“Just because the qaid’s people didn’t find anything doesn’t mean there is nothing,” said Sibylla at night when they would go from room to room by the light of an oil lamp. She did not want to search during the daytime. By now, Sibylla trusted no one but Nadira, who stood by her side steadfastly and reliably.
She rummaged through the drawers of Benjamin’s desk with grim determination. She needed money to cover the most pressing expenses, and so desperately hoped to find some, but, on the other hand, dreaded finding any since that would be proof of her husband’s guilt. Her resentment toward Benjamin for subjecting her to this grew with each passing day. She spent hours spinning scenarios of what might have happened. And then she would shake her head over her foolishness. If she wanted to save herself from going mad, she would have to stop brooding and move forward.
Several weeks later, Sibylla sat at her desk trying to compose a letter to her father. It was the end of February and spring was announcing its arrival all over Mogador with delicate herbs and new buds. Laying in front of her on the table, covering the ugly scratch the qaid’s guards had made with their scimitars, were two letters with business instructions from her father to Benjamin. Richard still had no idea of the charges against his son-in-law, and Sibylla knew it was high time she enlightened him. But if she told him of the ugly accusation, he would surely order her to return to London with her children—and that was out of the question. She never wanted to live under her father’s roof again and be told what was good for her and what was not.
She finally resolved to be as vague as possible. She would write that Benjamin was tied up and she was conducting his affairs for the time being. Of course, her father would have questions, but months would pass before she received his reply and by then, perhaps, this nightmare would be over. At least she would be spared the indignity of having to confess that the foreign families in Mogador had been shunning her since Benjamin’s arrest and that she had had to borrow money from her servant, after all, in order to feed the children.
Sibylla heaved a deep sigh and was dipping the quill in the inkwell when there was a knock at the door.
Firyal appeared. “There is a messenger, my lady. He wants to speak with the master.”
“He shall have to make do with the mistress,” she replied and put the quill aside. “Do you know what he wants?”
The servant nodded eagerly. She was still afraid that Sibylla held her affair with Benjamin against her and worked to fulfill all her duties conscientiously. “He reports that the caravan with the leather that the master bought in Fez has arrived at the Bab Doukkala. There are fifty camels, and he says that the master needs to inspect the merchandise.”
Some hours later, Sibylla arrived home exhausted. Only now was she able to relax. She was hardly an expert on the quality of leather. The karwan bashi, the camel drivers, and several of the merchants had watched her with suspicion and disdain as she had tried to assert herself. But she had succeeded and, in the end, felt she had even bested the men, who thought themselves so superior.
“Nadira, Firyal!” she called as she entered. “I’m starving! Is there still something in the kitchen for me to eat?”
In the courtyard of the riad, she was met by the sight of a familiar Frenchman and her sons. The three had their backs turned to her and were throwing small glass marbles into a hole they’d dug.
“Yes!” screamed Tom, throwing his arms up and jumping in the air. “Mummy! I won! Now Johnny’s marbles belong to me! Even the big one with the blue stripes!” He ran to his mother.
Sibylla picked him up and pressed her lips into his soft blond curls. Her eyes met André’s. He looked tired. There were lines around his eyes; his clothes and boots were dirty. But his smile was full of warmth. Twenty-one days had passed since his departure and oh, how she had missed him!
“Madame Hopkins! It seems like an eternity since we said good-bye.”
She set Tom down and André took her hands. “Much too long.”
His dark brown eyes glistened. “How are you?”
She thought of the guards who had confiscated all of her hard-earned savings, of Sara, who had found all sorts of subterfuges to avoid helping her, and of her sons, who asked her every day when their father would be returning, and shrugged. She did not wish to talk about any of those things.
They heard steps behind them and Sibylla quickly withdrew her hands. Nadira was standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “I have taken the liberty of setting the table in the dining room for you and Monsieur Rouston, my lady. The cook has prepared a tagine with chickpeas, tomatoes, and onions.”
“We have had to make do with simple meals since Benjamin’s arrest,” Sibylla said apologetically when they were sitting across from each other at the long wooden table.
He had already noticed the slashed dining room chairs, and she’d confessed how the qaid’s guards had searched the house for money and taken every last copper falus.
“It’s delicious,” André assured her with his mouth full. “Please forgive my manners, but all I’ve had today is tea and flatbread.”
She nodded and waited for him to finish chewing. “What news do you have from the sultan?”
He folded his napkin and sighed. “The good news is that you are being granted an audience; unfortunately, it will not be until the fall, because the sultan is spending the summer at his palace in Fez.”
“And he intends to hold Benjamin and make me wait until then?” Sibylla asked, outraged.
“I am afraid that, at the moment, he is holding all the cards, even if Drummond-Hay has sent a protest note by now. His Majesty told me unequivocally that he is convinced of your husband’s guilt. He says that he has incorruptible evidence, and that Christians who flout the law and deal in slaves face execution.”
Sibylla was horrified. “He cannot be serious!”
“That is difficult to say at this moment,” André replied. “I have known Abd al-Rahman for several years and know that, in contrast to many of his predecessors, he is not a bloodthirsty ruler. But he is facing domestic problems. Many Berber princes are not happy about the presence of foreigners in this country and are urging him to make an example of Benjamin.”
“But Benjamin is an Englishman!” Sibylla protested. “I shall write a letter to the queen!”
André scrutinized her with a strange expression. She blushed. “He is the father of my children. They should not grow up in the belief that their father was a criminal and slave trader.”
“There is no use in any speculations now. You must be patient until September,” André replied after a brief pause. “If all else fails, you might try to buy your husband’s freedom. But that is going to be a costly affair. Toledano alleges that Benjamin shipped as many as two to three thousand slaves.”
Sibylla looked at him in dismay. “Does Abd al-Rahman really believe that Samuel Toledano has nothing to do with the whole affair? Is he not being called to account at all?”