Night of a Thousand Stars (17 page)

He fell silent a moment, then reached into a cupboard and pulled out a map. He spread it over the table, using the cups and plates to anchor the corners. “Here we are,” he told me, pointing to a large dot labelled Damascus. It sat serenely next to the pointed peak of Mount Hebron and beside the long brown sweep of the
Badiyat ash-Sham
. A little distance away was the coastline with Beirut and Sidon marked at the edge of the blue fringe of the Mediterranean. The coastline ran straight down from the Lebanon through Palestine, then curved as it led westward, skimming its way towards Africa. To the east, the vast stretches of desert pointed the way to Mesopotamia, the capital city of Baghdad labelled in a tidy hand.

“Any preferences?” he asked casually.

I was startled. “What do you mean?”

He pointed to Cairo, far to the west, and then east, to Baghdad. “I have contacts there and there. People who might actually listen if we explain we didn’t murder Friend Hugh. Which do you fancy?”

The fact that he had asked for my opinion was astonishing; the possibility that he might actually listen to it was miraculous. I bent and studied the map, looking it over carefully, scouting the dangers and difficulties along the way.

I straightened, pointing to Egypt. “Cairo. Definitely.”

He had been watching me carefully as I scrutinised the map and now his eyes were coolly assessing. “You seem adamant. Explain your reasoning, if you please.”

I pointed again to the map. “Baghdad is a good option, but not an excellent one. We cannot take the train—therefore the fastest and most secure route across the desert is cut off for us. To cross the desert, particularly as the days are growing warmer, would require a very fast motorcar with excellent suspension or horses. Motorcars can break down and horses must be changed if you’re riding fast. And then there are the Bedouin.”

“Go on,” he urged.

“They are at war with one another, tribal conflicts, and so forth. I would imagine crossing the desert would require an escort. That would take time and money and draw attention to us.” I pointed to the map, tracing out the route along the coast. “But if we make for Cairo, we can go by sea if we like to Alexandria. The distance to the coast is not significant, so missing out on taking the train wouldn’t be nearly as much a handicap as not taking it to Baghdad. We could make for Sidon and turn south from there, either using the coastal roads or by ship,” I finished.

He gave a grudging nod. “Sound logic, dear girl. Very sound.”

“How long will it take?”

He shrugged. “Sixty miles would be a good day’s riding, but the Anti-Lebanon Mountains lie between. They’re not tall, mind you—you crossed when you came on the train from Beirut. But we’ll want to avoid the usual checkpoints. We’ll have to go around a longer way and slip over the border at one of the unmanned crossings.”

“I thought Syria and the Lebanon were both under French control.”

“For now,” he said dryly. “The boundary is roughly where Mount Hermon lies. But the French do love their bureaucracy. You wouldn’t have noticed much on the train, but crossing via the roads can be a different matter, and with the Syrians making noises about supporting Feisal, things could change at any minute. Far safer to take the long way around and make camp tonight.”

I was pleased he had taken my suggestion of travelling to Cairo—pleased enough to press my luck just a bit further. “You know, if we were heading to Cairo, Ashkelon is practically on the way.”

I kept my tone casual, but he burst out laughing. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” I told him stubbornly. “At least, not anymore,” I amended. “I’ve spent the whole of my life giving up, and that is not who I am now.”

“And who exactly are you now?”

“I am a woman who follows through, who knows her mind and has a single-minded purpose to direct her,” I said, lifting my chin. “And don’t let your silly male pride get in the way of what is an excellent plan. They’ll be looking for us in the larger cities, near train stations and steamship offices. No one will think to look in a tiny backwater like Ashkelon for us. We could stop along the way.”

“And do a little searching for the gold in the meantime,” he said shrewdly.

“Why not? It’s the last thing anyone would expect of us.”

“You do have a point there,” he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “But if we do this—”

“And we should.”

“
If
we do this,” he repeated, “it means that much longer that your reputation is in shreds. Your family will hear of this, Poppy. There’s no way to keep it out of the newspapers once the wires pick it up. It will be in every London and New York paper because of your father and your stepfather. You will carry the weight of this for the rest of your life.”

I weighed my words carefully. “My reputation is not my character, Sebastian. People can say what they like, but are they the people who matter? There’s been a boundary around my whole life, and it was the question of what people would think. Throwing over Gerald was the first time I did what I wanted, not what they expected. And it was the best decision I have ever made. What more proof do I need that I must do what I feel is right, even if I’m the only one in the world who believes it?”

He said nothing, but his expression was thoughtful.

I pushed on. “Would the notion of what people say about you put you off from what you wanted?”

