When they emerged once more into the small, square ante-room, Claire glanced curiously at the third door, but Zenaide made no move to open it, and when Claire asked her what lay behind it she blushed a little and murmured, ‘It is the room of the Lord Raoul. Once many years ago this was the suite of the Sultan’s favourite woman but Sheikh Ahmed has given instructions that this suite was to be prepared for the Lord Raoul and the Sitt.’
From Zenaide’s stumbling explanation and obvious embarrassment Claire divined that it was not the custom for married couples to live so closely together, and indeed her reading had given her to believe that she and Raoul would live completely separate lives. For a moment a frisson of fear touched against her spine as she remembered Raoul’s bitter passion in Paris, but she banished it quickly, reminding herself that on that occasion he had been under severe provocation and that now it was necessary if they were to protect Saud properly for them to have as much privacy as possible. Indeed, it was comforting to know that Saud’s room could only be reached through her own or Raoul’s.
Shifting the sleeping weight of the little boy on to her other arm, she followed Zenaide back to her own room. What did the Arab girl think about her and her marriage? Was she shocked that the ‘Lord Raoul’, as she called him, had married a European girl, or was it already common knowledge in Omarah that the Sheikh had compelled Raoul to marry her for the sake of ‘their’ child? Zenaide struck her as a kind, gentle girl, and perhaps once they had got to know one another better they might be able to talk as friends.
‘If you will allow me to take the Lord Saud,’ Zenaide began when they were back in Claire’s room.
‘No. No, it’s all right, I prefer to look after him myself,’ Claire told her, robbing the words of any unkindness with a warm smile. ‘He’s not really used to strangers yet.’
‘You are lucky to be able to care for him yourself,’ Zenaide told her. ‘My own sister, who is married to a second cousin of the Sheikh, has three sons, but their nursemaid will not allow her to care for them. Poor Yasmin would like to dismiss her, but if she does the girl’s family could starve. The Sheikh is trying to educate all our people so that all can find work, but it is not always easy.’
It couldn’t be, Claire agreed mentally. Superstition and custom were always barriers to education. People treated change with suspicion and fear, clinging on to what was familiar. As she glanced out of the window and saw the waters of the gulf dyed crimson by the setting sun, she shivered briefly, startled by the unfamiliar and mournful sound of the muezzin, and watched as Zenaide gracefully obeyed the summons of her religion. As an instinctive mark of respect she too remained still and silent until the eerie sound had died away and Zenaide was on her feet once more.
While Claire bathed and fed Saud, Zenaide unpacked her cases, openly admiring the things Raoul had bought her in Paris. One of the new silk nightgowns was carefully laid out on the large bed, and watching Zenaide’s hennaed hands gently smoothing the fragile fabric, Claire wondered what Zenaide really thought about her—a woman who had borne a child out of wedlock and who, because of that child, had been forced to come here to a strange land and live among a race who prized female virtue above all things.
When Raoul did eventually marry, what manner of woman would he choose? Not a European, she thought immediately. No, he would choose a girl like Zenaide, innocent and obedient; a girl who would worship him from afar, grateful for whatever crumbs of affection he gave her. Had he ever been in love? He had mentioned an arranged marriage to her, had he loved her, a girl forbidden to him because of their differing religions?
A tap on the outer door startled her, and Zenaide went to open it, a pretty jewelled moth in her floor-length caftan with its glittering embroidery. A man stood outside, tall and robed. He murmured something to Zenaide in Arabic, his teeth white in his tanned, bearded face.
‘That is Ali, the Lord Raoul’s body-servant. The Lord Raoul has sent him to tell you that it is time to eat. Ali will escort you.’
Time to eat? Claire glanced helplessly at her creased suit. She had been so busy with Saud that she hadn’t even had time to wash her hands and face, never mind change her clothes. And who was she supposed to eat with? Raoul? Surely she had read that in the East men and women ate separately, men first and then the women afterwards?
