Free The Master's Wife by Jane Jackson Page B

excitement lit her face.
    Caseley turned. Behind an olive-skinned woman wearing a long-sleeved robe of emerald and purple shot-silk, her head covered by a loosely draped purple silk scarf, was the man from the photograph. Beneath a full-length blue sleeveless garment edged with gold braid he wore a long, white robe. His white headcloth was held in place by a thick black woven cord.
    Antonia hurried towards them, greeting them in Arabic. The Sheikha took her hands and kissed her on both cheeks. The man merely bowed.
    ‘Do men not shake hands?’ Jago asked Pawlyn, his voice low.
    ‘Not with women. For a Bedouin to touch a woman to whom he is not related by blood or marriage would dishonour her.’
    Pawlyn’s expression as he looked at Antonia told Caseley he envied Sheikh Imad the warmth of her greeting.
    Gesturing towards Jago, Pawlyn and Caseley, Antonia led the newcomers forward and switched to French. ‘Allow me to present Captain Barata and his wife.’
    As Jago bowed, Caseley made a brief curtsey then said in French that she and her husband were honoured to make their acquaintance. Unfortunately, her husband did not speak French. Then, with a polite smile to Sheikh Imad she murmured, ‘ Salaamu aleikum .’ His brown eyes met hers as he bowed and responded, ‘ Wa aleikum as-salaam.’
    Antonia frowned at her. ‘You never said you could speak Arabic.’
    ‘A few words, that’s all. On our voyage from Gibraltar Mr Pawlyn was kind enough to teach me a greeting and how to say thank you. That was hard enough.’ It wasn’t strictly true. But she sensed Antonia liked having the advantage and she had no desire to compete.
    ‘You have a good ear, Madame Barata,’ Sabra said in French. Then she turned to Robert Pawlyn. ‘Good evening, Mr Pawlyn. Welcome back. Your articles have been much missed by those who prefer a balanced presentation of the facts to biased rhetoric.’
    As Pawlyn bowed Caseley was touched to see the tips of his ears were bright red. ‘You are too kind, ma’am.’
    ‘I’m nothing of the sort, Mr Pawlyn.’ She turned to Jago. ‘I assume it is business rather than pleasure that brings you to Alexandria at this difficult time, Captain?’
    Jago waited while Caseley translated. ‘That is so, ma’am.’
    ‘And you, Madame Barata, what do you know of the situation in Egypt?’
    ‘Before I left Cornwall I knew only what the English newspapers reported. But after Mr Pawlyn joined us I learned the situation is not as we had been led to believe.’
    Sabra studied her. ‘What an unusual person you are.’
    ‘Because I think, ma’am?’
    Sabra laughed. ‘We will be friends, you and I.’
    ‘You flatter me, ma’am.’
    ‘You will learn that is something I never do.’
    Sheikh Imad was speaking to Antonia, complimenting her on the exhibition. She beckoned him across to see his portrait. He followed, keeping a distance between them, his bearing dignified.
    Antonia said something in Arabic. He responded in French. After a brief pout she shrugged then smiled at him, clearly delighted to be in his company. Caseley heard Pawlyn’s indrawn breath and felt sympathy.
    Sabra went to Antonia and drew her away by asking about one of the photos. Pawlyn went with them.
    Sheikh Imad returned, asking Jago if his presence in Alexandria was related to the arrival of the combined French and English fleets.
    Jago held the Bedouin’s gaze as Caseley quickly translated.
    ‘Not directly, sir. I am here on behalf of Her Majesty’s government in hope of speaking to the leaders of the Tarabin Bedouin tribe.’
    As Caseley gave Jago’s reply Sheikh Imad’s brows rose.
    Jago continued. ‘Her Majesty’s government recognises the influence the Tarabin might have over the outcome should the present situation deteriorate.’
    ‘The present situation,’ Sheikh Imad spoke without inflection, ‘is that Egyptians wish to rule themselves. Colonel Arabi has given his promise to repay the massive debts incurred by the