“No.”

“Then why should it stop me?” I leaned closer, pressing the point. “The newspapers will not make the connection to my stepfather or my father for a little while. I never told the colonel the truth about my family, so it will take a very enterprising reporter to piece it all together. With a little luck we might have reached Cairo by the time the story breaks and I can wire Mother immediately.”

I sat back and let him think.

“You can’t possibly pass for Syrian,” he told me finally. I felt a rush of exhilaration, which I tamped down.
Best to keep myself calm and cool
, I thought. But inside I felt as if the finest champagne was bubbling through my veins.

“I could veil,” I said helpfully.

He shook his head. “It won’t do. We’ll have to say you’re Circassian.”

“Circassian?”

He grew animated as he talked, the ideas coming together swiftly. “From the Caucasus. They’ve been largely displaced by the Turks, but there’s a fair number of them in Syria. They’re fairer-skinned than some and they’ve often got blue or green eyes. They also have their own language, so it won’t seem all that strange that you can’t speak Arabic.”

He rose and went to the door, disappearing through the little cupboard. A moment later he returned with a very refined-looking gentleman, a Damascene with elegant hands and the most perfect posture I had ever seen.

“Poppy, this is my friend Demetrius. He is the silk merchant whose shop is above us. Demetrius, Miss March.”

Before I had a chance to acknowledge the introduction, they were in conference, heads together as ideas flew between them. They made me stand and circled me while they discussed Sebastian’s idea of passing me off as Circassian.

Through it all, Demetrius sucked his teeth, turning his head this way and that as he scrutinised me. “She is too short for a proper Circassian,” he said finally. “But she has good bones and the eyes are very beautiful. The complexion is perfect. Can she speak Adyghe? What about Kabardian?”

“She can’t even speak Arabic,” Sebastian told him flatly.

Demetrius cocked his head. “Can you make her a mute?”

I opened my mouth to protest sharply, but Sebastian was smiling. “No chance of that. She chatters like a monkey.”

I snapped my teeth together and Sebastian’s smile deepened. One of Demetrius’ brows shot up. “I see what you mean. It will be difficult,” he explained. “Circassian women are known for their grace and their beautiful posture.” He turned to me. “You will walk, please?”

He gestured across the little room, and I bit my tongue to keep from putting it out at Sebastian. I had had enough deportment lessons in finishing school to know what was expected. I rose ever so slightly onto the balls of my feet and glided forward. I crossed the room and turned back again.

Demetrius nodded. “It is not bad. But if you will permit, Miss March,” he said as he approached. He put his hands to the tips of my ears and pulled up.

“Ow!”

“Always you must pretend there are strings attached to the ears, pulling them upwards,” he instructed me. “And think light thoughts as you move, butterflies and sparrows, skimming on the air.”

I rubbed my ears and tried again as he watched.

“Better.” He turned to Sebastian. “It will do from a distance. Do not let her speak. But she must do something about her eyes.”

“What’s wrong with my eyes?” I demanded.

Demetrius turned back with a pained expression. “Miss March, it is obvious you did not have the benefit of a convent education.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Demetrius’ daughters are all convent girls,” Sebastian explained.

“What does that have to do with the price of butter?” I asked crisply.

Demetrius gave a patient sigh. “Miss March, in the convent, a girl is taught the principle of custody of the eyes, to keep them directed at one thing and one thing only. During the Mass, it is the priest.”

I blinked. “You’re Catholic?”

He bowed slightly. “Greek Orthodox. Now, if you will attend, Miss March. I was explaining custody of the eyes. It is customary during Mass, but it is essential for you to adopt a similar habit if you are to be convincing as the wife of a Syrian.”

“The what?” I looked from him to where Sebastian was standing casually, one booted leg crossed over the other.

“Demetrius, will you give us a moment?” he asked. Demetrius bowed again.

“Of course. I will go and secure the necessary costumes,” he assured Sebastian.

As soon as he had gone, I turned on Sebastian. “What did he mean, wife?”

“Surely you understand there was no other way,” he said evenly. “We’ll be travelling in remote areas. A woman does not travel in a Muslim country without the protection of a male relative.”

“Then why can’t I be your sister?”

“Because I’m not going to be disguised as a Circassian,” he said with an effort at patience. “I already have another identity established as a silk merchant, and I’m going to use it. You cannot pass as a Syrian, so you will have to be my new Circassian bride.”

“But—”

“And I will not have you sleeping alone,” he added flatly.

“What do you mean sleeping alone?”

“If we were to pass ourselves as brother and sister, we would be separated at night in any lodgings we take. You would be taken to stay with the women while I would be shunted over to sleep with the fellows. There’s no way I can protect you if I’m not there, Poppy.”

