The Master's Wife (5 page)

She poured cold water into the nightstand basin from the jug Martin had left and scooped it over her hot face, then pressed her wet hands to the back of her neck and throat. Straightening up, refreshed, she blotted away water with the towel, surprised by how much better she felt. She dried her hands, tidied her hair and replaced her jacket, then sat down at the table and opened her journal.

She had started keeping one after the boys were born, a record of when their first teeth appeared, their first words were spoken and first steps taken without a supporting hand, so she could share them with Jago when he returned from a voyage.

The entries stopped when they fell ill. While she was nursing them she had had no time. Then after – after she could not bear the reminder. She wasn’t sure what had prompted her to put the leather-bound book in her trunk. She couldn’t read it, not yet. Instead, leaving several blank pages to separate
before
and
after
, she had begun writing a few sentences each day describing daily life aboard the ship.

She was on a journey. One day she might look back to compare
then
with
now
and recall events along the way.

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, and voices, she closed the journal as Jago walked in, automatically ducking his head to avoid the lintel. Caseley rose as another man followed him.

‘Caseley, this is Mr Pawlyn, a reporter with considerable experience of Egypt. Pawlyn, may I present my wife,’ Jago said.

Caseley saw a slim fair-haired man wearing a slightly crumpled lightweight suit and narrow bow tie. He carried a hat with a round crown and narrow brim. His face was tanned and his smile deepened, creases radiating from the outer corners of his blue eyes.

‘How do you do, Mr Pawlyn.’ Caseley offered her hand.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I am most deeply obliged to your husband for his kind offer of a berth. I have spent several days waiting for a ship bound for Alexandria. Indeed, I was beginning to fear the Custom House might start charging me rent.’

As the tension that had gripped her dissolved – 
he didn’t know
, so she would not have to respond to his commiserations – Caseley warmed to the reporter. ‘Before we left Cornwall I read in the newspaper that people are leaving the city.’

‘Not just the city, ma’am, they are fleeing the country. Having made their fortunes in Egypt, bankers and merchants are scuttling away like rats from a sinking ship.’

‘Yet you are going back.’

‘I am indeed. Officially, I am replacing a colleague who is ill. The truth is that my predecessor fears war and wants to escape before it starts.’

Seeing Jago’s expression harden, for this was
his
fear, and the reason he hadn’t wanted her to come, Caseley kept her tone light. ‘Clearly his decision to go is wise. Leaving at such a momentous time in Egypt’s history proves he is not cut out to be a reporter.’

Pawlyn’s grin held admiration. ‘An astute observation, Mrs Barata.’

‘I’ll show you your berth,’ Jago said, shepherding Pawlyn out as Jimbo came in carrying a large wooden box.

‘Cap’n said to put this under the sleeping berth if that’s all right, missus.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘We got oranges and peaches,’ he said, emerging a moment later. ‘Mart would have brought back a barrowful if I hadn’t dragged ’n away. Peaches won’t keep long in this heat so you’ll be having them every meal.’ Caseley smiled at him. ‘I can’t imagine anything nicer.’

After tea the crew went topside, leaving Caseley, Jago and Pawlyn at the mess table.

‘It was the murder of Lord Frederick Cavendish, new Chief Secretary for Ireland, and Mr Burke, the Permanent Under-secretary, in Phoenix Park on May 6
^th
that changed Mr Gladstone’s mind.’ Pawlyn’s mouth curled in contempt. ‘Now, instead of supporting Egypt’s aspirations to self-government, he is backing armed intervention to prevent it.’

‘The Suez Canal must be protected,’ Jago reasoned. Caseley recognised at once that he was baiting Pawlyn in order to discover the reporter’s true opinion.

‘That is simply a convenient excuse. Nor is it legitimate. Colonel Arabi has stated publicly on several occasions that trade with England
must
continue in order for Egypt to pay off its debt. At the moment neither the French nor the Canal Company believes the Canal to be threatened. But invasion might well change the situation. I beg your pardon, ma’am. I have no wish to cause alarm.’

‘Nor have you, Mr Pawlyn. So no apology is necessary. Have you been to Alexandria before?’

He nodded. ‘I have worked there and in Cairo for four years until family business required me to return to England for a few weeks. I’m glad to be going back.’

‘Even under current circumstances?’ Jago asked.

