The Bride Price (2 page)

“Then why do you have her tell your fortune at all?” he grumbled, pacing irritably. His robe swirled behind him, and bits of sand, strewn on the smooth tile floor, grated under his boots, loud in the tense silence.

“To amuse myself. Time passes slowly for a woman alone. But you are not here to talk about my amusements.”

“Why did you send for me?”

“To speak of other things,” his aunt answered vaguely, her full attention seemingly required to refill Sharif’s cup. Setting it on the table in front of the seat Hirfa had so recently vacated, she peered at him shrewdly. “It is not like you to lose your temper, Sharif. What troubles you? Is there news of Zayid?”

He shook his head in mute response.

“No word of Zayid, but always plenty of news about Nassar.” Alima sighed.

The man’s jaw worked at the thought of his flabby, useless nephew, but he bit back his reply. After a moment he said evenly. “It is my hope Nassar will settle down when he is married next year. In a few months, I plan to send him on hajj, pilgrimage to the Holy City of Mecca. Perhaps when he has earned the title of Hajji, he will wear it with dignity.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed dubiously. Then, gazing up at the sheik earnestly, Alima said. “I wish to discuss a matter of some importance, my lord.”

Sharif nodded attentively and sat down across from her. At last they had reached the reason for her summons. “What is it, Aunt?”

“I wish to speak of marriage...for you.”

Sharif stiffened and leaned back slowly, increasing the distance between them. “I already have two wives, and I do my duty by them,” he stated flatly.

“Indeed, my sheik, no one could doubt it.” Her agreement was quick. “When your brothers were killed—may Allah keep such and all hateful things from you—you arranged marriages for their widows among your relations. That was as it should be. And you married Fatmah and Latifeh, the oldest wives, yourself. I am not sure that is as it should be.”

“I did what was right,” he began reasonably. “They are old—”

“Exactly!”

“And past the age of childbearing,” he went on, his voice rising slightly to override his aunt’s. “How could I ask anyone else to marry them?”

“So you took the shrews to your own harem.” Her voice held more exasperation than sympathy.

Before he glanced away, Alima saw a spasm of pain cross his face. When the man turned to her again, his craggy features looked as if they were carved from stone. “It makes no difference,” he said coldly. “I do not seek love from them nor companionship,”

“Nor even sons,” she interjected emphatically.

“Nor even sons.” The soft gray of Sharif’s eyes darkened to the steel of restrained anger, but his aunt was not chastened.

“I know you think me a meddling old woman, my lord,” she continued doggedly, “and perhaps I am. But, as always, I look to the good of the tribe.”

Silently the sheik rose and walked to the doors that opened onto the walled harem garden. Without seeing them, he stared out at the fountain and blooming roses while he weighed her words. Facing her, he said grudgingly, “Very well, say what you will, Alima. You know I trust your opinion as much as I trust some in my
majlis.”

“I am grateful, Sharif. You have been like a son to me, and I hope you will heed what I say now. You must find another wife, one who pleases you. Perhaps what Hirfa says is true. Perhaps you will have a son who will become a lion of the desert, the leader of the Selims.”

“Allah preserve me from another wife!” Restlessly he resumed his pacing. “I treat Fatmah and Latifeh equally, but it is all I can do to keep the peace between them.” Suddenly he stopped in front of his aunt to say quietly, “Let me fulfill my obligations to the wives I have. I do not want another.”

“You think you will never care again, Sharif”—the old woman smiled up at him tenderly— “but one day you will love again. It will be Allah’s great gift to you.”

“Allah blesses me in other ways,” he countered firmly, “I will never love again.”

“We shall see what your future holds, my lord,” she concluded their interview just as firmly, “But for now, consider what I have said.”

With a black scowl, Sharif whirled and strode from the harem without another word. Women were
sheytàn,
life’s torment, he fumed, even Alima...especially Alima, with her knowing smile. Eventually she would learn she was wrong. He would not love again. It hurt too much.

Perched on a bale of hay, Bryna sat in a pool of warm July sunlight that poured through the open door of the stable. In her lap she held a whining puppy as she tended a cut in his forepaw. “Stay still,
mon petit,
just one moment more,” she whispered in soft Creole. She wrapped a length of white fabric around his wound.