I temporised. “What if I disguise myself as a boy?”

He gave me an odd look. “Have you ever seen your walk? It’s all hips. You’d be spotted inside a minute. Besides, have you ever slept in a group of men? It will be eight hours of bodily noises and smells to which no lady should ever be subjected. Now, I know you want to do this, but you haven’t the faintest idea what sort of danger is involved. I’m acting against all my better instincts in even agreeing to do this, but you must let me do some things my way. And I will insist on being with you. At all times.”

He spoke quietly but with such authority I knew there was no possible way to refuse.

“I accept your terms,” I told him.

He gave a nod of approval. “Good. I’ll go and see if Demetrius needs a hand.”

I called him back just as he reached the door. “What would you have done if I’d refused?”

“I would have tied you up and dropped you off at the nearest police station,” he replied. And with a rakish grin he was gone.

Fourteen

Two hours later, we were dressed and ready for the journey. Demetrius, whom I gathered was a contact of Sebastian’s of long standing, supplied him with a fresh set of robes. Sebastian had lined his eyes again with kohl as well as rubbed a little soot on his chin to darken his beard. The effect was startling. His eyes, dark enough to begin with, were now fathomless, and nearly black. His thick, expressive brows looked exotically appropriate under his native headdress, and the flowing robes gave him the glamour of an Eastern prince. I tried not to stare, practising my own version of custody of the eyes, but Sebastian showed no such reluctance when I finally emerged dressed in my Circassian costume.

The first point of contention between Demetrius and me had been my hair. He had approached me with a bowl full of what appeared to be black mud as he gestured for me to sit. He threw a towel about my shoulders, and I was just about to ask him what he meant to do when he dropped a dollop of the cold mud onto my head.

I squawked and would have jumped up but he pushed me back into the chair. “It is necessary,” he said shortly.

“What is it?” I asked through gritted teeth. It smelt like dirt, and I could only hope there was nothing more unsavoury mixed in.

“Black henna. To further disguise you.” He continued to slap mud on my head as I wriggled in discomfort.

“But Sebastian said Circassian women often have light hair,” I protested.

Demetrius sighed and dribbled more mud onto my head. “It will be worth it,” he promised.

“Well, if it was good enough for Lady Jane Digby,” I muttered. She had dyed her own corn-gold hair to black with the stuff to better resemble her husband’s Bedouin relations. If I were going to play the adventuress, I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, I supposed.

After the mud had sat for a little while, congealing nastily, Demetrius took me to a hole in the floor and bade me lean over it. He brought can after can of water, cold but freshly drawn, and poured it over my head. After endless rinsings, he pronounced it acceptable and brought towels to dry it.

“It ought to be long,” he told me severely as he eyed my crop of curls. “But the headdress will cover the rest of it. At least the hairline is dark now. It makes a difference,” he observed, handing me a small looking glass. He was not wrong. My light brown hair, usually shot through with a bit of red, was now black as a raven’s wing. The change was startling. It made my skin look milk-white in comparison, my eyes large and much greener.

“I suppose it’s all right,” I said grudgingly. The truth was, I rather liked it, but Demetrius and I were soon at loggerheads over the Circassian costume. I nearly squealed aloud when he had brought it to me. It was the most spectacular costume I had ever seen, and it had taken me the better part of an hour to assemble the pieces in the correct order. There was a corset, intricately laced, and fiendishly uncomfortable at first. I had never worn one before, and Demetrius brought his wife to lace me into the thing. But even I had to admit it whittled my waist down spectacularly. Over it went an undergown of fine linen and a pair of slim trousers of thin, silky chamois. Atop this went an overgown that buttoned tightly at the waist to show off the narrow lines of the corset. It was black silk, figured heavily in white, with scarlet-lined sleeves that swept to the ground. The bodice of the gown was clasped with heavy silver buttons, and shafts of carved bone decorated the front like a sort of glamorous breastplate. There were soft crimson leather boots, and a small headdress to secure the long veil of fine white gauze. The effect was stupendous, and I discovered as I moved that Demetrius needn’t have bothered with the deportment lessons. Between the corset and the tight buttons, there was no possible way to move in the costume that wasn’t queenly.

Sebastian scrutinised me from head to toe, looking so closely that I felt myself beginning to blush.

“Will I do?” I asked tartly.

“I suppose,” he said, his tone casual. He turned to finish packing a saddlebag with essentials while Demetrius tweaked bits of my costume.

“Very becoming, Miss March,” he told me.

