The Master's Wife (7 page)

Struggling for composure she nodded and put on her hat. ‘What are you going to do about the gold?’

‘It will remain on board for now.’ He picked up the bag.

Leaving Nathan to supervise minor repairs while Martin went ashore to buy food and arrange for fresh water, Hammer carried the box of photographic equipment to the first of the two carriages each drawn by a single horse.

Settling onto the buttoned leather seat, Caseley looked around as they followed Robert Pawlyn’s calèche through streets crowded with people. She saw anxious-looking men in European suits, bearded Jews with black hats and side locks, uniformed Egyptian soldiers, and Arabs in long robes and head cloths. Women hurried by in pairs, swathed in blue or black. Some drew their scarves across their faces as the calèche passed. Others were already veiled so that only their eyes were visible.

She heard French, Italian, Arabic and other languages she didn’t recognise, and saw donkeys almost hidden beneath their burdens. A group of sailors wearing straw hats laughed and nudged each other, pointing at unfamiliar sights.

They turned onto a wide street with flagstone pavements and tall elegant buildings on either side of a central area, with a double avenue of trees down each side providing shade. At one end was a large circular fountain. Further along, two open pergolas with onion-shaped roofs reminded Caseley of bandstands.

The driver pulled up outside a three-storey white villa with deep windows and a pillared portico. Jago helped Caseley out of the carriage, then picked up the portmanteau as Pawlyn took the box and his own bag.

‘This is Midan Muhammad Ali. He was the first hereditary viceroy of Egypt. That’s his statue,’ Pawlyn indicated with a nod. ‘Before the square was given his name it was known as Place Des Consuls because of all the diplomats living and working here.’

As they approached the entrance, an armed doorman bowed. Pawlyn spoke to him in Arabic. The man replied, bowed once more, and stood back to allow them in.

‘Hamid says Sir Edward Malet, the Consul-General, is in Cairo,’ Pawlyn explained. ‘And Sir Charles Cookson is in hospital. Apparently Sir Douglas Collingwood is in charge during Sir Charles’s absence.’

Caseley saw Jago frown. ‘Mr Broad promised to send a telegram the day we left Falmouth. I must hope it arrived and we are expected.’

They stepped into a cool, airy lobby with white walls, a black and white tiled floor, and green palms in polished brass and copper pots. On the left, a wide staircase curved round to a broad landing edged with a balustrade. On the right was an open door. Caseley heard male voices and a middle-aged clerk appeared. His expression of polite enquiry changed to a smile of surprised recognition.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Pawlyn. We thought you’d left us.’

‘Only briefly, Mr Everleigh, and I’m glad to be back. Is Sir Douglas available? Captain Barata and his wife have just arrived. They sailed from Falmouth and are expected.’

‘I’ll just –’

He didn’t get a chance to finish as a plump man of about thirty hurried into the hall, radiating self-importance. He had long side-whiskers and thinning brown hair. A bone-coloured suit emphasised his high colour. ‘Thank you, Mr Everleigh,’ he flicked a dismissive hand. ‘You may return to your desk.’

As the clerk retreated, Jago caught Caseley’s eye. Sharing his amusement she bit the inside of her lip.

‘My name is Blaine. I am Sir Douglas’s aide. Good day, Mr Pawlyn.’ He nodded coolly then turned to Jago, offering his hand. ‘Captain Barata, welcome to Alexandria. I hope you had an uneventful journey?’

‘Yes, thank you. Allow me to present my wife.’

‘Mrs Barata.’

‘Mr Blaine.’ His handshake was brief and weak. Caseley guessed it would also be damp and was glad of her gloves.

‘Mr Pawlyn, I don’t think –’

‘I’ll wait here.’ With a cheerful smile Caseley guessed was designed to rile the pompous Mr Blaine, Pawlyn carried the box towards the downstairs office.

After an instant’s hesitation Blaine turned towards the wide staircase. ‘Please follow me. Unfortunately, Sir Charles is unavailable. He was taken to hospital last week. This is a very difficult time –’

‘So I understand.’ Hearing the thread of impatience in Jago’s voice, Caseley hoped the aide had the sense to recognise it. ‘Please convey our good wishes for his speedy recovery. I understand Sir Douglas Collingwood is acting for him?’

Surprise and chagrin chased across Blaine’s face. ‘That is correct.’ He paused outside a door and knocked. As the occupant called ‘Enter,’ he opened the door and led them in.

