No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 (15 page)

She lifted her face to the stars, a smile of deep satisfaction on her face. “Thank you, Allah,” she said solemnly. “Thank you.”

The only reply was the sighing of the wind. But she needed nothing more.

She bent down and picked up her shift, and was about to slip it on when another thought occurred to her. She looked down at her skinny little body and lanky arms and legs, the chest with two little beestings for breasts.

“Allah,” she said, putting her hands on her nonexistent hips, “do You think that since You have gone to all this trouble to give me to Handray, You might make me just a little more appealing?”

A sudden flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a deep rumble of thunder.

“I am sorry,” Ali said contritely. “I should have realized I was asking too much.”

The rain began to pelt down, and Ali, who had a healthy respect for inclement weather, pulled on her shift and dashed back to the house.

But as she dried herself off and slipped under the covers with Sherifay she rejoiced, knowing that Allah had not deserted her, nor did He object to being called by a different name. She supposed she ought to start learning about being a Christian, so that when Andre came home she would have that memorized too.

Oh, he was going to be surprised. And she supposed she really was going to have to learn to be a lady. Of sorts.

Ali sighed with happiness and tucked her hand under her cheek. She would be eternally patient. Andre was worth waiting a hundred years for, although she hoped he wouldn’t be quite that long, now that Allah’s plan had finally become clear.

Her destiny was not to be Andre’s servant. She was to be his wife and give him many sons.

June 1869
Xanthos, Turkey

A
ndre buckled the last strap on the final bag, then looked around the camp. He straightened, wondering how long it would be before he’d be back in this part of the world. God, he was going to miss it— the particular blue of the sky that could be found nowhere else, the startling contrast of the snowcapped mountains against the sandy beaches and the indigo of the sea at this time of year.

For the last five years he and Joseph-Jean had traveled around Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, and Egypt, but Andre always felt compelled to return to Turkey, and especially Xanthos, his favorite of all places.

He didn’t even know why, since his work here had been completed long before. But he seemed to find a small measure of peace among the Xanthian ruins. And then there were his friends the Yourooks, who never failed to give them both a warm welcome.

He released a heavy sigh, knowing that in five days time he’d be in Rhodes, boarding one of Her Majesty’s ships bound for bloody England. He wasn’t even sure he remembered how to be a European. He and Joseph-Jean had long before adopted the local clothing, finding that not only was it more comfortable in the hot climate, but it often made their passage easier in unfriendly territories.

Andre smiled grimly, remembering Thomas Weselley’s horror when they’d coincidentally crossed paths in the Lebanon. Weselley had found it inconceivable that a British aristocrat would so far forget himself as to be wearing desert garb and an Arab headdress. Still, he’d said nothing, only giving Andre and Joseph-Jean a sly, insulting look.

Oh, he had no illusions about Weselley’s assumption that he and Jo-Jean shared more than a close friendship. But although Andre’s general attitude in life leaned toward the creed of “to each his own,” he didn’t much care for Weselley’s mistaken conclusion.

Typical. God, how he loathed the man and his petty mind.

And thank God Joseph-Jean hadn’t put that together, or there would have been sure hell to pay. Jo-Jean could take down any man in a matter of moments. Weselley wouldn’t stand a chance against Jo-Jean’s rage.

Joseph-Jean rode up, a broad smile on his face. “Ahmed has invited us to a great feast tonight. It is in honor of our final departure from his land. I suspect it will be a late night affair—the entire village is in an uproar.”

“Somehow it seems fitting,” Andre said. “I will miss these people, Jo-Jean. I will miss them greatly. They give the phrase ‘the salt of the earth’ real meaning. The company of Englishmen is going to pale next to the Yourooks.”

“I don’t envy you,” Joseph-Jean said sympathetically. “I would hate to be walking into your shoes. It will be nice for me to return to my simple family, but you? A dukedom after all this freedom?”

Andre shrugged. “It was bound to happen. My grandfather couldn’t live forever. God, I’m inclined to turn my back on the whole damned thing, and don’t think I haven’t seriously considered it, but then there are too many people who are dependent on the duchy. So. Back to freezing, eh?”

“I suppose so. It’s going to take something on both our parts to adjust to the northern climate.”

“Mmm. To adjust in general,” Andre said absently. The thought had brought Ali to mind. He often wondered what had become of her, how she’d adjusted to a new life in the outback of Canada with her aunt, for that was the last he’d heard. He imagined she was probably content living a life in the wild, which she was accustomed to. If he knew Ali, she was probably still running around in britches, behaving like a banshee.

God, he still missed her after all this time.

