The Perfect Kiss (32 page)

The hooves of the horses beat out a steady rhythm, the chaise rocked gently—a testament to excellent springs. It was as if they’d managed to steal a moment out of time.

“I almost wish we didn’t ever have to stop,” she murmured. “It’s lovely just being here, with you. No difficulties, no arguments, no horrid decisions to be made, just the moon, and the clip-clop of the horses and us.”

His arm tightened and she lifted her head and turned her face up to be kissed. And he was more than willing to oblige.

The horses slowed a little, laboring up a hill. He glanced out of the window and stiffened. She followed his gaze and saw twinkling lights winking in the darkness.

“Cheltenham,” she said in a sad voice. “We’re back in the real world again. I wish . . .” She gave him an anguished look and kissed him with a desperation and sweetness that pierced him, wrapping her hands around his head and kissing him as if it was the last time. When the kiss finished she held him tightly for a moment, her silken cheek pressed against his rough one, before moving back to take the seat opposite him.

“Tell me about these friends of yours we’re staying with,” she said.

“Ah . . .” He thought for a minute. “Before I do, could you give me a definition of exactly what you meant by ‘funny business’?”

And then he told her about his friends.

“A
harem
? You are joking, surely.”

“No, it’s a genuine harem.”

Her eyes sparkled. “In
Cheltenham
? Are you sure?”

He laughed at her amazement. “Yes, we’re staying in a house in Cheltenham that contains a harem. It’s the home of Tariq bin Khalif, a very old friend of mine. I’ve known him since we were boys together in Alexandria. He’s immensely rich—a silk merchant, among other things—and every year he comes to Cheltenham to drink the waters. They helped cure some ailment he had in his youth. This year he has brought his wives with him for the first time.”

“A real harem? How exciting!” Then she laughed. “Oh, but if this gets out—first he chaperones me with his dog and then he takes me to a harem!”

“You won’t be ruined,” he assured her. “A harem is designed to safeguard the virtue of the inmates.”

“Oh.”

He laughed at her disappointment.

 
 
IT LOOKED JUST LIKE ANY OTHER CHELTENHAM HOUSE FROM THE outside, with a green door, a brass knocker, and wrought-iron railings. The only difference was that the windows of the upper story were covered also, though not with railings, but carved wooden screens just inside the windows. You had to look closely to see them.

Dominic rang the bell. The door opened smoothly and a servant dressed in western clothes, but wearing a white headdress, bowed to Dominic and ushered them inside. He did not acknowledge Grace by as much as a flicker of an eyelash.

The owner of the house came down the stairs to meet them, an olive-skinned man of medium height, dark browed, black bearded, and with dark, almond-shaped eyes. He was dressed entirely in western clothes.

He said in heavily accented English, “Peace be with you, old friend. Welcome to my house, and welcome, too, to your lady.” He shook Dominic’s hand and inclined his head toward Grace.

“Miss Merridew, this is my friend Tariq bin Khalif.”

Grace curtsied. “Thank you for offering us your hospitality.”

“Dominic’s friends are my friends. I have had rooms prepared for your visit and all is ready for your comfort.” He hesitated, uncertain of how she felt about other cultures. “Would you be willing to meet my wives?”

Dominic laughed. “Try and stop her.”

“If you, and they, would be so gracious,” Grace said in careful Arabic.

The black brows flew up. He responded in the same language. “The lady speaks our tongue?”

“A little only and not well,” she replied.

“She also reads it,” Dominic said quietly, and Grace thrilled at the note of quiet pride in his voice. “She has a fondness for the poetry of Ibn Safr al-Marini.”

“The celebrated poet of Andalusia? I am impressed and my wives will be well pleased. They were, you understand, a little nervous of meeting an English lady.” He clapped his hands and a large, fat, soft-looking man in Arab clothing appeared soundlessly in the doorway. “Conduct this lady to the women’s quarters,” Tariq ordered. “She speaks our language.”

The large man bowed and indicated that Grace was to precede him.

“A eunuch,” Dominic murmured inconspicuously in Grace’s ear.

