The French consul’s wife, an elegant, capricious woman, leaned over to her friends. “Just look at the unusual visitor who is gracing us with his presence.” Her brown eyes scrutinized André’s physique approvingly. “A handsome man, don’t you think?” she whispered to her Spanish counterpart and the ostrich feathers in her elaborate hairdo bobbed coquettishly.
The Spanish woman looked at her over the top of her fan. “Is it true that he rode to Marrakesh at the request of Se?ora Hopkins to intercede on behalf of her husband?”
“That is what they say, oui.” The Frenchwoman nodded. “Do you think that this dedication has anything to do with Madame’s beautiful blue eyes?”
“What do you mean?” Sara Willshire interrupted, a touch irritated. But the Frenchwoman merely raised her thinly plucked eyebrows.
“Oh, don’t pretend to be so shocked, Senhora Willshire!” the Brazilian consul’s wife butted in. “You told us yourself that this Frenchman called on Senhora Hopkins at her house after her husband’s arrest. Just imagine—at her house!”
Sara blushed. “Perhaps he was there to inquire about her well-being.”
“I’m sure, my dear, I’m sure,” the Frenchwoman sneered.
“In any case, it is unseemly to receive a gentleman visitor when one’s husband is not at home,” the wife of a Dutch merchant piped up as she smoothed her high-necked, dark dress. “But then, this Mrs. Hopkins conducts business with Moorish women. She even dresses like one of them. She is an immoral woman!”
“If a man like Rouston showed an interest in me, I would be an immoral woman as well,” the Frenchwoman countered, unimpressed. “Ah, bonjour, Monsieur Rouston! Quel plaisir!” she called out and extended her gloved hand. “So you have left your secluded mountain home to celebrate Easter with us. Or is there another reason for your visit? A secret love, perhaps?” She winked at him.
André ignored her words and leaned over to kiss her hand. Then he smiled at the group. “I wish you all a happy Easter, ladies. Permit me to remark that you are more beautiful than birds of paradise.”
The women smiled, and even the Dutchwoman’s mouth twitched a little. Only Sara seemed uncomfortable. The Frenchwoman beckoned a servant carrying a tray. “I am sure you’ll drink a cup of tea with us, Monsieur Rouston?” She took one of the white porcelain cups and handed it to him with a charming smile.
To her chagrin, the gesture was answered with a vacant expression. “Have you seen Madame Hopkins?” he asked Sara. “I was sure I would find her with you.”
“I’m very sorry, but I don’t know where Mrs. Hopkins is. I have not seen her for a very long time.”
André looked at her in consternation.
“I doubt she would dare show up here anyway,” the Spanish woman remarked snidely.
“But why do you judge Madame Hopkins so harshly, ladies? I am certain that she does not merit your low opinion!”
The Spanish woman said nothing, but the Dutchwoman hissed, “We have those people to thank for the fact that the qaid interrogated our husbands as though they were common criminals! He ordered the houses of some merchants searched. And yet Mr. Hopkins is the only foreign slave trader in this town!”
“As far as I know, his guilt has not been proven,” André replied sharply.
“He is under suspicion for good reason, I imagine, and that reflects on the entire foreign community in Mogador,” the Brazilian woman argued heatedly. “Mr. Hopkins has discredited honorable citizens. I, for one, do not like being associated with swindlers and slave traders!”
André could hardly contain his anger. “Did your ‘honorable’ husband not make his fortune on the slave market in Salvador da Bahia?”
The Brazilian woman glared at him. “How dare you!”
“If you were a man, I would dare a great deal more,” André snapped at her.
“It is to your credit that you are speaking up for us, Monsieur Rouston—but please, leave it be.”
Sibylla stood behind him, white-faced. But her back was straight and her chin up. To her right and left were her sons. Tom and Johnny clung to her legs and looked wide-eyed from one woman to the other.
“You’re silent, ladies? Go ahead, have no fear! Repeat your accusations in front of me and my children.” Sibylla’s voice was glacial.
André turned to her. He was desperate to shield her from these witless and self-righteous women. But her look stopped him.
“Should the accusations against my husband turn out to be true—which I do not believe—the fault lies solely with him. Neither my children nor I have even the slightest thing to do with it. Although we are not obliged to justify ourselves to you, if these lies preoccupy you to such an extent, you may come to me in confidence with any questions you have. I shall answer them as best I can.” Sibylla looked around. “Well, then?”
Everyone was silent. The Brazilian woman coughed, Sara stared at her hands, and the Spanish woman hid behind her fan. The Dutchwoman looked supercilious, and only the Frenchwoman smiled. The tension between Monsieur Rouston and the Englishwoman interested her far more than any nonsense about slave trading.
“Well, that’s settled then,” Sibylla continued. “I have one more piece of news for you. As long as my husband is the qaid’s prisoner, I am conducting the business affairs of the Spencer & Son Shipping Company in Mogador. Effective immediately, I am responsible for everything, and believe you me: the slave trade is no part of it!” She added somewhat more gently, “Today we are celebrating the feast of our Lord’s resurrection and I want to contribute to the annual gathering.” She stepped aside and they only now noticed her servant, who had been standing behind her with a large market basket.
“I have baked a traditional English treat. Other countries”—she nodded to the French consul’s wife—“may have a more renowned cuisine. But hot cross buns are among my most beloved childhood memories of Easter. Yours too, Sara?”
Sara was tugging at the ruffle on her sleeve and pretended not to hear. Sibylla raised her shoulders. Then she turned to Nadira. “Please give the buns to the ladies and Monsieur Rouston. They must be eaten while they are still warm.”
“I have never seen a woman with your courage, Sibylla! You overwhelmed that whole gang of resentful biddies with your wit and your baking.”
André had pulled Sibylla behind the tent. Her sons were inside playing with the French consul’s little daughter. Here, they could steal a few undisturbed minutes.
Sibylla laughed. She felt liberated and carefree for the first time in weeks. The ordeal with Benjamin was far from over. But tomorrow, she would at last be able to visit him and ask him all the questions that had been weighing so heavily on her mind. Rusa had obtained permission for her.
“This son of a donkey! I am going to teach him some wisdom!” the governor’s mother had exclaimed when Sibylla told her the qaid had been denying her permission to see her husband for three months.