It seemed like only yesterday, that summer he and Jo-Jean and Ali had spent here. Nothing had been quite the same since she’d left, but then what could replace Ali’s sparkle, her zest for life, the mad adventures she regularly dragged them into? He shook his head with a soft smile.

Ah, well. He hoped she was happy.

He, on the other hand, had to return to a life he loathed and an estate he despised even more. Sutherby might be beautiful, architecturally speaking, but it was a cold, dismal place reflective of his cold, dismal maternal grandfather, a place that had produced very little happiness and a great deal of misery over a number of generations.

He glanced over at Jo-Jean, envying him his return to Saint-Simon. That door was shut to him forever, although sometimes he ached unbearably for it, for the sight of ripe vineyards running down hillsides, for the sight of the chateau caught in the shimmering light of early morning, or bathed in the deep golden glow of evening, the sounds of the village drifting up the hilltop, the village fetes, the general rhythm of life, the comfort of family.

But that didn’t bear thinking about. He pushed the thought from his mind, knowing that by necessity his future lay elsewhere. But how he was going to miss his friend.

Andre gazed at Jo-Jean, the companion who had seen him through the last eight years of his own private hell and never once complained. Andre owed Jo-Jean his sanity, perhaps even his life, for there had been times in the early days that his will to go on had nearly failed him. Jo-Jean had been there always, and he could only be thankful for that unswerving loyalty when he had needed it most.

It wasn’t going to be easy going into his new situation, but it was time that they each went their separate ways into the lives that had been ordained them, as much as it pained him.

“Jo-Jean…” he said hesitantly.

Joseph-Jean turned from unbuckling the girth on his horse. “Yes?”

“Thank you. Thank you for everything,” he said, his voice tight. “I can never repay the debt I owe you.”

“You make it sound like good-bye, Andre.”

“I suppose I’m feeling sentimental.” Andre ran a hand over his bearded chin. “This will have to go too, won’t it? I won’t know my own face after not seeing it for so long. I’U probably cut my throat from lack of practice the first time I shave.”

“We’ll have a contest to see who bleeds to death first,” Joseph-Jean replied. “In the meantime, put an end to these morose thoughts and prepare to celebrate. You don’t want to let the village down.”

Since Andre wanted this to be a happy leave-taking for Jo-Jean, who had come to love this part of the world nearly as much as he, he forced a smile. “A celebration it will be,” he said. “Give me an hour to walk the ruins one last time, and then we shall have a magnificent evening.”

“Done,” Joseph-Jean said. “I’ll see you at sundown.”

The feasting, the speeches, the stories that night ran for hours unchecked. Andre basked in the warmth of camaraderie, knowing it would be the last time. He danced, knowing it would be the last time for that too. And then, when the firelight had died down and the revelry had quieted, Umar, who had now grown to manhood, brought out his flute one last time.

“I play for you, Banesbury. It is a song I have made in your honor, a song that will be played after you have gone, and for many years into future generations.”

He raised the flute to his mouth and began. The notes flowed slow, clear, and piercing, a haunting melody that cut straight through Andre.

It represented everything of the Middle East in its soulful tune, the vastness of the desert, the strength of the mountains, the steady ebb and flow of the precious water in the rivers and streams. And yet there was an ineffable sadness to it, for it was a song of loss. He wondered if Umar was expressing sorrow at their leaving.

Umar lowered his flute, his expression grave. “May Allah bless you in all your goings, effendi,” he said.

“Thank you, Umar. And may He bless you and all of yours,” Andre replied. “That was a beautiful piece of music. But what gave you the inspiration?”

“As I said, it was about you,” Umar replied. “It was the tragic story Ali told us of you and the wife you loved more than life who died. It depicts your struggle, your journey through our lands to forget, to take the strength from our soil, to be uplifted by our people, so that you might learn to live again.” Umar smiled happily, his teeth flashing white against his dark complexion.

“What?” Andre cried, half rising to his feet. He shot a ferocious glare at Joseph-Jean who appeared equally appalled, which suggested his innocence. But Ali? How is God’s name had Ali known—or at least guessed?

“Ali,” he said, dropping back down to his carpet. “Ali told you this story?”

“Yes,” Umar said. “We were much moved when we heard it the night you arrived that second summer. It was a very grand story of your terrible loss. We have all been in awe of your heroic sacrifice ever since.” He placed a hand over his chest. “It is not many a man who would not take other wives. And so I thought I must make a song about it to commemorate your departure.”

Andre looked at Umar for a long moment. He looked at Joseph-Jean. He looked at all the other expectant faces around the campfire, wanting to leap down their collective throats for intruding on his private domain.

