City of Jasmine (32 page)

She swallowed hard, her high colour ebbing. Herr Doktor stroked her hand gently.

I managed a light tone. “So, do you mean to stay here in Damascus?”

“No,” he said firmly. “When I am fit to travel in a few days we will go to Egypt. We will honeymoon on the Nile, on a cruise. It will be very romantic.”

The newly minted baroness blushed then, a proper bridal blush, and I found myself smiling.

“Then I will wish you both bon voyage,” I told them. We shook hands again and I left them. Miss Green, now the Baroness Schickfuss, had taken one of the jasmine flowers from the vase and broken it off just below the bloom. She tucked the little stem tenderly into his sling as I closed the door.

* * *

The voyage home was as uneventful as we had hoped. Arthur, as it turned out, had a particular fondness for sea air, and he spent most of his time in his painfully gaudy cage, talking up a blue streak to anyone who would listen. The reporters were thronging the dock when we landed, but we fought our way through and straight down to the little cottage in Kent. It was damp and gloomy, and before the week was out, Aunt Dove caught a terrific cold. I had one, as well, and we spent the next fortnight with streaming noses and mustard plasters. But when the first roses bloomed and I was well on the mend, Aunt Dove was still in bed. Her cold turned to pneumonia, and as the weeks passed, her condition grew worse. We had a hospital nurse down from London at horrifying expense, but all the care in the world could not help her, and as the weeks slipped away, so did her vigour. She began to wander in her mind, confusing me sometimes with my mother, and she kept to her memories, living out her girlhood again.

On the last evening of her life, she lay in her bed, her face to the window, and asked me not to draw the curtains. Her expression was lucid and her voice was calm.

“I want to see the light as I go, child,” she said.

I threw open the window, letting in the soft purple light of May Day evening. The scent of wild hyacinth was heavy in the air and she sighed in contentment.

“Oh, that is lovely.”

I went to sit beside her on the bed and she took my hand.

“You mustn’t fret, you know. I’m very tired. I have been for years now. But I wanted one last good adventure. Like the old days. And that’s what it was. Just like the old days. I’m only sorry not to give you a better story. It’s not very exciting to die in one’s bed, child. I ought to have fallen off a camel or got myself poisoned by a pit viper or drowned in a waterfall. So lowering to die in bed like an old woman,” she murmured, her voice trailing off.

I held her hand for hours, stroking the papery white skin with the map of blue veins along the back.

“It’s a perfect map of the Thames and its tributaries, so long as you don’t look too closely,” she told me, opening her eyes. “Ought to have been a lesson to me, that wherever I went, I took home with me.”

I smiled through my tears, and opened my mouth to say something, but before I could speak, she gave a soft little sigh and her hand relaxed in mine. I did not weep. We had seen the end coming for weeks, and all that we need say to one another had been said.

I covered her face and went to the window, breathing in the soft violet air and wondering for the thousandth time where Gabriel Starke was and what he was doing.

* * *

The weeks passed with no word from him. Aunt Dove had demanded cremation, but a committee of the London Geographical Society insisted upon holding a small memorial service for her. I was deeply touched at how many members attended, and they presented me with a small plaque in recognition of her accomplishments. I thanked them and went directly from the service to the solicitor’s office in Bloomsbury, where her will was formally read. I daydreamed a little as he doggedly made his way through all the proper papers, but in spite of all the legal gibberish, it was clear that I was the only beneficiary to her estate—even if she only had Arthur and her paste jewels and her travel papers to leave behind. I told the solicitor I meant to donate her papers to the Society and assured him I would take good care of Arthur. I also informed him I would be leaving the cottage at the end of June when the lease was up and that I intended to stay with friends until I decided what to do with myself.

“I have been invited to stay at Mistledown with Lord Walters,” I informed him. “You can reach me there if there’s anything of importance to discuss, although it all seems quite straightforward.”

“Very good, Mrs. Starke,” he said, rising. “I will inform the landlord of the cottage that you do not mean to renew the lease, and I will contact the Society about arrangements for the collection of Lady Lavinia’s papers. Her estate—and by extension, you—should in no way bear the cost of packing them up and transporting them to London. I will also notify you as soon as I have a buyer for the Orinoco Green.”

