There was one moment when she had been ready to do so—when she first held her newborn daughter, a tiny bundle with her father’s dark curls. But a few weeks later, Nadira had reported the gossip from the souk that André’s wife had given birth to a baby girl in Qasr el Bahia, a mere six weeks after Emily’s birth. Sibylla felt more betrayed than ever. Had André not implored her to examine his saffron five years later, she would not be speaking to him to this day.
Sibylla was about to open the door to the warehouse when Emily burst in. “The Urania is here, Mother! Tom and John are back!”
André, who had followed Sibylla, could not take his eyes off Emily. The lovely young woman had an unusual beauty. She wore her long black hair down, with a colorful scarf to keep it off her face. Her eyes were a deep, almost lilac blue. Like her mother, she favored Arab clothing, but hers was colorful and bright. From afar, she might have been taken for a Berber girl if not for her height.
André had been fond of her ever since he had first seen her, a cheerful five-year-old, who had trustfully taken his hand and shown him her toys. He felt for her the same strong love as for his four children with Aynur. Yet Emily was Benjamin Hopkins’s daughter, at least according to Sibylla. Of course, André could count and knew that pregnancy lasts nine months and not almost eleven. Years ago, he had cautiously attempted to speak to Sibylla about Emily’s parentage. She had practically turned to a pillar of salt and threatened that he would never see Emily again if he ever put ideas in her head. But as Emily grew older, it became painfully obvious that she was his child. André longed to have the truth come to light, but he did not wish to discredit Sibylla nor ruin Emily’s future with a scandal. So he told himself that, at least on paper, Benjamin Hopkins was the best possible father for Emily.
Sibylla interrupted his musings. “Excuse me, André, if I say good-bye now, but I want to welcome my family.”
He nodded politely. “Of course, it’s been far too long since you’ve seen them. Please give them my best regards. Joyeux No?l à toute la famille.”
“That’s your mother?” Victoria whispered incredulously. She sat next to her husband on a slimy plank on the small boat that was ferrying them from the Urania to shore.
“I haven’t seen my mother for five years but yes, I am fairly confident that’s her,” John replied dryly. “And next to her, that’s my sister, Emily. The older man in the black kaftan is the harbormaster, Mr. Philipps. The donkeys for us to ride home on and porters for our baggage are ready.” He looked over at the three donkeys waiting in the background with their drivers.
“Donkeys?” Victoria cried in dismay. “You can’t be serious! Does your mother not have a carriage?”
John convulsed in laughter. “A carriage would be of no use here! The alleyways in the medina are much too narrow. And besides, the streets here are very bad, and we would have a broken axle after just a hundred yards. No, dear Victoria, in town we usually go on foot, and to cover distances, donkeys. You’ll get used to it!”
While Victoria was busy recovering from this information, she studied her mother-in-law and sister-in-law. They were certainly not dressed like Victoria, who was wearing a dress with a bodice and loose crinoline as well as a fashionable hat with feathers. They were each wearing—what was that anyhow?—a nightgown with trousers? And no hats. Her mother-in-law wore only a shawl loosely covering her hair, and Emily had a colorful scarf that held back her wild curls. With her hair blowing in the wind, she resembled—Victoria searched for a kinder expression—a Gypsy. It was unfathomable that these two women belonged to one of England’s most respected merchant families. Mother isn’t going to believe it when I write to her, Victoria thought, shaking her head.
Before she had even set foot on Moroccan soil, she was already feeling alienated. The strange-looking Arabs with their black eyes and their scruffy beards. The half-naked slaves rowing their boat. A shocking sight! She nervously eyed the bare torsos of these men, whose pitch-black skin glistened with perspiration. She was embarrassed even to see her own husband exposed in such a way, but complete strangers . . .
The boat pulled up to the quay wall with a little jerk.
“Here we are!” John extended a hand to help her out. Next, he took Charlotte on his arm while the nanny carried Selwyn. Thomas and Sabri were last to disembark.
Sibylla hurried to them with a radiant smile. However, as Victoria reached out to greet her mother-in-law, she found her words drowned out by hideous cries of lament. Horrified, she covered her ears. Yet no one but she and the nanny seemed upset. She watched as the donkey drivers and porters rolled out small carpets. They picked up some dirt from the ground and rubbed it over their faces and arms as though they were bathing and then kneeled on their rugs, foreheads on the ground, mumbling to themselves. A few minutes later, the Moors rose, rolled up their rugs, and began loading trunks and baskets as though nothing had happened.
Victoria wondered what bizarre kind of conspiracy she had just witnessed.
“Do not worry, dear girl. The men were complying with the muezzin’s call to midday prayers. Arabs pray to their god five times a day. They fulfill this duty seriously and solemnly,” explained Sibylla, who had been watching her.
Victoria stared at her and Sibylla continued, “You’ll soon get used to the local customs.” She embraced her daughter-in-law. “So, you are John’s wife. I am so glad to meet you at last and to be a second mother to you from now on! Did you have a pleasant crossing? I remember well how cramped and uncomfortable it was to be on a ship!”
“To be honest, the journey was a nightmare. The North Sea was so rough that I feared we might be shipwrecked,” Victoria reported.
Sibylla nodded empathetically. Then she turned to the two little children. “And you are my grandchildren! Do you want to say hello to your grandmother?”
Charlotte looked at her with curiosity. Selwyn, however, hid his face on his nanny’s shoulder. Sibylla stroked his little head.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me, little man. Look at the big stork’s nest over there. You don’t have anything like that in London.” She pointed to the qasbah tower. The little boy hesitantly looked before a coughing fit racked his body.
“There, there now. That’s still the filthy London air in your lungs. Not to worry, the climate here will soon make you well.” Sibylla took Selwyn from his nanny’s arms and patted his back.
Victoria watched in amazement how her son trustfully snuggled up against Sibylla. “He’s usually so reserved with strangers.”