“And devilishly uncomfortable,” I confessed. “I’d just as soon not have this wretched corset.”

He looked shocked. “But the whole effect of slenderness and beauty would be lost.”

I started to explain that women had thrown their corsets out in order to show the embracing of new freedoms, but Demetrius merely stared at me with lips pursed in disapproval.

“Freedom is very well, Miss March, but no woman without a corset will ever look so regal,” he said grandly. He pitched his voice lower. “Besides, there is a lovely Circassian tradition. On the wedding night, it is the task of the bridegroom to free his bride from her corset using only his dagger. If so much as a nick appears in the perfection of her flesh, he is disgraced. Is that not a lovely tradition?” he asked, his eyes a little dreamy.

“It sounds dreadful.” I shuddered, imagining all the things that could go wrong. I wondered how many Circassian brides had been accidentally disfigured on their wedding nights.

Demetrius was mournful. “You have not the soul of a poet,” he said.

“Perhaps not, but I am grateful to you,” I told him by way of making amends. “It really is a lovely costume, and I will take excellent care of it.”

He waved a hand. “It is yours now, dear lady. I have been well-paid for it.”

He nodded towards Sebastian, who had finished his packing and was hefting the saddlebag to his shoulder.

“Come along, Poppy. Time to mount up.”

I followed him outside and into the alleyway as hastily as my beautiful dress would allow.

“The animals are tethered in the next little alley,” he told me softly. “I didn’t want to attract any more attention to Demetrius’ shop.”

He took long strides in his native robes and I hurried after, holding my long skirt in one hand. The city was just coming to life, with the smells of kindling fires and roasting meats filling the air. I anticipated a pair of beautiful matched Arabian horses or even a couple of milk-white Bedouin camels to carry us out of the city. Instead there was one horse and a donkey that was as sturdy as he was short. Holding the reins of both animals was a young man whose posture was even more gorgeous than mine. He was wearing a striped robe and he held the leather reins with a lazy grace. He sketched me a polite salaam as we approached, and he reminded me of nothing so much as a faun out of myth. Sebastian bent to mutter in my ear.

“This is Rashid, a Bedouin friend of Gabriel’s. He’s playing the part of our servant, at least until we reach the coast.”

It made sense, now that I thought of it. Sebastian was posing as a prosperous businessman. No such fellow would travel with his bride and no manservant.

I smiled at Rashid and inclined my head as much as the tight headdress would allow.

“How do you do?”

Sebastian hissed through his teeth. “For God’s sake, haven’t you learned anything? It’s
assalam aleikum
.”

But Rashid merely grinned, and it was the impish grin of a faun.
“Aleikum assalam, sitt,”
he said politely.

I looked at the little donkey he was holding.

“Sebastian, how on earth is that poor little beast going to carry you?” I asked.

“Oh, he isn’t for me,” he said, strapping his saddlebag to the Arabian. “Climb on, and mind that’s a sidesaddle.”

I stared at him. “You must be joking.”

The alleyway behind the shop was deserted apart from us and Rashid, but he glanced around. “Poppy, this entire operation depends upon you doing what I tell you when I tell you without question and without argument. Now, mount the bloody donkey or I will leave you here.”

He spoke in a calm, conversational tone so that anyone overhearing just the sound would think us having a pleasant discussion. But there was a distinct lack of humour in his eyes, and I hurried to the side of the donkey. Rashid made no move to help, and I remembered that, aside from Demetrius, Eastern men did not make a practise of touching women to whom they were not related.

I stared at the little donkey, realising that it suddenly seemed much taller than I had anticipated when I was expected to mount it—particularly in my elaborate Circassian robes.

“Er, Sebastian,” I began. But there was no chance to finish. I had started to raise my foot and before I could complete the sentence, Sebastian had laced his fingers together and cupped my heel, vaulting me up into the saddle. I landed heavily, but the donkey merely sighed and Sebastian took the rein. I thought he would give it to me, but he held it as he leapt into the saddle of his Arabian with all the grace of a centaur.

“Surely you don’t mean to lead me around like a sack of potatoes,” I protested. He didn’t bother to answer. He merely threaded my rein through a loop on his saddle and touched his horse lightly with his heels. Rashid followed us on foot as Sebastian gave a quick command in Arabic to the horse. She tossed her head, prancing on beautiful feet as she led us out of the alleyway and into the crowded streets of Damascus. At last, I thought, my heart rushing into my throat, it was beginning.