“But I don’t mean to sell Arthur,” I repeated. “He’s a terrible nuisance, of course, but I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

He blinked behind his thick spectacles. “I don’t think you understand, Mrs. Starke. Arthur Wellesley is a common green parrot. I am speaking of the Orinoco Green, Lady Lavinia’s emerald.”

“What emerald?”

He blinked again. “Surely you noticed her emerald, Mrs. Starke. She wore it on a daily basis. In fact, I am given to understand it never left her person.”

I groped back to my chair. “Do you mean that lump of green glass she used to pin in her turban?”

His face relaxed into a smile. “I’m afraid the Orinoco Green is not glass. It is, in fact, a rather significant emerald from Colombia. Lady Lavinia acquired it on her travels in South America.” He cleared his throat gently. “I believe it was the gift of an admirer.”

“But it can’t be real—it’s massive!”

“Yes, and quite valuable,” he said rather sternly. “And that is why I counseled her many times to leave it in a bank vault or on our premises for safekeeping. However, your aunt was—well, she was a very headstrong lady, I think I may say without giving offence. She insisted upon wearing it, but she was not entirely unaware of the danger she courted by wearing such a spectacular jewel. That is why she had it placed in such an obviously cheap setting and wore other similar pieces with it. The thing looked like a bit of glass instead of the significant gemstone that it is.”

I perked up my ears. “You said valuable.”

The smile was back. “It is. Not as much as these things used to be, you understand. With the White Russians selling off all of their imperial jewels, there’s a glut in the market just now and you won’t get as much as you might have before the war. But I think I can assure you of a tidy little bit of capital that will generate a modest income. You could keep a flat in London, if you liked, although nothing extravagant,” he said, his tone firm. “Just a pair of rooms with a kitchen and a cook-housekeeper. There should be enough left for a little travel and some modest entertaining. Nothing more,” he warned.

I was practically floating as I left his office. I ought to have been furious with Aunt Dove, but my fingers flew as I threw my things into a bag and caught the train for Mistledown. My euphoria lasted until I stepped off the train and into Wally’s arms when I promptly burst into tears. I sobbed on him all the way to the house and up to my room, where the maid poured me a stiff drink and stuck me in a hot bath. I went to bed early and didn’t get up for two days by which time I was feeling miles better, like something newborn: fragile and fresh and beginning anew, and the last time I dried my tears, I burned the handkerchief and put on my brightest scarlet lipstick. I was finished looking behind me.

Wally and I spent weeks rambling about the countryside and gardens and talking about all that had happened. He pointed out his projects to me with a proprietary air, and I smiled.

“You’ve done it, Wally. You’ve gone and become the lord of the manor, just like your father wanted.”

“I have not,” he said indignantly. “I’m still the same fellow I ever was.”

“Yes, but in tweed plus fours and talking about drains and the tenant farms,” I teased. I looped my arm through his. “I think it’s grand. You’re bringing new life to this place, and I’m rather proud of you.”

He preened a little. “I’m rather proud of myself, I suppose. I always thought the people around here would always see me as the boy I was. But once I got down here, when Father was too sick to give orders, I just sort of rose to it. There was no more ‘Master Vyvyan’ from the staff. And when we came back from the funeral and the first one addressed me as ‘milord,’ I turned and looked behind me to see if Father had risen from the grave. I don’t mind telling you it spooked me. But I liked it. I felt like a ‘m’lord’, like I was happy to be responsible for the place.” He shook his head. “Odd, isn’t it? I only wish Father had known. It might have eased his mind to know I would take to it so well.”

“I think he did know. I think that’s why he wanted you down here. He knew Mistledown would get hold of you and never let you go.”

He raised his brows. “Legacies, eh? And what of yours? Aren’t you furious with Dove for not telling you that bloody piece of glass was really an emerald that might have saved the family fortunes?”

I shook my head. “I ought to be. But I can’t seem to muster the rage. She was terribly wrong to have lied about not having anything of value, of course, but I quite see why she did it.”

“Do you?”

“Not knowing about the emerald forced me out of my safe little cocoon.”

“Cocoon?” He howled with laughter. “My darling girl, you were already learning to barnstorm. I would hardly call courting death on a daily basis a cocoon.”