“Et voilà.
” Skillfully tying the dressing in place, the girl released the squirming ball of fur and watched with amused satisfaction as the pup balanced on three legs and gnawed irritably at the bandage. She glanced up at the Negro groom who leaned on a broom nearby. “Now, Benoit, you can tell ‘Tite-Charles that his puppy will be good as new.”

“Don’t know what is wrong with that boy, always bringing home strays.” The wiry old man sniffed.

“Your grandson suffers from nothing worse than a good heart,” the girl scolded, but her blue eyes were merry.

“You have a good heart too, mam’selle, and a way with animals,” he grunted approvingly, returning to his sweeping. “But I think you’d better not let Sister Françoise find you in the stable again.”

“You are right,” she agreed. “Besides, I should go so you can do your work.” As Benoit plied his broom, the girl lifted her feet in absentminded cooperation while continuing to gather her bottles and bandages, stuffing them into a dilapidated hatbox.

“Put down your feet, mam’selle. I cannot sweep beneath them if we do not want you to become an old maid.”

“If I become an old maid, I doubt it would be your fault,” she replied dryly, but she lowered her feet nevertheless.

“Then whose fault? Not yours,” he insisted, his broom raising motes to float in the shaft of sunlight. “You will make some man a good wife someday, Mam’selle Bryna, but until then I will not sweep beneath your feet,
oui?”

“Oui.
” Smiling, she rubbed her nose, which itched from the dust. Before she could return to packing her medicines, the puppy began to bark, running forward bravely, then scurrying backward with each stroke of Benoit’s broom. A mischievous grin on his weathered face, the groom gently extended the reach of his broom so the puppy nearly tumbled over himself in his efforts to escape, causing the old man and the girl to dissolve into laughter at his antics.

Their hilarity was interrupted when a voice trumpeted from the stable yard, “I have looked everywhere for you, Bryna Jean-Marie O’Toole. I should have known I would find you here.”

Short, dumpy, and formidable, Sister Françoise strode into the stable, blinking in the dimness. When the girl jumped to her feet to greet her, the nun scolded halfheartedly, “Just look at you. Whatever shall I do with you? You look like a common street urchin, and the Mother Superior wishes to see you at once.”

The puppy, attracted by Sister Françoise’s tapping foot, pounced with a ferocious growl, sinking his teeth into the hem of her habit. Snarling and whining, he crouched low to the ground and tossed his head back and forth, tugging mightily. His short legs pumped rapidly but did little to propel him backward. Abruptly he lost his grip and his footing at the same time and sat down with a surprised yelp.

Struggling to hide a smile, the woman commanded, “Benoit, collar this fearsome beast and let me take Bryna to Mother Veronique.”

Bryna tucked her battered hatbox under one arm and followed obediently. Trotting behind Sister Françoise’s broad, black-clad form, she hastily ran her fingers through her straying curls, then belatedly rubbed her hands together in a vain attempt to remove the dirt from them. Mentally she reviewed her most recent misdeeds, trying to deduce the reason for the summons, but she could not. She had not shirked laundry duty, had not skipped mass, had not stolen away for a solitary swim in the bayou. She had not even lost her temper for nearly two weeks.

When she could stand the curiosity no longer, she asked, “Do you know why Mother Veronique wishes to see me, Sister? She hardly ever sends for me unless—”

“Unless you have done something wrong,” the woman finished for her. Her round face red with exertion, she glanced over her shoulder at the girl. “Do not worry.” She chuckled. “I don’t think she knows about the cup of lard you pirated from the kitchen.”

“It was for a good cause,” Bryna muttered defensively. “I made an ointment for Benoit.”

“You are a thoughtful child,” the nun replied with a warm smile. “So I will tell you what I know. The reverend mother received a letter this morning. She read it, then sent for you.”

Mulling over that information, Bryna scarcely noticed when they crossed the shell-covered drive and approached the Hotel Ste. Anne, the orphanage that had been her home for most of her life. It was a ramshackle three-story building with huge windows and an incongruously ornate front gate. Its walls, constructed of
briquettes entre poteaux,
or bricks between posts, were in sore need of paint, and the rusting iron fence that surrounded the compound sagged in several spots. The cistern beside the dilapidated laundry shed tilted slightly to one side, and the yard was little more than patches of dusty grass between paths worn by the feet of children.

