The Mistress of Nothing (25 page)

“The Khedive would be proud of me,” my Lady said. “I spoke not a word against him. The Waleses are, after all, his guests in Egypt. They would not have wanted to discuss politics with me.”

I could hear she was fatigued by the visit and shivering. Omar moved to place a shawl at her knees and another around her shoulders. “Omar,” she said, “stop fussing. Listen to me.”

She had become very serious now. “Give me your hand.”

“Yes, my Lady?”

“I asked the Prince of Wales for a favor. If you stay with me—” She interrupted herself. “Omar, are you listening?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“If you stay with me and do not leave me and care for me until I die—”

Omar began to object but she silenced him.

“Because I will die, there is no escaping that fact—” She paused again. I held my breath. “If you stay until then, the Prince of Wales has promised me that there will be a place for you in his household.”

Omar said nothing.

I stifled my own gasp with my hand. A place in the household of the Prince of Wales.

“You will be given the position of dragoman to the Prince of Wales.”

Omar did not reply. It was as though he was unable to speak.

“Do you understand what I am saying?”

Another long pause, then at last he found his voice again. “Yes, my Lady.”

“If you stay with me, your future, and the future of your family in Cairo, will be secure.”

Omar took a breath. He had no choice. We would never be together: it was not an option, had never been a real possibility. He was beholden to too many people—his parents, Mabrouka, my Lady, now the Prince and Princess of Wales. Too many people relied upon his choosing the right path through life.

“I will stay with you, my Lady,” he said. “I will stay by your side, always.”

There was no choice. I would have to leave.

I WAITED FOR OMAR OUTSIDE MY LADY’S ROOM; I FELT COMPELLED
to see him, to show him I knew what had gone on behind that door, where my life’s balance had been weighed and determined. I stood outside that door, silent, waiting.

Why did my Lady act as she did? Why did the news of my love affair cause her to despise me? In another household, this event—two devoted servants bound together by marriage, thus diminishing the possibility of losing either to another employer—might have been a happy thing. As I stood outside that door I wondered if my Lady had always wanted Omar to herself and had looked on my downfall as her excuse to get rid of me. I wondered if my Lady was in love with Omar herself. But I knew that was preposterous. She would no more fall in love with a servant than she would with a donkey.

Omar emerged from her room. I looked into his face and I knew that I was truly lost, that I had lost Omar to my Lady, and that if I was not very, very careful, I would lose my child as well, and then I would have lost everything.

I WROTE TO MY SISTER ELLEN IN ALEXANDRIA THEN. I HAD NOT MANAGED
to write to her yet, though I had tried many times. I told her what had happened, giving her my point of view as plainly and simply as I could; I said I hoped she wasn’t angry with me. Of course, what I really hoped was that she would come up with some kind of solution; we had always helped each other in the past. I’d helped her gain her post in the Duff Gordon family and I remember well the day she became Miss Janet’s maid, both of them, two little girls, equally pleased with themselves and each other.

Ellen wrote back to me; of course she knew all about the situation already. She wrote that both Miss Janet and Mrs. Austen, my Lady’s mother, and even Sir Alick himself had said in no uncertain terms that they felt my Lady had dealt with me too harshly. For a moment, as I read her response, I felt hope wash over me. But Ellen had no solution to offer me—no plan for the Ross household to take in me and my child (I berated myself for ever imagining such a thing), only kind words and sympathy colored by amazement, chastisement, and sorrow that I could find myself in such a place. I knew well enough that feeling of tension and relief that grips the hearts of all unmarried female domestic servants. “There but for the grace …” was what my sister was feeling, even if she did not express it that way.

THAT NIGHT, OMAR WAS ASLEEP ON HIS MAT OUTSIDE MY LADY’S
room when he was woken by the eldest son of Mustafa Agha, the one who had proposed to me what seemed a lifetime ago. He bore news: Ismail Pasha’s troops had shot one hundred men involved in the Qena uprising and burnt the villages and devastated the fields all around, crushing the rebellion before it had a chance to spread as far as Luxor.

“The dervish has fled into the hills,” the young man said. “We are safe.”

I AM PACKED AND READY. I HAVE FEW POSSESSIONS—ONE TRAVELING
trunk, and Abdullah; much of my life was furnished by my Lady and must remain with my Lady. The baby is asleep in his basket, unaware of the turmoil around him. The government steamer docked at Luxor this morning and will leave again this afternoon, taking me and Abdullah with it. I am leaving. After months of waiting, I am leaving Luxor.