‘Sir Douglas, Captain Barata has arrived. With his wife.’

Caseley heard the note of disapproval and sighed. In Falmouth widows took over management of their husband’s businesses and young unmarried women worked in offices. Mr Blaine’s manner betrayed him as a bigot who believed the only proper place for a woman was at home.
Where she would be now if only
 
–

She forced herself to focus on the plump man whose red face, shiny with sweat above a white collar and dark cravat, was seated in a high-backed chair behind a large desk covered with papers.

He looked up with a harassed expression. ‘Yes? So?’

‘You received telegraphs, sir,’ his aide reminded, ‘from Falmouth and London concerning a potential meeting with the Bedouin?’

Realisation spread across the fleshy face. ‘Ah. Yes. Of course.’ Pushing back his chair he rose to his feet and extended his hand as Blaine ushered them in. ‘Captain Barata, Mrs Barata, I beg your pardon. The situation – you cannot imagine – we barely have time to breathe. Come to dinner tonight. My private apartments are upstairs. We will talk then. Eight o’clock.’

‘How kind. If your aide could direct us to a good hotel we will not detain you.’

‘He will take you himself.’

‘I have a box of photographic items for Miss Collingwood.’

‘My daughter is presently at the hotel. She will be delighted to receive it. Blaine, see that it’s put ...’ he gestured impatiently, ‘somewhere out of the way.’ He turned back to Jago, his smile fleeting. ‘Now I must beg you to excuse me.’

––––––––

B
laine ordered a servant to take the box to the apartment upstairs. The doorman flagged down two calèches. It seemed to Caseley they had only just settled onto the seat than the carriage was drawing up outside a hotel at the far end of the square.

‘We could have walked,’ she said as Jago offered his hand to help her down.

‘Oh no, Mrs Barata.’ Blaine hurried towards them, shocked and disapproving. Robert Pawlyn followed. ‘That would not do at all. One must maintain appearances.’

Catching Jago’s bland glance, Caseley had to look away, her smile swiftly followed by piercing awareness of how far apart they had grown and how much she had missed their closeness, their ability to communicate without a word being spoken.

Jago drew her hand through his arm. Though his solicitude was salt in the still-raw wound of his betrayal, she was helpless against her response to his touch.

Another porticoed entrance opened into an even grander foyer with a tiled floor and two wide, shallow steps leading up to a reception counter of gleaming dark wood. Against the wall at one end a large arrangement of cream and orange lilies perfumed the air.

A gilded easel supporting an elegantly penned notice caught Caseley’s attention. It announced an exhibition of photographs by Miss Antonia Collingwood in the Rose Room.

She tugged gently on Jago’s arm, drawing his attention to the notice. ‘I wonder why Sir Douglas didn’t mention it. You’d think he’d be proud.’

Jago looked down at her and raised one dark brow. ‘Did he strike you as the kind of man who would welcome his daughter drawing attention to herself?’

‘I take your point.’

‘George, Captain and Mrs Barata require a room,’ Blaine said loudly to the manager, immaculate in a dark blue coat and cravat over a snowy starched collar. ‘With facilities.’

‘Of course, sir.’ The manager bowed.

‘I’d like one, too,’ Pawlyn said. The undercurrent of amusement in his mild tone increased Caseley’s respect for him.

The manager snapped his fingers to summon servants and directed them to carry the bags upstairs.

While Jago was signing the register, Caseley saw a statuesque woman approaching along the wide passage. A green silk gown styled in the latest fashion emphasised her voluptuous figure and a small hat decorated with green silk bows and a curled ostrich plume perched on her dark hair.

Mentally catapulted back to Falmouth and engulfed by a wave of dizziness, Caseley bent her head, chiding herself for such foolishness. The hair was different and this woman was ten years younger. But for an instant –

She willed the pain away.

‘Are you all right?’ Jago murmured.

‘Yes, of course. I’m still finding my land legs, that’s all.’

‘Miss Collingwood! Antonia!’ Blaine called, starting towards her.

Caseley saw her hesitate then continue forward.

‘Yes, Spencer, what is it now?’ Her smile was polite rather than warm and her tone betrayed impatience.

Before Blaine could speak, Pawlyn moved from behind Jago.

‘Hello, Antonia.’

‘Robert!’ Her smile grew warmer. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘A pleasant one, I hope?’

‘How could you doubt it? When did you get back?’

