“You told us at the time he was on a business trip,” Thomas marveled. “When he was really in prison on the island. So that’s how he came to die in that fire! I remember you said something about him stopping at the island on his way back from his business trip, but that never quite made sense . . .” He looked exhausted as he ran his fingers through his hair. “But what came of the money, Mother?”
“You were so little—I had to shield you from the truth. And I could never keep money that had caused so much suffering. That’s why I donated it for the reconstruction of Mogador. In return, Qaid Hash-Hash let it be known that all accusations against your father were false.”
“I always wondered where you got all that money for the reconstruction!” John said, shaking his head.
“I wanted you two to grow up unburdened and with fond memories of your father. Unfortunately, it appears as though I’ve failed,” Sibylla replied sadly.
“You’re the best mother there is, as far as I’m concerned,” Emily declared firmly and kissed her.
“I would have tried to shield my children as well,” Victoria affirmed.
“You carried a heavy burden for all of us, Mother,” Thomas added and John nodded in agreement.
Sibylla wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl. She had kept Benjamin’s dirty secret for more than twenty years. Only now did she realize how onerous it had been.
André went to her, took her hands, and pulled her up from the divan. “The past is behind you now,” he said and tenderly enfolded her in his arms. “You are free.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mogador, June 1862
“I don’t want to go to bed, Mummy!” Charlotte made a face. Selwyn copied her and whined, “I’m not sleepy at all, Mummy!”
Since Victoria’s return from Lisbon, the two of them had managed a couple of times to wear their mother down with persistent whining, but tonight she was steadfast. “If you don’t go to sleep, you’re not going to go to the wedding tomorrow. Now kiss your aunt Emily good night.”
Nadira came to take over for her, but Victoria stopped her. She wanted to tuck the children in herself. She had missed them terribly during her six-month journey and now spent every available moment with them.
She took Charlotte and Selwyn by the hand and crossed the roof garden of Sibylla’s riad to Emily, who was sitting on a cushion surrounded by Sabri’s sisters and Malika.
Charlotte regarded her with curiosity. “Why are you holding your fingers like that, Aunt Emily?”
“Because the design on my hands has to dry. See?” She held her palms out to show them the swirling henna painted on them.
“It’s very pretty,” Selwyn squeaked in his little voice. “Just like the princess in my fairy-tale book.”
Emily laughed. “At my wedding celebration tomorrow, I’m going to be a princess too. Good night, you two!” She waved after the twins. “Sweet dreams!”
“Are you thirsty? Would you like some tea?” asked Malika.
Emily’s half sister and Sabri’s eldest sister were her negafas, her indispensable helpers during the three-day festivities that had begun yesterday with a visit to the hamam and would end tomorrow with a lavish feast on the beach.
Emily nodded gratefully and Malika ran to Firyal and Nadira, who stood next to a table with cake, fruit, and sweet sorbets, and retrieved a glass of green tea.
“Here you are, Sister!” She handed Emily the glass. “But not too much. You know you mustn’t go to a certain place while the henna on your hands is still wet.”
Sabri’s unmarried sisters giggled and Emily sighed. “I doubt that Sabri has to suffer so much pain and inconvenience to marry me!”
At the hamam, attendants had cleaned and scrubbed her from head to toe, removed all hair save that on her head. They’d also given her the extra bridal treatment: a bath in donkey’s milk, so that she might enchant her bridegroom with especially soft skin.
Today was the beberiska, the henna ceremony. No men were allowed. They had assembled at Consul Willshire’s to fete Sabri while the female guests—an unusual confluence of Arab women, the wives of European and Jewish merchants, and Emily’s half sister, Malika—celebrated in Sibylla’s rooftop garden. Emily was particularly happy to have her extended English family there. Oscar had left the business in the hands of his son, Edward, and taken the first trip of his life with his wife, Eugenie, and their adolescent daughter, Arabella. The three of them were enjoying their adventure to the fullest and were already making plans for an extended tour of Morocco.
The women had been sitting together since late that morning, keeping the bride company while she rested on a cushion and the hennaya painted ancient symbols of good luck and magic on her hands and feet. As they passed the time enjoying tea and delicious food, music, song, and dance, evening had come, the sky above Mogador turned dark blue, and the stars sparkled in the warm early-June air. Now, Nadira and Firyal were lighting torches, and voices, laughter, and instruments could be heard, accompanied by the hoarse singing of Sabri’s old grandmother.
The hennaya had mixed a fresh paste called earth of paradise using the ground leaves of the henna bush, black tea, and tamarind juice, and filled a piping bag with it. She was an old Arab woman, a widow who lived in a modest hut by the city wall and who also made her living as a matchmaker, arranging marriages between the affluent Arab families of Mogador. Malika held up a lamp to provide light while the hennaya bathed Emily’s feet in a bowl of orange-blossom water.
“The attendants in the hamam have done good work. Your skin is as smooth as silk, my little dove,” the hennaya said with satisfaction.
“You should see her Venus mound!” Haji Abdul’s first wife cackled. “Sweet and fragrant as a rose blossom. But how she squealed when the servant pulled off the sugar paste! Like a puppy taken off the teat.”
“There are no hamams in Lisbon.” Emily laughed. “Yet somehow we managed without it!”
“My poor son!” Almaz exclaimed with exaggerated concern. “How on earth did he find the path through all that thorny briar?”
It was part of the berberiska ceremony for married women to initiate the bride into love’s secrets by telling lewd jokes. It did not bother anyone that Emily was already familiar with these secrets.
When the laughter died down, the hennaya said, “If you will permit me, my little dove, I am going to paint the magic signs of good fortune, love, and prosperity on your feet now and interweave them with the name of your beloved.”
“Rather paint the signs for desire and fertility,” Sabri’s eldest sister piped up. “They’ve been sharing the same bed for months already, and her belly has not grown fat!”
“How could it, if I’ve had to be separated from my husband since our return?” Emily sassed back. “Good thing the astrologer recommended we wed in early summer. We surely would not have been able to forgo the pleasures of love much longer!”