‘Especially now,’ Pawlyn said. ‘The
Times
and the
Pall Mall Gazette
are being fed information by correspondents bribed through money or favours to write whatever best suits the ambitions of the Consul-General or the English Financial Controller. After the newspapers are printed in London, copies are telegraphed back to Egypt and translated into French and Arabic. I dread to think what Egyptians must make of the bias and half-truths being published as fact.’

‘With so much at stake, feelings are bound to run high,’ Jago pointed out.

‘That I can accept. What I find offensive is deliberate distortion and scare-mongering.’

‘You think that’s what’s happening?’

Pawlyn nodded. ‘I know it is.’

‘Do you speak French, Mr Pawlyn?’ Caseley asked.

He nodded. ‘And Arabic. Both are vital if you want to know what the Egyptians really think.’

‘I would welcome the opportunity to practise my French,’ Caseley said. ‘Also to learn a few words of Arabic, if you would be so kind.’ She glanced at Jago and realised with a shock that he had been studying her. She willed him to understand. At his barely perceptible nod she returned her gaze to Pawlyn.

‘Arabic is not an easy language,’ he warned.

‘And we have only the time it will take to reach Alexandria. But even if my accent is poor, being able to greet Egyptian people and say please or thank you must surely be considered a courtesy.’

‘It will indeed. Few English ever bother. They don’t even learn French though it is the city’s official language.’

‘My wife also speaks Spanish,’ Jago said, and the undertone of pride in his voice thrilled Caseley, even as it made her want to weep.

After Jago left to go topside, Caseley and Pawlyn remained in the saloon for her first lesson.

An hour later, exhausted, her throat aching from the effort of achieving sounds that, to her untrained ear, sounded like harsh throat-clearing, she raised her hands in surrender.

‘No more,’ her smile was wry. ‘When you said it was difficult, you were not exaggerating.’

‘Don’t be disheartened, Mrs Barata. You are a quick student, and you have an ear for the subtleties. Truly, you have exceeded my expectations.’

‘
Shukran
, Mr Pawlyn. You are very kind.’ As she slid out from behind the table he got awkwardly to his feet. ‘Tomorrow?’

‘At your service, ma’am.
Salaamu aleikum
.’

‘
Wa-aleikum as-salaam
.’ With a polite nod she left the saloon and walked up the companionway stairs.

Her sails taut in the wind,
Cygnet
sped through the darkening water, her foaming bow wave turning to liquid gold by the setting sun.

She stayed on deck for a while, enjoying the evening air. Jago was at the wheel.

‘How did your lesson go?’

‘It was hard work. There are sounds we don’t have in English. They made me cough.’ She gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Apparently Bedouin is the plural of Bedawi and means “those of the desert”. But English people use Bedouin as a singular noun and add an s to make it plural.’ She shrugged again. ‘Mr Pawlyn was generous and said I had done better than he expected.’

‘If he knew you he would not be surprised.’

Before she could respond, Martin shouted from the galley shack, ‘Want your water now, missus?’

‘Yes, please,’ she called over her shoulder then looked at Jago, wanting – she wasn’t sure what she wanted. There was too much to say and she didn’t know where to start.

‘Goodnight, Caseley.’ His voice was gentle.

Relief battled disappointment as she turned away. ‘Goodnight.’

In the cabin she topped up the fire with a small shovel of coal. Damped down it would last all night, keeping the cabin comfortable and their clothes aired and free from the mould that was always a risk on a long voyage.

Cool and refreshed she put on her nightgown, brushed and braided her hair, and was sitting at the table, a soft shawl around her shoulders, writing her journal when Jago came in, yawning.

‘I thought to find you asleep.’ He closed the door and wearily took off his jacket.

‘I wasn’t tired.’

‘What are you writing? Surely Pawlyn didn’t give you written work to do?’

‘No, thank goodness. The book is just a journal. I write a little about each day’s events. I must say I never expected to write that I’m learning Arabic.’

‘It was a good idea to refresh your French.’

Martin knocked, calling through the wood. ‘Hot water, Skip.’

Jago took the ewer and bucket. ‘You needn’t wait; I’ll bring them when I relieve Nathan.’ The door closed. ‘As you’re still up, would you mind me using the nightstand basin?’

‘No, of course not.’ She had left the curtain pulled back to allow air to circulate in the small space.

Re-corking the squat inkbottle, she heard the bucket clank as he put it down then water poured into the basin.

‘When you’ve finished writing, leave the pen and ink out, will you? I need to update the log.’