Chickens scratched in the dirt near the back gate, scattering in alarm as the two women entered. Scolding noisily, a squirrel leapt from the trunk of an old oak tree and darted across a tiny herb garden to disappear around the corner into the crimson bougainvillea that crept up the side of the house. Along the back of the building, a narrow gallery, its wobbly rail draped with an ancient honeysuckle vine, ran the entire length.

“Here, let me take your medicines until after you have talked to the Mother Superior,” Sister Françoise instructed, taking the hatbox in careful hands. “Then you can tell me what all the excitement is about. Do not fear,
cher,
” she said, using the more familiar form of the endearment, “but do not make her wait any longer.”

Reluctantly Bryna smoothed her skirt and mounted the rickety wooden stairs. Stopping before Mother Veronique’s closed door, she faltered, her hand lifted to knock. Behind her, a bee droned lazily among the pale yellow honeysuckle blossoms, and from the side yard she could hear the laughter of the children. Certain she was about to be chastised for some forgotten sin, she rapped lightly.

“Entrez.”
A gaunt, stooped figure in black, Mother Veronique stood at the window overlooking the play yard.

“You wished to see me, Mother Superior?” Bryna stood poised warily in the doorway.

The old woman turned, her dark eyes taking in her ward’s appearance, and a ghost of a smile crept across her withered face. Bryna was lovely, mannerly, well educated, and nearly grown, Mother Veronique thought affectionately. Yet here she was as she had been so many times in the past. Her dark hair with its hidden lights of auburn tumbled around her shoulders. She wore a rumpled, grass-stained skirt, a smudge on her cheek, and a ready smile. God forgive anyone who tried to break her dauntless will and bright spirit.

“Bonjour, chère.”
She gestured toward a chair and Bryna obligingly took a seat. Sitting down across from her, Mother Veronique hesitated a moment, then delicately cleared her throat and said, “I have today received a letter, Bryna, from your father.”

“Oui.”
The girl nodded expressionlessly. Stipends for her support arrived regularly from the father she had never known.

“He, er, he sends money and requests that you join him. We are to book passage for you on the first ship to Tangier or Gibraltar.”

“Join him?” Bryna repeated incredulously. “After all these years? I will not.”

“I fear you must.” the old woman said sadly.

“Why?” Hurt and resentment caused the girl’s voice to rise. “In all the years since my mother died, he never came for me. Why should I go to him now? Why would you send me?”

“I must. He wants you with him and I do not have the right to keep you,
chère,”
the Mother Superior replied wearily.

“Who has a better right?” Bryna exploded. Her blue eyes flashing, she jumped from her chair and began to pace the small room. “You and Sister Françoise are my family, my only family since Blaine O’Toole deserted my mother.”

“He did not desert Catherine,
chère.
Monsieur O’Toole was a professional soldier—”

“You mean a mercenary?”

“A mercenary, if you wish,” the old woman conceded, expelling her breath in a puff, ‘‘but he was ready to give up war. Your father is an honorable man, Bryna, and he had one last obligation to fulfill. He could not take Catherine where he had to go. What kind of life would that have been for a genteel Creole girl?”

‘‘What kind of life was it when my grandfather refused to take her in, even when she was ill?” Bryna asked through gritted teeth. “It must have broken her heart to be disowned, to know her child would never be acknowledged by her father. And it was Blaine O’Toole’s fault. He should never have married her.”

“Do not forget, it takes two to make a marriage. I knew your mother well. Catherine loved Blaine enough to give up everything for him, and he loved her. And, though you may not want to believe it, your father loved you. He called you
la petite maîtresse,
‘the little mistress,’ because, but for your blue eyes, you were the very image of Catherine, so dark and slender and graceful. I remember the pride in his eyes each time he looked at you.”

“Pride and love are two entirely different things,” the girl interjected hotly.

“He loved you, Bryna,” the nun countered firmly. “I think even now he must love you in his way, and he wishes to show it.”

“He should have shown it long ago.”

Accustomed to Bryna’s temper, which burned white hot in an instant and cooled just as rapidly, the woman was still taken aback by her vehemence.