Sandstorm (16 page)

'Perhaps you could wear this,' proposed Suni now, drawing a gown of gauzy black chiffon from the rail, and Abby felt her nerves tighten at the suggestion.

The gown was one she had had since before she left Rachid. She had not taken it with her when she made her bid for freedom, and it had hung here, in the air-conditioned cupboard ever since. It had held too many memories for her to want to keep it, bought by Rachid on one of his trips to Paris, but now she looked at it consideringly, wondering if she could wear it.

'It is most beautiful,' Suni pressed, spreading its chiffon folds. 'And there is a fullness, here, just where it is needed, exactly as you would wish.'

Abby caught her lower lip between her teeth. 'It's not a maternity dress,' she offered half-heartedly, but Suni made light of her protests.

'You do not need the fullness of a maternity dress yet, my lady. That is why you find these other dresses so ugly. Please—try it on. See if it is suitable.'

The layers of transparent material fell softly about her, and Abby turned to her reflection with anxious eyes. The gown was cut simply, its strapless bodice veiled by a gauzy cape. Ruched chiffon was gathered beneath her breasts to fall in a thousand pleats to her ankles, and its fullness was such that it only hinted at the advancing state of her condition.

'It is perfect!' exclaimed Suni, her hands already busy at the hastily pinned coil of Abby's hair. 'And this we will leave loose, hmm? Just for this evening. I think my master will find you most beautiful.'

Abby felt the warmth of colour in her cheeks. 'I am not dressing for Prince Rachid, Suni, just for myself.'

'As you say, mistress,' Suni agreed, wielding the brush, but Abby doubted she believed her. Like all Abareinian women, Suni only saw her destiny in the service of the husband her parents would choose for her, but like all the women who lived in the palace, she was just a little in love with Prince Khalid's elder son.

It was a long time since Abby had left her hair loose, and now she viewed herself doubtfully. Pushing the heavy strands behind her ears, she half turned to look at the back, and saw that it reached her waist, a silvery cascade, straight and silky soft.'Such a colour!' exclaimed Suni, clasping her hands in
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admiration. 'My lady is so lucky!'

'Am I?' Abby was sceptical, but she couldn't spoil Suni's pleasure by denying it, and with a smile she touched the younger girl's cheek.

'Thank you, Suni,' she said sincerely, and the dark girl flushed with gratitude.

To reach the Dowager Princess's apartments, Abby walked through the palace gardens, escorted by Hassan, one of the palace guard assigned to her quarters. The gardens were constantly patrolled by armed guards after dark, who kept their distance for the most part, melting into the trees when necessary to avoid intruding on anyone's privacy.

The gardens themselves were assiduously tended by a team of gardeners, and the scent of honeysuckle and verbena clung thickly to the air. Abby didn't need to see to know there were arbours of peach and apricot trees, the luscious fruit hanging within reach of an upstretched hand, and lily-splashed pools and arching fountains, whose inner illumination added to the illusion of fantasy. There were date trees and fig trees, trellises of vines and flowering creepers, and oases of greenery beside flower beds filled with every kind of blossoming shrub.

Rachid's grandmother awaited her on the terrace overlooking a sunken Italian garden. The elderly princess looked absurdly small in her fan-backed chair, bony fingers glittering with jewels curved clawlike over the arms. She was wearing a gown of crimson brocade, also glittering with sequins, but her greying eyebrows belied the tinted darkness of her upswept hair. Abby guessed she must be at least seventy, but she had hardly changed since she last saw her, and she felt a wave of reassurance when the old lady's carefully made up features relaxed into a welcoming smile.

'Abigail,' she said, ignoring the honorary title bestowed upon her grandson's wife by his father. 'Come here, child. I'm so glad you decided to come home.'

As Hassan bowed and withdrew, Abby mounted the shallow steps to the terrace, and only then did she glimpse the shadowy figure who was standing to one side of the old lady's chair. In a dark-coloured European suit, Rachid had not been immediately visible, but as she approached he moved so that the lamplight illuminated his dark features.

Abby did not look at him. She concentrated her attention on his grandmother, bending to kiss her on both cheeks in the continental fashion, drawing back so that the old lady could see her more clearly.

'You haven't changed a bit, Nona,' she said, hoping they would not notice the tremor in her voice. 'Did you have a good journey? How are Miriam and her husband? I expect they were sorry to lose you.'