And then suddenly an incredibly clear image of Ali weaving one of her impossible stories came blasting full-sprung into his mind. Typical Ali. She had, as usual, no idea of what she’d been talking about but had, as usual, somehow managed to hit the mark.

He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

July 1869
London, England

Ali turned and looked over her shoulder at the bustle of her skirt. “I don’t know, Hattie,” she said, her forehead knotting. “You don’t think the bow is too large?”

“Oh, no,” Hattie said, gazing at Ali with admiration. “It is perfectly lovely. I wish I were as beautiful as you are.”

Ali wrinkled her nose. “You are far more lovely than I, Hattie,” she said, trying to cheer up her dear friend, who really was a lovely person, even if she wasn’t particularly pretty.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hattie said. “Anyway, if you don’t believe me, look at all the men who are forever hovering about you.”

“The only reason that men hover is because they find me comfortable,” Ali said reassuringly. “They know I’m not going to bat my eyelashes at them, or have a fit of the vapors when they say something improper, or try to lure them into marriage.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand you, Alexis. You’ve been out three seasons now and you’ve had many opportunities to marry, but you refuse to take any of your suitors seriously.” She sneezed into her handkerchief and rubbed her nose hard.

Ali grinned. “I have yet to meet anyone whom I
can
take seriously. They’re fun, but they’re all overgrown schoolboys.”

Hattie turned and gave her an injured look. “Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh? I wouldn’t mind having all those overgrown schoolboys crowding around me.”

“I beg your pardon,” Ali said contritely. “I know that you long to find a husband, and you will, when the right man comes along. And just like you, I’m waiting for someone very special. But until I find him, I just want to enjoy myself.”

“What’s the matter with Matthew?” Hattie asked yet again. “H e’s terribly attractive, and he’s clever, and he’s the heir to the earldom.”

“The eventual heir,” Ali reminded her. “His father comes first. And that’s the point, Hattie. There’s no hurry for him to marry, and I make a convenient foil. If I disappeared tomorrow, I think he’d pine for all of a week.”

Hattie’s frown deepened. “I think you are blind to what is right under your nose, Alexis. Matthew adores you, and he’d make a fine husband.”

“For someone else,” Ali said. “How many times do I have to tell you that he’s a good friend and nothing more?”

“You’re going to break his heart,” Hattie warned, picking up her shawl and arranging it around her shoulders.

“Matthew? Bah. Don’t you worry about Matthew. I’m nothing more than an old habit to him. He doesn’t take me seriously. He knows me too well.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think that reassures any of the women who would like to be in your position. They’re all horribly jealous of you.”

Ali snorted. “Jealous of a girl who looks and behaves like a gypsy? I don’t think so. If anyone is jealous, it should be me. You don’t know what I would give to have lovely blond hair and blue eyes and— and to look fragile.”

Hattie burst into laughter. “I am sorry, Alexis, but there is nothing the least bit fragile about you, despite your slight figure. And the only resemblance you have to a gypsy is your ability to charm animals. I’ve never known anyone who can sit a horse as well as you.” She regarded Ali with resignation. “I suppose that’s why you’re always asked to ride in Hyde Park.”

“Gentlemen need to be exercised,” Ali said with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “I do my best to oblige by galloping like a maniac. Anyway, you can’t help being allergic to horses.”

“I’m allergic to everything,” Hattie moaned, rubbing her watery eyes. “It’s no wonder I don’t have any suitors. What sort of man wants to marry a woman who sniffles her way through life?”

“One who loves you,” Ali said firmly. “Come on, Hattie, your parents will be waiting downstairs. We don’t want to be late for the Umbersville ball.”

Ali fervently wished that her closest friend wasn’t so eternally persistent on the subject of men and marriage. There was no way to explain why she treated all the men she knew like amusing older brothers. As much as she enjoyed their company, she found it inconceivable to view any one of them in a romantic light.

She knew it was unfair that she, who could care less, did have so many suitors, and Hattie, who cared deeply, had few. Yet it spoke to Hattie’s sweet nature that she didn’t hold it against her, that she had been kind enough to invite Ali to stay with her family during the last two seasons and didn’t begrudge the gentlemen who called not to see her, but her guest. But at least Hattie enjoyed herself, for Ali was always careful to see she was included.

It would have been nice to confide in Hattie, to tell her about Andre, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t even supposed to know him, let alone speak of him—Nicholas and Georgia had been adamant, and she understood their concern, for a scandal would surely ensue if any of their past ever came out. Not that she cared anything about that, but she didn’t want to jeopardize Andre’s reputation in any way.