By September it will fill the delta and canals and enrich the land with all the silt it carries.’

The squares of land were filled with crops: vibrant green wild clover, rows of broad beans and onions, fields of Indian corn and plantations of date and banana palms.

Men in loincloths or ragged blue cotton robes pulled up between their legs and tucked into a cord tied round the waist were working barefoot in the fields.

‘The swing bucket is called a
shaduf
. Over there, the vertical waterwheel driven by an ox, that’s a
saquia
.’

‘They may not have much money, but at least they have plenty to eat,’ Antonia indicated the fertile plots.

‘No,’ Pawlyn corrected gently. ‘The fellahin work for landowners who employ overseers. All the crops are sold. The men you see working eat only maize bread, beans and goat’s milk or goat’s cheese. Meat is a rarity for them.’

Caseley remembered the fish, chicken and beef they had eaten at the hotel and the Consulate.

As they headed inland the temperature increased. Even though the carriage had a double roof open at the sides to allow heat to escape she was hot, clammy and uncomfortable. Perspiration prickled her forehead and upper lip. She rested her head against the padded seatback and closed her eyes. But that made the jerky swaying even more noticeable. She felt queasy and a knot of tension was forming at the base of her skull.