‘An hour ago. Allow me to introduce Captain Barata of the schooner
Cygnet,
and his wife. But for him I would still be stranded in Gibraltar.’

‘Captain, Mrs Barata
.
’ Antonia Collingwood shook their hands. As Caseley sensed herself assessed and dismissed, Jago’s arm pressed hers gently.

‘Captain Barata brought a box for you,’ Blaine announced, taking control of the conversation. ‘It’s back at the Consulate.’

‘Is it my photographic plates?’ Her smile was eager as she turned to Jago. ‘Please say it is. I have been waiting months.’

Jago nodded. ‘I believe so.’

Antonia turned to Caseley. ‘Do come and see my photographs. This is my first exhibition, so I’m excited and
very
nervous. It officially opens this evening. My father was to have hosted it, but the demands of duty take precedence.’ Her tone and manner were light, but Caseley recognised underlying hurt.

‘Really, Antonia,’ Blaine chided. ‘You cannot expect everyone to feel about your little hobby the way you do. Captain Barata has far more important –’

‘Might we be permitted to attend the reception, Miss Collingwood?’ Jago asked. ‘That would allow us time to view the photographs with the attention they deserve.’

Antonia’s eyes sparkled. ‘Indeed you must come, Captain. It would give me great pleasure to see you there – all of you.’

‘Now that’s settled,’ Blaine made no attempt to hide his impatience, ‘I really must get back to the office. This is an exceptionally difficult time and Sir Douglas needs me.’

‘If you can wait a few more minutes, Mr Blaine,’ Jago said, ‘I will escort my wife to our room, then Mr Pawlyn and I will return to the Consulate with you.’

‘Sir Douglas is very busy. May I suggest you wait until this evening to –?’

‘No, Mr Blaine. You may not. My business with the assistant consul is not dinner party conversation. The sooner I have spoken to Sir Douglas, the sooner we can be on our way and out of yours.’

Blaine’s high colour deepened to crimson. ‘I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean –’

Jago turned away, his hand beneath Caseley’s elbow as they followed a uniformed porter up the wide staircase. After tipping the man, Jago closed the door on him as Caseley looked round the spacious room.

‘Will you be all right?’

‘I’ll be fine. You had better not keep Mr Blaine waiting. Who knows what disaster might occur during his absence from the Consulate.’

‘You see him as the power behind the throne?’

‘He sees himself that way. He must be clever in some ways or he would not have reached his present position. But he’s very stupid in others.’ She moved about the room, pausing to look out of the window, aware of Jago watching her.

‘How so?’

‘His open disapproval of Miss Collingwood’s little
hobby
is unlikely to gain her affection.’

‘You think that’s his ambition?’

Caseley nodded. ‘Marriage to Sir Douglas’s daughter would certainly consolidate his position. He was definitely not pleased to see Robert Pawlyn back again.’

Jago laughed, shaking his head. ‘You’re amazing. You saw all that in just a few minutes.’ He turned to the door. ‘If there’s anything you need just ring. I hope not to be long.’ He hesitated.

She waited. The space between them was small in physical distance, but too great to cross. Was she disappointed? Relieved? Caseley didn’t know what she felt.

‘Turn the key,’ he reminded her and left, closing the door quietly.

Sir Douglas leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers over his paunch. ‘I find the notion of Englishmen bribing savages to take our side utterly abhorrent for many reasons. One must hope Mr Gladstone knows what he is doing.’

‘In different circumstances such an alliance would not be contemplated –’ Spencer Blaine began.

Catching Pawlyn’s eye, Jago read a reflection of his own impatience. Blaine had a gift for stating the obvious.

‘This upstart Arabi needs putting in his place,’ Sir Douglas continued as if his aide hadn’t spoken. ‘Should he be entertaining ideas of defaulting on Egypt’s debt –’

‘He isn’t,’ Pawlyn said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Sir Douglas looked down his nose at the journalist.

‘That was an untrue story put about by Sir Auckland Colvin. Colonel Arabi made a statement refuting it, along with the ridiculous claim that he would burn down the Stock Exchange.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ Sir Douglas glared at him.

‘It’s my job, sir.’

‘Sir Douglas,’ Jago said. ‘I appreciate your concerns about my mission –’

‘Do you indeed? Then tell me this, what is to stop the Bedouin accepting British gold and still taking the Egyptian side?’

Jago turned to the journalist. ‘Is that likely?’