'Hah, Miriam fusses too much,' declared the old lady good-humouredly. 'She would have me get up at midday, and rest all afternoon. Too much rest hardens the arteries, that's what I told her. No matter if that husband of hers thinks he's God's gift to medicine.'

'I am sure Alex thinks no such thing,' Rachid interposed brusquely. 'He is concerned for your welfare, that is all. And you would have it no other way.'

'Hmm.' His grandmother sounded less convinced, but she allowed the topic to drop, turning instead to Abby and the coming baby. 'Come,' she said, patting the chair beside her, 'sit by me for a moment. I want to hear what's going on. Why does Rachid tell me you're staying only until the child is born? Surely this can't be true.'

Abby glanced up at her husband, and felt a disturbing thrill of satisfaction when she encountered his smouldering gaze. Obviously her appearance had surprised him, and she wondered if he remembered the dress and the memories it evoked. The temptation to find out was overwhelming, but his grandmother had asked a question and she had to answer it.

'I think perhaps—Rachid believes we are not—compatible,' she confessed innocently, hearing his sudden intake of breath at her audacity. 'He—he has his life and I have mine. After the baby's born—who knows?'

'I have never heard so much rubbish!' Nona was shocked but still coherent. 'A child does not beget itself, Rachid. How can you talk of incompatibility with your child growing in Abigail's womb?'

Rachid's features were taut with frustration, but short of calling his wife a liar, he was obliged to suffer his grandmother's verbal castigation.

'No firm decision has been made, Grandmother,' he stated grimly, when he was allowed to get a word in. He turned burning eyes on his wife. 'Abby is a little—imaginative, due no doubt to her condition. For myself, I take full responsibility for what has happened, as you say. And so far as I am concerned, Abby is free to live here for as long as she wishes.'

'Alone?' murmured Abby, in an undertone, which she knew he could hear, and she saw his knuckles whiten before he pushed them into the pockets of his jacket.

Impatient with the conversation, Nona left her chair to lead the way into her living apartments. Following her, Abby was supremely aware of Rachid's dark gaze boring into the pale skin of her shoulders, but she endeavoured to ignore it, essaying an intense interest in her surroundings.

Like her apartments, Nona's rooms were spacious and high-ceilinged, with veined marble floors and soft jewel- coloured rugs. There were couches, but mostly her guests preferred to sit on the enormous squashy cushions that flanked a low terrazzo-tiled table. Bronze lamps cast a mellow light over dishes of nuts and sweetmeats, and the sugary confections that Abby knew from experience clung to her teeth, and in deference to Nona's nationality there was a tray containing a bottle of the dry sherry she enjoyed before dinner. Despite the household's conversion to Christianity, alcohol was still regarded with suspicion, and it was this as much as anything which added to its alien unorthodoxy.

Abby accepted a glass of sherry, and lowered herself on to the cushions. They were very comfortable, and she curled her legs beneath her, looking up at Rachid with challenging eyes. She was beginning to enjoy this game of cat-and- mouse, and after so many weeks' seclusion, she felt like a prisoner out on parole. She didn't even flinch when Rachid squatted down beside her, the velvet cuff of his dark grey jacket only inches from her shoulder as he adjusted his tie.

'You should wear black more often,' he remarked, as his grandmother seated herself on the cushions opposite, and Abby arched her dark brows.

'You bought me this dress,' she conceded softly, plucking at the material. 'I thought you might recognise it.'

'I do,' he retorted, his irises almost as black as his pupils. 'And I remember the last time you wore it, after I came back from Paris.'

'What are you talking about?' his grandmother demanded suddenly, her voice sharp with suspicion, and Rachid allowed a faint smile to lift the corners of his mouth.

'I was admiring Abby's dress, Nona,' he reassured her smoothly. 'I was telling her that she should wear black more often. Do you not agree with me?'

'I seem to remember seeing that dress before,' the old lady puzzled, with a frown. 'One like it was found by the swimming pool, wasn't it? Not so long ago. I remember your father bringing it to me, and asking if I knew whose it was.'

'Your memory is very sharp,' commented Rachid dryly, 'but condensed, I fear. There was a dress found, but it was more than three years ago.'

'Is that so?'