She glanced round and saw him strip off his shirt, revealing a broad back and muscular shoulders. Longing pierced her and a flush burned her cheeks. He was her husband, the only man she had ever kissed, touched, held, loved.
He was her husband and he had lain naked with Louise Downing; made love with Louise Downing...

She choked down a painful stiffness in her throat and carefully wiped the pen nib on a cotton square before laying it on the grooved wooden tray.

Water splashed, she smelled the fragrance of the soap she had used too, heard the soft rasp of the towel as he rubbed himself dry, then the rustle of clothing as he dressed again.

He emptied and replaced the basin then carried the bucket and ewer to the door.

‘Goodnight.’ Caseley limped into the sleeping cabin, pulling off her shawl and dropping it over the foot of the berth. She reached for the curtain but didn’t touch it. With it drawn across, the small space that had once been a cosy, private haven now felt lonely and claustrophobic. She lay down and pulled the blankets over her. Had she no pride? What kind of fool longed for a man who preferred someone else? A tear soaked into the pillow.

When Jago returned to the cabin he sat down and opened the log. Elbows propped on the table, he raked both hands through his hair. Tension made his scalp ache.

He was ashamed of his pleasure at seeing Caseley out of the black that constantly reminded him of his failure. Recognising her uncertainty about wearing a summery dress, he had hoped to reassure her. She was still hurting, her loss still a raw wound. She hadn’t uttered a word of complaint. That made it worse. He didn’t know what to do and hated his helplessness.

After meeting the reporter in the Custom House, he and Pawlyn had walked along the quay to
Cygnet.
Making conversation, Pawlyn had asked if he had family. He’d said no, and left it at that. Explanations would invite commiserations that were pointless and painful. They reminded him too vividly of Caseley’s drawn, grief-ravaged face as he arrived home too late.

How could he ever make it up to her? Did she even want him to? That her rage seemed to have dissolved only increased his guilt. Their conversations were pleasant and their unspoken understanding of each other’s thinking on all other matters was still intact. If only she would meet his gaze, she would surely see everything he could not find words for: how much he missed her, needed her.

Several times, about to blurt it out, he had bitten his tongue to stop himself. Such a confession would make it about
him,
and that was self-indulgent while she was coming to terms with such devastating loss. He would live with the permanent ache at the base of his skull and a gut tied in knots. He would wait for as long as it took. He had adored his sons. But Caseley was the love of his life. So he would wait until she was ready, until she turned to him.

––––––––

D
uring the next two weeks Caseley continued her language lessons. After dinner or tea, when Jago was with them and not at the helm, she listened while Robert Pawlyn described the political rivalries that were turning Egypt into a battleground.

‘Egypt is a member state of the Ottoman Empire headed by Sultan Abdul-Hamid. He is thirty-nine years old, shrewd, tyrannical and determined to defend his position. His mother, the Valide Sultan Sherketzya Kadin, deposed the former sultan, Abdulaziz, in favour of her son, Murad. After being ousted, Abdulaziz apparently committed suicide by slashing his wrists.’

‘Apparently?’ Jago asked before Caseley could.

Pawlyn nodded. ‘Late last autumn, following an investigation that took nearly six years, several men were charged with his murder. But that’s by the by. After only three months Murad was removed.’

‘Why?’ Caseley and Jago asked simultaneously.

‘Because he was mad; truly insane. So Murad’s brother, Abdul-Hamid, took the throne, and has no intention of allowing foreign powers, especially Christians, to tell him how to rule what’s left of his empire. Meanwhile, Egypt’s head of state, Khedive Tewfiq, is demanding the Sultan’s support against the English.’

‘What kind of man is the Khedive?’ Jago asked.

Pawlyn sighed. ‘He’s twenty-eight years old and, by all accounts, is a devoted family man. He has a baby son and only one wife, though the Quran allows four. Unfortunately, those are the only points in his favour. As a ruler he is vengeful, jealous, manipulative and weak. The previous two khedives, Said and Ismail, were educated in France. Both wanted to make Egypt more like Europe, but to pay for their ambitions they taxed the people into abject poverty. When that still didn’t raise enough money to pay for his grand schemes, Ismail borrowed money from Europe with exorbitant interest rates. His inability to make the repayments brought Egypt to the brink of bankruptcy. That left him no choice but to agree to the French and English taking over financial control. This was what finally turned the people against him and sowed the seeds of rebellion. He was forced to abdicate in August 1879 in favour of his son, Prince Tewfiq, the present Khedive.’