I undress slowly. I fold my Egyptian clothes carefully—the clothes that my Lady ordered for me specially just last year. I have spent the past week mending and readying my English clothes—the heavy undergarments and cumbersome petticoat. I take the stays out from the bottom of my trunk and unwrap them. They are like an extra set of ribs, a compact external cage. I put them on and lace them tightly; my fingers have not forgotten what to do. Then I pull on the brown high-necked muslin dress. I find my button hook and button myself into it, prickly with heat already. My leather boots are heavy, as though caked in English mud. I pin my hair up and place the white bonnet on my head; I can’t remember the last time I wore it. Gloves. I am completely encased. I am ready.

My Lady stays in her room. There has been no farewell. She has refused to give me a letter of reference for future employers, nor would she agree to give me letters for the consular agents, to ease my passage down the Nile. Through Omar, she has passed on my final wages and a sum of money sufficient to buy passage to England, nothing more.

I don’t want Lady Duff Gordon’s money, though I take it, I must: what I want is for my Lady to change her mind, at this, the very last moment. What does she expect me to do when I get to England? I find myself wondering. But I am calm, I have no rage left today. I have no references, no money of my own, and no reputation either; everyone in London has heard what has happened to me. How does she think I will survive?

Omar’s wife Mabrouka and his parents are expecting me in Cairo; Omar has sent messages on ahead of me. My Lady has arranged for me to deliver Abdullah to them before continuing on my journey. But I have other plans, plans I have told no one, not even my husband. I am leaving Luxor, yes, but I will not be leaving Egypt.

OMAR AND AHMED ENTER MY ROOM. TOGETHER, THEY LIFT THE
traveling trunk and Abdullah’s basket, taking them down to load onto the donkey. The boy does as he is told, but he can’t stop crying. “Ahmed,” I say, “you’ve proved your usefulness today: you are doing my crying for me.” I mean this as a joke, but no one laughs. I have Abdullah in my arms; he has woken up and he pats my cheek happily. I carry him down the stairs, and out of the door, and that’s it, we have left the French House, we are on our way through the village. The neighbors emerge, and they present me with gifts—dates, pastries, honey—for my journey and it is all I can do not to weep at their generosity. When we reach the steamer, Mustafa Agha rides up on his horse, dismounts, and bows to me. He gives me a large blue scarab, one I had admired once in his house, and he tells me he is desperately sad that I am leaving.

I AM IN THE TINY CABIN OF THE STEAMER AND OMAR HAS BROUGHT
up my trunk—he has been to see the
reis
and given him money to ensure my safe passage—and the whistle blows, the boatmen call out, and Omar embraces me. He is trembling, I can see he can’t find the right words, can’t think what to say. But the whistle is blowing steadily and it is time for him to leave. “Take good care of my son,” he says finally.

I bow my head.
“Insha allah,”
I say.

And then my lover runs down the ramp towards the weeping Ahmed. I look across the village at the French House, where it sits up on the temple; there is a figure on the balcony. I strain to see through the glare of the afternoon, hoping it is my Lady. But it is Mohammed, and he is waving madly. I wave back at him and find myself smiling, in spite of everything. The steamer pulls away, and I have left Luxor already.

AFTERLIFE

ONCE I LEFT MY LADY’S HOUSEHOLD, EVERYTHING WAS DIFFERENT.
I felt as though my shame was written across my face in indelible ink. I was entering the world alone, as I had years ago, when I left my aunt’s household and went into service for the first time. I had lost the status and position that traveling with Lady Duff Gordon conferred: the government envoy in every port, the contacts both Egyptian and European, the friends of friends of friends of my Lady’s dotted here and there along the route; I was left to fend for myself and my child. I had never traveled alone before, apart from taking the train up to London on my day off, and I felt a million miles, and a million years, away from those days. I had never traveled by government steamer and I was unused to the crowded conditions; though it looked quite grand when it docked at Luxor, towering above the feluccas, once on board I saw the ship was battered and filthy and crawling with vermin. It had no modern facilities to speak of; neither had many of the
dahabiehs
on which we had traveled, but when you are two women with a crew of twelve at your disposal, life is rather simpler than when you are a woman and baby on your own, surrounded by strangers.

I passed the first night in a state of near panic, unable to leave my cabin, certain I was surrounded by thieves and scoundrels who would like nothing better than to snatch my baby from me and throw him into the Nile. The door had no lock and its frame was so warped and crooked it took a great effort to shut it; I was unable to sleep and spent the night attempting to clean the cabin so that it would be habitable during the journey, but the windowless bunker—big enough for a camp bed and my traveling trunk, Abdullah’s basket occupying what remained of the floor, though I kept him in the bed with me, afraid to let go of him—was too dark and airless for me to make much progress in that regard.