Nona was amazed at the passage of time, but at least her impatience with her own faltering mental powers gave Abby a breathing space. Her sudden colour would have been hard to explain, and she was relieved when Rachid switched the subject to his uncle's hospital in Cairo, and the research they were doing there. By the time Nona spoke to her again she was able to answer quite composedly, although she was aware that Rachid had not missed her heated confusion.

Dinner was a typically continental meal. Nona enjoyed French cooking, and her menus invariably favoured foods cooked in wine, and served with a variety of sauces. Abby was glad that Rachid seemed to enjoy the meal, and his reversion to European clothes made him more approachable somehow. Nevertheless, she was conscious of the guarded expression he persistently wore when he addressed her, and she guessed he had not forgotten her earlier attempts to disconcert him.

When the main course had been removed, and they were enjoying, a strongly-flavoured cheese with tiny salted biscuits, Nona turned once again to the subject that was uppermost in her mind.

'When do you expect the baby, Abigail?' she askea, nodding to the servant who was serving her coffee. 'Have you seen Doctor Kemal? Is he satisfied with you?'

Abby glanced swiftly at her husband, and then answered quietly: 'I have seen Doctor Kemal, yes. And everything seems to be satisfactory. As to when I expect the baby, he estimates the end of June, about the twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth.'

'I see.' Nona snorted. Then she turned to Rachid. 'So you knew about this before I left for Miriam's.'

Rachid sighed. 'Yes.'

'And you didn't tell me?'

'I did not tell my father until the week before I brought Abby back to Xanthia,' retorted Rachid, surprising Abby herself by his statement. She had thought he would have mentioned it as soon as he returned home after visiting her. Why hadn't he? Her brows descended in a troubled frown. Had he, after all, been reluctant to do so? Or was there some other reason? Unbidden, the thought of Farah soured the rest of the evening. It was not unreasonable that he would be loath to tell his mistress of his wife's condition, and her eyes when next she looked at Rachid were filled with bitterness and resentment.

'Hmm!' Nona was still muttering over his negligence. 'It seems to me you could have confided in your grandmother. Haven't we always been friends? Haven't I always taken your part against your father, not least when you first told us about Abigail?'

Rachid's mouth drew in, and Abby could not resist the opportunity of destroying his controlled facade. 'Perhaps- he had a reason for keeping it to himself, Nona,' she ventured maliciously. 'After all, it must have been very difficult for him to explain the situation to someone who had thought they had his exclusive attentions‑'

'Abby!' Rachid's grim use of her name was dumbfounded, and even his grandmother looked a little embarrassed.

'I think this conversation has gone far enough,' she declared, pushing back her chair. 'Come, Abigail, let us talk together. I want to hear all about London, and did Rachid tell me that your mother had died? I am sorry about that. How is your father coping on his own?'

Abby allowed herself to be led away from the table, but now she didn't care that Rachid's eyes were following her. All the vitality had gone out of her, and she wished she could return to her own quarters without further humiliation.

It was not late when Abby retired, Nona was weary after her journey, and their conversation was restrained after the things that had been said earlier. Besides, Rachid's brooding presence was a discouraging influence, and Abby was relieved when Nona professed her tiredness. Refusing her husband's stiffly proffered escort, she had the servants summon Hassan to accompany her back to her apartments, but once there, the whole weight of her recklessness bore down upon her, and she bitterly regretted her ill-mannered indictment.

Dismissing Suni, she undressed herself, tossing the black gown into the bottom of the wardrobe, hoping she never had to look at it again. Then, after sluicing her face and hands in the bathroom, she allowed the folds of her sprigged cotton nightgown to fall about her, fastening the bootlace shoulder straps with dejected fingers.

Part of her depression was due to the fact that she half believed her own accusation. There had to be a reason why Rachid had chosen to keep her condition to himself, and the one she had offered seemed the most logical. Somehow, living here in seclusion, apart from the everyday happenings at the palace, never hearing Farah's name mentioned, nor encountering her simpering, flirtatious personality, she had almost succeeded in forgetting the hold she had on her husband. But now the bitterness of it was back in full measure, heightened to unbearable proportions by the awareness of her own increasingly ungainly appearance. She had no defence against another woman at the moment, and she applied the brush to her hair savagely, expunging her frustration by any means she could.