Grace’s eyes widened. So this was what Abdul might have become? She followed the man. He led her past the main stairs to a staircase at the back of the house.

The women’s quarters were on the second floor at the rear, separated from the rest of the house by an exquisite carved screen that blocked the passageway. The large man opened the door and bowed, indicating to Grace that she should enter. She entered, her heart beating rapidly. She was eager to meet the ladies of the harem, but a little nervous, too.

He opened a door and it was like stepping into another world, an exotic world of scent and color and rich textures and intricate patterns. The air was scented: sandalwood, perhaps, Grace thought. Some sort of incense anyway, musky and exotic and exciting. Thick Persian carpets covered every inch of the floor, sometimes several layers thick and laid higgledy-piggledy, without regard to color or design, quite different from the careful balance sought in English style.

The windows were covered by delicate carved wooden screens and framed by lavish drapes of brilliant gold silk, but silver lamps swung from the ceiling, bathing the room in golden light, and casting shadows in the corners. Light also reflected from mirrors; gilt-framed mirrors in all sorts of shapes and sizes almost covered the walls—a surprise to Grace, who’d grown up in a house without mirrors and thought one mirror plenty. She’d never seen so many mirrors in one room. Patterned hangings and embroideries filled the few spaces left.

Five ladies stood staring at her, their hands clasped nervously. Grace, recalling what Tariq had told her, smiled and curtsied. “Peace be with you,” she said in Arabic. “I thank you for inviting me to your home.”

There was a flutter, a murmur, and the ladies gathered around her, chattering excitedly in Arabic.

Laughing, Grace held up her hands and explained that she was not yet very good with their language, that she could read it better than she could speak and understand.

One by one the ladies introduced themselves. The oldest wife came first, Fatima, an elegant woman who Grace thought would be in her late twenties, then came Kadije, round-faced and jolly, and Mouna, an exquisite dusky beauty who looked about seventeen. These were Tariq’s wives.

The other women, it was subtly made clear, were servants. A fourth wife had remained in Alexandria, to give birth. Mouna demonstrated with a graphic demonstration and a giggle.

They invited her to sit. There was little furniture—several low divans, mounds of sumptuously covered cushions and a few low tables and chests made of cedar, patterned heavily with inlaid mother-of-pearl. Grace sat on a divan and found herself sinking into lush softness.

Fatima clapped her hands and the servant girls appeared, one bearing a tall silver jug, which proved to contain a fruit drink, oddly perfumed, but delicious. The other carried a huge tray and the low table was soon covered with dozens of silver dishes containing foods Grace had never before seen. The ladies urged her to eat, and waited with interest for her reaction to each dish and pelted her with questions. Grace even managed a few of her own.

It was the ladies’ first time in England and they found it very different, they told her: quite cold and damp, even though it was summer.

By the time she’d tasted a little of everything she was full to bursting. She was in the middle of thanking the ladies when she exclaimed in English, “Oh, heavens I almost forgot!” Recollecting herself, she said in Arabic, “I brought you some small gifts.”

As soon as Dominic had told her where they would be staying the night, she’d ransacked her luggage for anything she thought might please harem ladies: a couple of ladies’ magazines, lavishly illustrated, a box of homemade toffees, and some cosmetic creams and lotions—though she was fairly sure they would have their own. She had no idea of their tastes, of course, but she imagined that harem ladies would be interested in the same things she and her sisters had longed for when they’d lived with Grandpapa, cut off from the rest of the world.

She also gave them a few things she’d bought for her sisters’ children; a box of spillikins, a dissected map puzzle, a French doll, and a kaleidoscope. She presumed the ladies had children.

The ladies exclaimed excitedly over the gifts, turning the pages of the magazine back to front and poring over the illustrations, particularly the fashions. To Grace’s amazement they fell on the children’s toys with equal delight. They loved the French doll, with clothes that could be taken off and put on. They took turns peering into the kaleidoscope and exclaimed over the beautiful patterns.

They peered dubiously into the box of spillikins and looked at Grace with puzzled faces, as if to say,
you brought us a box of sticks?

She cleared the low table and demonstrated how to play the children’s game. Soon all four of them were seated around the table, laughing and competing fiercely at spillikins.