“Well, perhaps not
cocoon.
But it was a safe spot, just taking lessons and not doing anything in particular. She told me once she was worried I would just bump along in life and not have any more grand adventures since my marriage had turned out so disastrously. She was afraid I had soured on living a large life. I think keeping the emerald up her sleeve was her way of making certain I took risks. And we did have a grand adventure, didn’t we?”

He smiled. “We certainly did. And what will you do now?”

I spread my arms open wide. “Whatever I like. Another adventure, of course, large or small, I don’t care. Maybe learning shorthand. I could take a job and see if it suits me. Or I could rent a cottage in the Shetlands and learn to keep goats. Or is it sheep in the Shetlands? I can never remember.”

His tone was decidedly casual. “Well, if you’ve a hankering for country life, you might as well stay here.”

“Don’t be stupid. I can’t stay here except as—” I broke off. “No, Wally. You’re a dear, but I can’t.”

“Don’t fancy life as the lady of the manor, then?”

“Oh, I could, particularly this manor.”

“Just not my lady,” he added lightly.

I shook my head slowly. “No, not yours. I love you dreadfully. You know that. But it isn’t enough, pet. Not for either of us.”

“Besides,” he said, tucking my hand in his arm, “you’re still married and I don’t fancy visiting my wife in gaol when she’s taken up for bigamy.” He paused. “Have you heard from him?”

“Not so much as a postcard,” I said.

“You’re being awfully brave about it.”

“Do you think so? Then I’m a better liar than I thought.”

“What’s the latest news from Damascus?”

“It isn’t good. The French are insisting on a mandate and it looks as if they’ll win. Poor Sheikh Hamid,” I said, thinking of the courteous gentleman with his strong profile and love of poetry.

“I rather wondered if you’d go back there,” he said. “You know, to have a nose around and look for him.”

I gave him a careful smile. “No, Wally. Gabriel will know how to find me if he wishes. But I’m finished with his adventures. It’s time to find mine.”

I stayed with Wally for the whole of July and by the end of it, I was restless. I had followed developments in Damascus, snatching up the newspaper as soon as it was delivered each morning—a fact that enraged the butler since it was his job to iron it before the ink could sully his master’s hands. But I didn’t mind if my fingers got grubby. I tore through the pages, searching for something, anything. The news was never good. In the middle of July, King Faisal surrendered, and on July 25, the day after the devastating Battle of Maysalun, his government fell officially and the French regained control. The brief dream of a free Arab kingdom was over. At first I expected word from him. I gave a start each time the telephone bell went or the butler brought the post. But it was never him. I did not believe he was dead. Had I ever? I thought back to the years after the
Lusitania
when I had been told he was lost forever. Had I ever truly believed it? I wonder. Even now, I think there must have been some part of me, something buried in blood and bone that understood he could not die and I would not know it. Something of him would always survive in me. I was part of him and he of me, and I believed so long as I lived, something of him would endure, as well.

So I did not weep again—not when I packed up, not when I took Arthur Wellesley and boarded a ship out of Portsmouth; not when we put to sea and the salt air blew in my face, carrying me far from England and into the waters of the Red Sea. I did not even weep when I went onto the deck late one afternoon when the long golden light stretched over the deck and shimmered the sea to brilliance. I wore a dress made of the green silk Rashid had chosen for me in Damascus, the colour he promised would bring out the green in my eyes and make me irresistible to men. In one hand I carried Arthur in his ridiculous Damascene cage. In the other I carried a wooden box from Bali, carved with flowers. I set Arthur carefully on the deck and looked around, but no one was about. The dressing bell for dinner had just sounded and everyone was busy with their ruffled silks and pearls. There was no one to disturb us.

I stood a long moment, watching the golden shimmer of the sea. I thought of Aunt Dove, with her brilliance and her own magnificent sparkle, and it seemed like as good a time as any. I opened the box and threw her ashes to the wind, watching the feathery grey cloud scatter over the sea. Most settled on the surface of the water, hesitating, then drifting gently into the depths. But some were caught on the wind, skimming gently out to sea, far from the Arabian coast, mingling with the perfumes and spices of fabled lands.