* * *

The trip through the city took longer than I would have imagined, but this was largely due to the fact that Sebastian took a route that included the busiest thoroughfares. At first, I was aghast, but I soon discovered it was a clever strategy. The authorities would never look for us to be travelling in native costumes, and a merchant leaving the city would not keep to tiny alleys and hidden byways. Rashid brought up the rear on foot, occasionally casting glances behind to make certain we were not followed. Tethered by the rein, my little donkey plodded on behind the beautiful horse, and since I was attempting to keep my eyes carefully fixed upon my “husband,” I had little choice but to study Sebastian’s posture. Something about wearing Eastern dress had changed him completely. Gone was the friendly, affable curate, and in his place was a man who wouldn’t have looked out of place in any royal court. His posture was perfectly straight, his chin held high with a stateliness that bordered on arrogance. He did not turn his head right or left, but kept it steady, expecting others to move out of his path, as any gentleman of wealth and power might do. From my perch behind, I saw the scurrying motions of people moving aside to let us pass, and I began to relax. Sebastian’s air of command was so thorough no one would have dared to question him. With him leading, we eventually reached the edge of the city, where the sprawling suburbs gave on to the countryside, orchards of lemon and pomegranate, and fields of melons. The earth smelled new after the odours of the city, and I breathed as deeply as the corset would let me. Sebastian clicked again to his horse and she shifted up into a trot, which my donkey immediately imitated.

“Oh, dear God, no,” I muttered. I turned back to find Rashid had broken into an easy lope and was grinning at me. For the next few hours I was bounced around mercilessly as the donkey jounced after the brisk Arabian. I didn’t protest, partly out of pride and partly because I assumed it wouldn’t do me any good. Sebastian had shown he meant to be in control of our expedition, and since I hadn’t told him about Masterman, the least I could do was follow obediently. I felt terribly guilty about the omission, not least because I suspected Masterman would be frantic if she’d read the newspapers. I could just imagine her, breakfasting with her single boiled egg and the newspaper, reading the sordid details, going very white about the lips, perhaps spilling her tea.

And then I thought of something truly horrifying: Masterman knew who my family were. I had persuaded Sebastian to travel to Cairo by way of Ashkelon by convincing him it would take some time for the reporters to make the connection between Poppy March and Penelope Hammond, stepdaughter of American millionaire Reginald Hammond. But Masterman could do it in an instant. One word in the wrong ear, and my story would be splashed from Damascus to Dubuque, and God help us both if Mother herself decided to come to Syria to find me.

I nibbled the inside of my cheek, wondering how to break the news to Sebastian. He would no doubt be furious that I had kept the secret of Masterman’s existence in the first place. And in the second...

I turned in the saddle to look behind us. Rashid still loped along behind, taking the distance easily as an athlete. Beyond him, Damascus lay like a postcard city, gleaming white in the late morning sun. She seemed to shimmer on the flat plain, a mirage that would prove heartbreakingly real if Sebastian decided to return me. And I knew he would. He had stated more than once and in painfully blunt detail what his course of action would be if he believed things had got too far out of hand. I would be handed over to the authorities. He had talked glibly of trussing me up and dropping me at their feet, but I knew that was nothing like what would happen. He had been bluffing to get his way. The truth was, if he had no choice but to turn me over, he would go as well, taking the blame for Hugh’s death and clearing me entirely. I had no doubt he would lie himself blue in the face to swear he had abducted me and killed Hugh. There was no other story the authorities could hear that would put me firmly in the clear—unless we knew and could prove who had really done it, and that would be like looking for a particularly nefarious needle in a very large haystack. Who knew what low types he had consorted with in Damascus? Hugh might have had an entire network of dangerous confederates who had turned on him. Or, I reasoned, he might have simply been the victim of circumstances, wrong time and wrong place. Damascus was a city in the process of remaking itself, and there were dangerous corners especially for foreigners. Who was to say he had not wandered into one of them when we left him?

No, finding out who had killed Hugh would have been a Herculean task, one much better suited to the police, who could sleuth out his associates and question people thoroughly. I only hoped they would throw their nets further afield than merely looking for Sebastian and me. It would be tempting for them to insist we must be the villains of the piece—to begin with, it kept victim and killer from the same group of foreigners. It might reflect badly on them that it had happened in Damascus, but no real blame could be attached to them. If, however, it could be proved it was a Syrian who had killed him, they opened themselves up to an international incident when they could least afford it. Admitting one of their own had killed an Englishman, just when they needed English support in throwing off the French and installing their own king was unthinkable. Even if they found proof Hugh had been killed by a Syrian, it would be impossible for them to admit it. Far easier to put the blame on a pair of English fugitives. Who knew? They might even be able to parlay that into a bit of gentle extortion in getting the English to look the other way while they threw out the French.