At the end of the third game, they were fast friends.

“I wish you could meet my sisters,” she told them.

The younger two looked to Fatima for an answer. She smiled, “We would like that very much.”

Grace was surprised. “But I thought you were always locked in,” she blurted. “All those locks and bars.”

They laughed. “No, any locks and bars are for our protection,” Fatima explained. “We can go out, as long as we are escorted.” It was much the same as English girls of good family, Grace realized.

Mouna was examining the French doll. “Do you wear all this under your clothes?” she asked Grace.

“Not exactly the same, but yes.”

“Show me.” Mouna bounded up and waited in clear expectation.

Grace blinked. “You want to see my underwear?”

All three ladies nodded eagerly.

Grace felt herself blushing. She’d never undressed in front of strangers before. Well, except for mantua makers. And Dominic Wolfe. It was harmless, she told herself. These ladies were just curious, and she was just as curious about their clothes. She swallowed and stood up. “Very well, this looks like a dress, but in fact it is a skirt and a bodice, and the join is hidden by this belt.” She spoke in English, emphasizing the words “skirt” and “bodice” and “belt” and they supplied words in Arabic, which she tried to remember.

“And underneath the skirt is a petticoat.” She lifted her skirt to allow the ladies to see the petticoat, but in seconds they had unfastened the skirt, the better to see how it was made. It was passed around the servant girls as well.

It was a source of amusement and interest to them that the petticoat belled out around her without touching her legs. They examined the hem minutely and she showed how rope was inserted into it to make it stand out better. They thought that very ingenious. The petticoat, too, was removed and passed around.

Then they turned to look at her pantalettes. “These are my pantalettes.” Grace placed her hands over the drawstrings to indicate she was not taking them off!

Mouna had removed the pantalettes of the French doll and poked her fingers through the slit in the crotch, a question in her eyes. Grace nodded, blushing. Trust the French to be totally accurate. But she was not going to show the slit.

There was some discussion as to the purpose of this slit, and some embarrassing gestures made. Grace was instantly transported back to the moment in the lake when Dominic had caressed her through that very slit. Blushing, she shook her head. People might do such things, but it was not the main purpose of the design. Eventually Kadije squatted in imitation of relieving herself and Grace nodded in embarrassed relief.

The ladies thought that very strange and rather unpleasant. They wore loose, gathered pantaloons which were held up with a drawstring and easily dropped—as Kadije demonstrated. They were all quite blunt and matter-of-fact about nakedness, Grace saw. And why not? They were all female.

“This is a corset.” She unbuttoned the bodice to show them, but Mouna drew it off her, indicating they wanted to examine the darts and design. They were all fascinated by the corset and nothing would do but that they unlace it, too, and examine it, so Grace was left in just pantalettes and a chemise, which, when she thought about it, was much the same as they were wearing.

The ladies each tried on the corset, with much laughter. Only Mouna could fit. They were intrigued by the way the corset pushed her breasts higher, and thought the whalebone inserts a most odd and interesting device.

When they discovered the polished bone busk pushed into its little pocket they drew it out with excited exclamations, but seemed disappointed when they saw it. Fatima explained that from the shape and feel of it, they’d expected it to be a knife.

Grace laughed and tried to explain that she knew one lady who did carry a sharp instrument there for protection, but that most of them didn’t. The ladies nodded. What were men for, if not for protection?

“Now,” Fatima told her while Mouna was being buttoned and laced into Grace’s clothes, “we shall dress you in our costume.”

Servant girls brought forward a pile of shimmering fabrics. They surrounded Grace, Fatima said something and before she knew it, her chemise was replaced with a blue silk top—like a tunic, except it was extremely sheer.

Grace, looking down at herself, was a little taken aback at how sheer, but saw they were bringing a bodice and she relaxed. However when they fastened the bodice, an exquisite thing of gold and blue and red embroidery, she found it didn’t help. It covered her back very well, but the front consisted of a tight band that went under her breasts—to push them up a bit, like a corset, Fatima explained.

What it did was make the near nakedness of her breasts more apparent, Grace thought.