Sabri looked unblinkingly at Thomas. Then he said quietly, “Amin, so be it.”
Thomas felt a profound sadness over his inability to save Rouston’s wife. He cleared his throat. “I have belladonna extract and laudanum tincture. Both are anticonvulsants and analgesics but, like many other medications, they are poisons. Ultimately, their effect depends on the dosage.”
André nodded.
Thomas took a deep breath. “Come to my room in one hour. I will give you a little bottle. You will administer its contents with a spoon. It is of the utmost importance that you give her all of it so that it . . .” He hesitated. “Works.”
“I thank you both.” André’s voice sounded rough. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I will speak with the children now and prepare them to say good-bye to their mother. Then I will come to you, Dr. Hopkins.”
The sun was sinking behind the western hills when Aynur died. Narrow beams of light were falling into the sickroom through the closed shutters and lent a warm shimmer to her pallid face.
Her children had been with her a short while before. They had cried a lot, particularly André Jr. But they had felt that their mother was no longer really with them, that she was already on her way to a place where they could not accompany her.
Now only André was with her. He looked at her, lying calmly on her back. Her chest rose and fell weakly under the blanket. Her head lay in his lap. He caressed her cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids. Her skin felt cold, but her features were relaxed and peaceful. Then he placed his hand on her lips and felt her breath becoming weaker. When it had become almost imperceptible, André, who had long ago stopped believing in a god, began to pray quietly as Aynur slipped gently away.
Chapter Thirty-One
Mogador, December 1861
Consul Willshire closed his Bible and rose. “My dear compatriots and friends, I wish you a blessed second Sunday of Advent. Until next Sunday.”
“Advent under palm trees,” sighed Victoria, drowned out by the noise of chairs being pushed back. She took little Charlotte by the hand. “I would so very much like to experience a winter season with snow and a service in a real church for a change!”
“I really can’t see what you’re complaining about,” John replied, picking up Selwyn. “I’d much rather attend a service under the open skies of Morocco than freeze in a cold, drafty church in England!”
Consul Willshire and his wife held services among blossoming orange trees and fragrant oleander in their garden. While the sultan allowed Christians to practice their religion in his country, he insisted that they do so discreetly and prohibited worship services celebrated by priests in churches.
Victoria and John slowly made their way toward the exit. Sibylla and Emily were directly ahead of them, bidding the consul and his wife good-bye. Emily was wearing the embroidered jacket Malika had given her and a wide skirt that barely covered her calves. She wore soft leather boots and numerous jangling silver bangles on her wrists. She stood out like a cheerful, colorful bird among the dour Englishwomen in their corseted black Sunday dresses and stiff hats. Victoria overheard one of the wives whispering to another, “Ever since she returned, she’s been dressing like a Berber woman. Very inappropriate indeed, especially on a Sunday!”
“Well, just look at the mother,” the other whispered behind her hand. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Indeed, my dear, indeed.” They eyed Sibylla’s purple silk pants, long silk shirt, and the embroidered scarf around her shoulders with a mixture of distaste and fascination.
Victoria looked over at John but he was sharing a joke with Selwyn and had not heard. She considered how to react. Deep down, she shared the women’s opinion. However, her relationship with Sibylla had finally thawed, and it irritated her to hear outsiders making unkind remarks about her mother-in-law or Emily.
She cleared her throat. “Ladies, I’m certain I misheard you just now, or did you really speak disparagingly about two members of my family?”
The women regarded her uneasily.
“You can consider yourselves fortunate that my husband did not hear,” Victoria went on. “He would not stand for having his mother and his sister spoken ill of. In order not to jeopardize the good business relations between the Hopkins family and your husbands, I am willing to overlook this rudeness—provided I do not hear of any further instances.” Victoria was nodding condescendingly when she suddenly noticed that Sibylla was watching her.
“Well done! Thank you!” Sibylla mouthed.
Victoria blushed. Ever since she had caused such strife with her revelation about Emily’s father, hardly a day had gone by that she did not regret her outburst. The idea that she had just atoned for it in a small way filled her with pride.
Now it was Sibylla’s turn to say good-bye to Sara Willshire. “That was a lovely service,” she said, and Sara replied eagerly, “I am genuinely pleased that you are attending our little gatherings again. Perhaps you, and, of course, Emily, will do me the favor of attending afternoon tea soon?”
That André Rouston—and not Benjamin Hopkins—was Emily’s father was now an open secret. But no one spoke of this twenty-year-old scandal anymore. Emily was well liked and it was obvious that her family stood by her. And besides, Rouston was a reputable man, who, unlike Hopkins, had never been involved in any shady business.
“Thank you for the invitation. Perhaps we will do that soon,” Sibylla replied with a smile. “Good-bye, Sara.”
They joined John on the street. He was having fun with Selwyn by rubbing his stomach with exaggeration and announcing, “We’re starving, aren’t we, and we’re looking forward to a lovely piece of roast lamb!”
His son nodded and mimicked the gesture with a giggle.
“You go on ahead,” Sibylla said. “I’m going to stop by my office in the harbor to pick up a file that I want to go through this afternoon.”
“I’ll come with you, Mother. I feel like walking.” Emily linked arms with Sibylla.
“Hurry!” John called after them. “I don’t want to have to wait too long for my dinner!”
At the harbor, a strong wind off the ocean swept the last clouds from the bright blue sky and tousled Emily’s curls.
No ships can come in today, thought Sibylla and held on to her shawl. Just that morning, John had once again been saying that days like this were far too frequent in windy Mogador and that the resulting delays were very costly for merchants and ship owners.
“That wouldn’t happen in Tangier,” he effused. “It doesn’t get nearly so stormy nor so foggy there, and the harbor will connect the Pacific Ocean with the Atlantic, once the Suez Canal is opened.”