Sibylla, who was sitting at her desk brooding over Benjamin’s list of suppliers, placed her head in her hands. “I have tried to tell myself that it was only an upset stomach.”
Since Benjamin’s death, she had been so busy ordering her life anew. She had attributed the intense fatigue, the need to sleep all day, and the queasiness to all the work she had taken on, or at least to the heartache over André. He had been such a bitter disappointment. For the first time in her life, she had opened up to a man, given herself to him with body and soul. And while she was still flushed with happiness, he had wasted no time in taking another woman into his bed!
“I wished for another child,” she said quietly. “But now . . . I feel absolutely nothing.”
Nadira carefully placed the tea tray on Sibylla’s desk. “A new life is always a gift, my lady.” She pushed a steaming glass toward her. “Will you tell Monsieur Rouston, my lady?”
Sibylla looked at her, aghast. “You know that the child is his?”
Nadira lowered her head. “I do, my lady.”
“Who else knows, apart from you?”
“The other servants don’t suspect. They don’t even know that you are pregnant.”
“But you noticed.”
“It is my job, my lady!” Nadira sounded hurt. “Of course, I noticed the symptoms. And after we went to see Monsieur Rouston, I understood.”
Sibylla found herself smiling against her will. “I am so grateful to have you with me.” She grew serious once more. “We share a secret now, Nadira. No one apart from us must know it, do you hear? No one! As far as other people are concerned, even my family, Mr. Hopkins is the father of this child. Can I trust you, Nadira?”
The servant’s face seemed carved in stone. “My lips are sealed, my lady.”
Once Sibylla was by herself again, she devoted herself to the papers on her desk. For the first time since her return from Qasr el Bahia, she felt her despair subsiding. It felt good to confide in Nadira. Now life would go on. She would forget André!
She was again engrossed in Benjamin’s lists when loud voices came from the street in front of the house.
Sibylla banged the desk with the palm of her hand. Was there no peace for her? She angrily pushed back her chair and rushed out of the room. As she neared the door, she heard André’s voice. “Why will you not let me in? What is this nonsense? Open the door!”
“I am sorry, sir. But I am not allowed,” was the gatekeeper’s reply. “My mistress has forbidden it.”
He was about to close the hatch, but André prevented him. “The hell you will!” he panted. “Let me see her unless you want the whole street to know that I am here!”
The nerve of this man! First, he stole her heart, then trampled on it, and now he even had the effrontery to show up and harass her! Sibylla stepped in front of Hamid and looked through the door hatch, straight into André’s face. He looked awful, unshaven, and pale.
“Sibylla!” he wailed. “Let me in, my love! I must speak with you.”
He looked so utterly devastated that it almost broke her heart. But then the images of Qasr el Bahia reappeared in her mind, how he had stood in the courtyard, burning with guilt. And the terrible moment when she realized he had just left the arms of another woman. And that child, who did not even deserve to be called a woman yet, had insulted Sibylla, fully cognizant of her youth and beauty, while André had stood by and done nothing!
“I don’t want to talk to you or see you ever again!” she hissed. “Why don’t you go back to your . . . your . . .” She wanted to say “Berber slut.” But she held her tongue and slammed the hatch in his face.
Part Two
The Red Gold of the Maghreb 1859 to 1862
He who has never hunted, never loved, never sought out the fragrance of a flower, and never quivered at the sound of music, is not a human being but a donkey.
—Arab proverb
Chapter Twenty
London, October 1859
Big Ben gloomily rung seven times. Rain fell from the evening sky and drummed on the wet leaves covering the sidewalk on the southeast side of Hyde Park.
Directly across Piccadilly Street was Spencer House, the impressive three-storied villa in which Oscar Spencer, owner of the Spencer & Son Shipping Company, resided with his family. A landau pulled up. Footmen with opened umbrellas ran to the carriage door to lead the guests through the majestic portal to the warmth inside, while the coachman guided the carriage to the end of the long line parked along the curb.
The second-floor ballroom’s four-paned windows were brightly lit. Gentlemen dressed festively in dark evening attire already filled the room. Ladies in gauzy ball gowns fluttered about like birds, their jewels glistening in the light of crystal chandeliers and reflecting off the gilt mirrors. The orchestra played waltzes and liveried servants bore champagne.
Oscar Spencer stood with a group of guests by the window. In a jovial mood, he beckoned one of the servants and everyone took a glass.
“Before this party in honor of your success begins, I would like to toast you privately, my dear nephew,” he said ceremoniously and raised his glass. “Thomas, as of today, you are a fully qualified doctor! May your skills always contribute to the well-being of humanity!”
The tall young man in the black academic gown bowed his head in gratitude, the tassel on his mortarboard falling into his face. His brother, John, just as tall and blond as he, playfully pulled on it. “Just don’t get a swelled head!”
“I shall see to that,” another man interjected. He was about the same age as the brothers and had a slender, athletic build. His bronze skin, the short black beard on his cheeks and chin, and the gray turban he wore identified him as an Arab.
Thomas grinned. “I don’t doubt it, bin Abdul. I am looking forward to practicing medicine with you in Mogador.”
Sabri bin Abdul and Thomas Hopkins had been best friends ever since the first time they flew a kite on the beach together. Later, they had both studied medicine, Tom in London and Sabri at the famed University of Al Quaraouiyine in Fez. The last two years, they had interned together at Charing Cross Hospital. Now they planned to return to Mogador along with John, who had come to London to learn the shipping and overseas merchant business from his uncle Oscar—after years, of course, of watching his mother.
“I believe we can take our seats.” The young woman next to John placed her hand on his arm.
John had met Victoria Rhodes at the newly opened National Portrait Gallery three years before. They had run into each other at the controversial Chandos portrait of William Shakespeare, and John had quickly realized that she was the kind of wife he was looking for.