The Master's Wife by Jane Jackson

would you do in my place?’ As her gaze rose to his he saw doubt. ‘I’m not patronising you, Caseley. I never have, and never will.’ Panic stirred in him as her eyes glistened. ‘Forgive me. You must be tired. I should not –’
    ‘I’m glad you asked, truly.’ She set the pen down and drew her shawl closer. ‘Listening to him has widened my understanding. It hadn’t occurred to me to wonder what the Egyptians might want. Or why they were so angry. Of course their debt to England must be paid. But Colonel Arabi is not disputing that. So why was it necessary to send a naval fleet?’
    ‘A deliberate intent to provoke in order to justify retaliation?’
    Caseley gasped. ‘I cannot believe our government would be party to such a cynical scheme.’
    ‘I would hope not. But consider what’s at stake: money and national pride. Politicians always think several moves ahead. Colonel Arabi’s lack of deviousness may indeed be his downfall.’
    Caseley shivered. ‘Mr Pawlyn has worked in Egypt for several years. He knows the country and its politics. And he speaks Arabic. I think you should tell him.’
    ‘I agree. I’ll do it tomorrow.’
    ‘I doubt he’ll be surprised.’
    ‘What makes you say so?’
    She lifted one shoulder in a rueful shrug. ‘I could see he was curious about my anxiety not to make mistakes. Shall you invite him to accompany us?’
    ‘I will. Of course, he may not be free to –’
    ‘Really, Jago,’ she interrupted with a smile that stopped his heart. ‘A journalist pass up such an opportunity? He is more likely to kiss your hand in gratitude.’
    As their eyes met, he wanted to reach out and touch her. It was too soon. He forced himself to break the contact and, as he did so, heard her slide along the bench seat. He drew the log towards him. ‘Sleep well.’
    ‘You too.’
    He watched as she disappeared into the sleeping cabin, heard the berth creak as she lay down, and buried his head in his hands.
    ‘What can you tell us about the Bedouin?’ Jago asked the following evening from his usual place at the head of the table. Caseley and Pawlyn sat opposite each other. The rest of the crew were on deck.
    ‘They are a lean, hardy people with fine features and dark skin. They love poetry, and skill in recitation is highly prized in both men and women. So is musical ability. Traditionally, it is only royal tribes who herd camels, and only men look after them. Women look after the goats and sheep reared by all tribes for meat, milk and wool.
    ‘They value good manners and all older people are treated with great respect, though it’s unlikely you will have any contact with the women.’
    ‘Have you had personal dealings with the Bedouin?’
    ‘No, but I have studied their customs, just in case an opportunity ever arose. I cannot thank you enough –’
    ‘It is I who is in your debt,’ Jago interrupted. ‘So, what should I know?’
    ‘When greeting tribal elders, don’t offer your hand. Wait for them to make the first move. Always stand when speaking to someone older. They appreciate a compliment about their hospitality, or the food that’s been served. Although it is perfectly acceptable to say “I hope all your family are well”, never ask about wives or daughters. They are not spoken of in public or with strangers.
    ‘If the coffee or teapot is within reach,’ Pawlyn continued, ‘it is polite to refill the cup of the nearest older person.’
    ‘What must I avoid?’ Jago asked as Caseley listened, fascinated.
    ‘That’s easy.’ Pawlyn smiled. ‘Impatience. Negotiations are rarely direct and may take days. Never offer to shake hands with a Muslim woman. And – this is really important – never reveal the soles of your feet or touch someone with your shoe. Either is considered a great insult.’
    Caseley edged along the bench and stood up. ‘Will you both excuse me? I’m going to write this down while it’s fresh in my mind.’ Gratitude flashed in Jago’s