“What do you appreciate most about it?”
His gaze tracked her movements around the room. “The sunsets,” he said after a pause. “I have never seen the like anywhere else. The entire horizon is burning, then the sea turns red, but it’s deeply peaceful.”
“That sounds beautiful.”
She could taste salt in the breeze, feel the warmth on her skin, smell the savory fragrance of grilled seafood spritzed with lemon juice. She met her eyes in the mirror over the sink. Her hair looked wild, as though a man had just tossed her around on a mattress.
“It all depends on where you come from, what you will appreciate about Beirut,” Elias said. “When you come to it from the East, it probably gives the impression of the West. When you come from the West, like you, it would feel distinctly like the East.”
She looked at him. “A moody city, then.”
He lifted his chin and glanced down his nose in a gesture she had learned was his way of indicating no. “It’s a versatile city,” he said. “Above all, a resilient city. Old but alive. Every now and then something tries to destroy her, an earthquake, fire, conquest . . . but she keeps rising from the ruins. It’s a good time for her now, I think you would enjoy it, there are all sorts of magazines and international literary clubs. The Ottomans invest in her; the streets are modern. The new buildings are built in an ocher stone that appears golden in the sun, or they paint them yellow, or blue. High roofs and arches everywhere and beautiful Baghdadi ceilings. Yalla, you should visit and see for yourself.”
“I should, yes.” Her hand was limp on the cool ceramic of the sink. Like Paris and Provence, it would likely never happen, not with him by her side. Not unless she recalibrated all the major decisions she had made for her life, decisions she had made with her most persistent needs in mind . . .
“I should like to tell you about Ehden,” he said, and now he changed position and leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs.
She wandered toward him. “Ehden?”
He took her by the wrist and pulled her down to sit in his lap.
“My family’s village.”
“I thought that was Zgharta?”
“It’s the same—not the same place, but the same people. Ehden used to be the original home, now we only stay there during summer. Every September, we go to Zgharta for the winter months, closer to the sea.”
She gripped his arm with some excitement. “The first printing press in the Near East is in Ehden—it’s where the first Arabic books in the Levant were printed.”
His grin was wide, so wide and dazzling. He gave her waist a squeeze. “Of course you know about it, Professor Campbell.”
“Obviously—it’s a linguistic milestone. Is it still there, the press? It should be hundreds of years old now.”
“Yes. It’s still there, still printing. One of our better English imports.”
“I should love to see it.”
His gaze moved over her glowing face. “Marry me,” he said casually. “Marry me, and we could go anywhere, without problems.”
She gave a startled little laugh. One of his jokes. Light-headed, she hid her face against his neck, unsettled by the quiet tension that seemed to coil in his muscles. A small pause, then he enfolded her in his arms. One hand slid inside her robe and caressed the sensitive back of her knee. “It’s a beautiful place, Ehden,” he said, and his low voice pleasantly reverberated through his chest. “Olive tree groves, fruit orchards, and mulberry trees. In spring, the blossoms are white and pink. The mountain water is the cleanest you will ever drink . . .”
The sun-warmed skin of his neck smelled like pine soap and sex. She was growing heavy and relaxed in his arms while he was describing paradise. Her body felt safe in his presence. Her body only cared about the now, and the now was warmth, strength, the pleasure of being held skin to skin by this man. She slept more deeply by his side, too, and felt pleasantly drowsy around him ever since the anxiousness around their scandalous beginnings had faded. Perhaps there could be room for both, the body and the mind, even for someone like her. She closed her eyes, as if to not think of anything at all.
On Friday, Elias rose with the dawn, and it was clear that he was going out to deal with his repatriation business. She sat on the edge of the mattress while he readied himself, her bare feet dangling over the rug. He stopped by the bed on his way out. He smelled of his cologne, and his breath was minty from whatever he used on his teeth.
“I would like a recommendation,” he said. “For a church, and a barber.”
He rubbed the spot above his ear with his knuckles, where his hair was growing out. The thought of his soft curls landing on a floor, to be swept up and discarded in a dustbin, made her feel very sorry.
“Will a Catholic church do?”
He nodded. She suggested a few places, and he kissed both her hands and left. She sat alone in the bed with a ball of anxiety forming in her chest. A church. Was he eaten by guilt over what they were doing? Would he have a change of heart, and their last time just before dawn had been the last time?
She ran herself a hot bath. Her hands were shaking when she uncorked a bottle of lavender essence. An affair was not for the weak; too much second-guessing. While she soaked in the tub, she decided to pull herself together. Remember who she was, what her purpose was beyond this bedroom. No more fear.
After she had dried herself off and dressed, she went in search of some of the high-quality stationery she kept in the house, then she sat down at the vanity table and composed a letter to Mrs. Weldon. By the time she put her seal into the wax, it was almost ten o’clock.
The London fog reeked of sulfur this morning—hardly the day for a pleasurable walk. She only briefly diverted from her route and went into the telegraph office near Sloane Square. She sent two telegrams:
One to Hattie in Belgravia.
One to Alexandra.
Alexandra lived close by, in the quarter where European diplomats clustered with their families. It had been a few years, almost eight to be precise, but would she have afternoon tea with her on Monday? Apparently having tea in department stores was all the rage now! Catriona hoped her old friend would bite. Good things had happened ever since she had laid Charlie’s ghost to rest the other day. Confronting Alex could do that and more. It might actually help her advance the mad, bad scheme that was brewing at the back of her mind. Feeling quite productive, she boarded the District Railway to Acton with the letter for Mrs. Weldon in her skirt pocket. She kept herself busy afterward, and did not return to Cadogan Place until late afternoon.
Elias arrived late in the evening through the kitchen entrance.
She half expected him to stop in the doorway to the drawing room where she was pretending to read, that he would look at her with a noble and severe face and say: We will not do this again.