down to the day cabin. ‘Pack a change of linen for us both,’ he said. ‘Though we made excellent time, you have been without proper facilities for nearly four weeks. You will welcome a bath and a soft bed with clean sheets.’
‘I haven’t complained, Jago.’
‘You never do. That’s why I want to give you comfort.’
His words were ambiguous, her head full of images she both feared and craved. So she focused on the job in hand, putting underwear and nightclothes for them both into the battered leather portmanteau.
Jago stripped off his salt- and sun-faded shipboard clothes and washed. While he dressed again, putting on a clean shirt, maroon cravat, dark trousers and polished black shoes, she wrapped soap, flannels and toothbrushes in clean towels and stowed them in the bag, then added her journal. He raked a comb through his thick hair, passed it to her and put on a dove grey single-breasted coat.
He turned, devastatingly handsome. Even as she yearned for him, anger flared, leaving her shaken.‘Ready?’
Struggling for composure she nodded and put on her hat. ‘What are you going to do about the gold?’
‘It will remain on board for now.’ He picked up the bag.
Leaving Nathan to supervise minor repairs while Martin went ashore to buy food and arrange for fresh water, Hammer carried the box of photographic equipment to the first of the two carriages each drawn by a single horse.
Settling onto the buttoned leather seat, Caseley looked around as they followed Robert Pawlyn’s calèche through streets crowded with people. She saw anxious-looking men in European suits, bearded Jews with black hats and side locks, uniformed Egyptian soldiers, and Arabs in long robes and head cloths. Women hurried by in pairs, swathed in blue or black. Some drew their scarves across their faces as the calèche passed. Others were already veiled so that only their eyes were visible.
She heard French, Italian, Arabic and other languages she didn’t recognise, and saw donkeys almost hidden beneath their burdens. A group of sailors wearing straw hats laughed and nudged each other, pointing at unfamiliar sights.
They turned onto a wide street with flagstone pavements and tall elegant buildings on either side of a central area, with a double avenue of trees down each side providing shade. At one end was a large circular fountain. Further along, two open pergolas with onion-shaped roofs reminded Caseley of bandstands.
The driver pulled up outside a three-storey white villa with deep windows and a pillared portico. Jago helped Caseley out of the carriage, then picked up the portmanteau as Pawlyn took the box and his own bag.
‘This is Midan Muhammad Ali. He was the first hereditary viceroy of Egypt. That’s his statue,’ Pawlyn indicated with a nod. ‘Before the square was given his name it was known as Place Des Consuls because of all the diplomats living and working here.’
As they approached the entrance, an armed doorman bowed. Pawlyn spoke to him in Arabic. The man replied, bowed once more, and stood back to allow them in.
‘Hamid says Sir Edward Malet, the Consul-General, is in Cairo,’ Pawlyn explained. ‘And Sir Charles Cookson is in hospital. Apparently Sir Douglas Collingwood is in charge during Sir Charles’s absence.’
Caseley saw Jago frown. ‘Mr Broad promised to send a telegram the day we left Falmouth. I must hope it arrived and we are expected.’
They stepped into a cool, airy lobby with white walls, a black and white tiled floor, and green palms in polished brass and copper pots. On the left, a wide staircase curved round to a broad landing edged with a balustrade. On the right was an open door. Caseley heard male voices and a middle-aged clerk appeared. His expression of polite enquiry changed to a smile of surprised recognition.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Pawlyn. We thought you’d left us.’
‘Only briefly, Mr Everleigh, and I’m glad to be back. Is Sir Douglas available? Captain Barata and
‘I haven’t complained, Jago.’
‘You never do. That’s why I want to give you comfort.’
His words were ambiguous, her head full of images she both feared and craved. So she focused on the job in hand, putting underwear and nightclothes for them both into the battered leather portmanteau.
Jago stripped off his salt- and sun-faded shipboard clothes and washed. While he dressed again, putting on a clean shirt, maroon cravat, dark trousers and polished black shoes, she wrapped soap, flannels and toothbrushes in clean towels and stowed them in the bag, then added her journal. He raked a comb through his thick hair, passed it to her and put on a dove grey single-breasted coat.
He turned, devastatingly handsome. Even as she yearned for him, anger flared, leaving her shaken.‘Ready?’
Struggling for composure she nodded and put on her hat. ‘What are you going to do about the gold?’
‘It will remain on board for now.’ He picked up the bag.
Leaving Nathan to supervise minor repairs while Martin went ashore to buy food and arrange for fresh water, Hammer carried the box of photographic equipment to the first of the two carriages each drawn by a single horse.
Settling onto the buttoned leather seat, Caseley looked around as they followed Robert Pawlyn’s calèche through streets crowded with people. She saw anxious-looking men in European suits, bearded Jews with black hats and side locks, uniformed Egyptian soldiers, and Arabs in long robes and head cloths. Women hurried by in pairs, swathed in blue or black. Some drew their scarves across their faces as the calèche passed. Others were already veiled so that only their eyes were visible.
She heard French, Italian, Arabic and other languages she didn’t recognise, and saw donkeys almost hidden beneath their burdens. A group of sailors wearing straw hats laughed and nudged each other, pointing at unfamiliar sights.
They turned onto a wide street with flagstone pavements and tall elegant buildings on either side of a central area, with a double avenue of trees down each side providing shade. At one end was a large circular fountain. Further along, two open pergolas with onion-shaped roofs reminded Caseley of bandstands.
The driver pulled up outside a three-storey white villa with deep windows and a pillared portico. Jago helped Caseley out of the carriage, then picked up the portmanteau as Pawlyn took the box and his own bag.
‘This is Midan Muhammad Ali. He was the first hereditary viceroy of Egypt. That’s his statue,’ Pawlyn indicated with a nod. ‘Before the square was given his name it was known as Place Des Consuls because of all the diplomats living and working here.’
As they approached the entrance, an armed doorman bowed. Pawlyn spoke to him in Arabic. The man replied, bowed once more, and stood back to allow them in.
‘Hamid says Sir Edward Malet, the Consul-General, is in Cairo,’ Pawlyn explained. ‘And Sir Charles Cookson is in hospital. Apparently Sir Douglas Collingwood is in charge during Sir Charles’s absence.’
Caseley saw Jago frown. ‘Mr Broad promised to send a telegram the day we left Falmouth. I must hope it arrived and we are expected.’
They stepped into a cool, airy lobby with white walls, a black and white tiled floor, and green palms in polished brass and copper pots. On the left, a wide staircase curved round to a broad landing edged with a balustrade. On the right was an open door. Caseley heard male voices and a middle-aged clerk appeared. His expression of polite enquiry changed to a smile of surprised recognition.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Pawlyn. We thought you’d left us.’
‘Only briefly, Mr Everleigh, and I’m glad to be back. Is Sir Douglas available? Captain Barata and
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