Guessing from Zenaide’s anxious expression that it would be a mark of disrespect to keep Ali waiting, Claire hurried to the door, puzzled to see that Ali averted his face from her as she did so, until she remembered that it was forbidden by the Prophet for a man to look into the face of a wife of another, and that this was the reason women wore the all-covering burnous.
Ali led her back down the stairs she had come up with Zenaide, pausing after three nights to indicate the door which lay beyond the small hallway with its rich Persian carpet and decorative wall-hanging.
The room beyond the door looked out over the sea like her own, but darkness had fallen with the swiftness of a deep blue velvet cloak studded with diamante during her short journey down the stairs and the room was illuminated with the soft glow of many lamps, secured on the walls.
At first as the door closed behind her Claire thought she was alone in the vast chamber. A divan ran the length of the window, heaped with silk cushions, three other divans were arranged close to the long low table in the centre of the room. Priceless silk rugs adorned the floor, the smell of sandalwood once more tantalised her.
‘If you would care to sit down, I shall instruct Ali to serve our meal.’
Raoul’s voice reaching her from the shadows startled her and she swung round, her eyes widening as he came towards her. Gone was the urbane, dark-suited businessman and in his place was a stranger dressed in a soft white robe, moving as silent and surefooted as a mountain lion as he came towards her, cynicism curving a deep line on either side of his mouth as he observed her astonishment.
‘When in Rome do as the Romans do, is that not a familiar saying to you? We of the East have learned that it is easier to do business with the West when we accept its mode of dress, but you will not see many men wearing pin-striped suits walking the streets of Omarah.’
More than ever Claire wished that she had had the opportunity to wash and change. Compared with Raoul, she felt grubby and travel-worn and she wondered if he had arranged matters deliberately so that she would feel at a disadvantage.
‘Should we be eating alone together like this?’ she challenged, wanting him to know that she wasn’t completely ignorant of his country’s customs.
‘It is known that you are not of the Muslim religion or of our country and allowances will be made. Besides there are matters we still have to discuss. Please sit down.’
She did so awkwardly, trying to tuck her legs beneath her as she subsided on to one of the divans and watched as Ali opened the door and their meal was brought in. Saffron rice, and other delicacies Claire could not recognise were placed before them, Ali watching hawk-eyed to make sure that everything was in order. When the food was set out and the servants had withdrawn, Ali also left the room, closing the door behind him. Raoul, who had been standing by the window, came and sat down on the divan opposite her, his supple body easily accommodating itself to the narrow, low furniture, increasing Claire’s awareness of the awkwardness of her own limbs.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Raoul drawled when Claire continued to sit without moving. ‘Or is it that you fear our food will be offensive to your westernised palate?’
He was mocking her, Claire suspected, because the saffron rice and sweet-smelling lamb both looked delicious. ‘I thought it was the custom for the man to eat first,’ she reponded calmly. Raoul’s eyebrows rose.
‘Yes, at a formal banquet, or in an old-fashioned household; indeed in times gone by a man might feed his falcon before he fed his favourite houri, but I have no intention of starving you, Claire. My uncle has given us this palace as our home because it is relatively easy to guard,’ he continued, changing the subject. ‘As you will have observed it faces the sea and is protected on all other sides by its own wall. It was once the stronghold of what in Europe would have been called a pirate. Those rooms you share with Saud have in their time housed many a stolen European beauty destined for the Sultan’s bed.’ He laughed harshly when Claire shuddered. ‘Times change, and now there is no need for us to use force to compel Western women into our beds; they are only too anxious to be there, and so have lost much of their value.’
‘I can’t believe that all Muslim women are as pure as the driven snow,’ Claire countered, impelled to defend her fellow European women.
‘Perhaps not, but they are the product of centuries of women who know how to please a man and make it their life’s work to do so. You are happy with your rooms?’ he asked once again changing the subject.
‘They have been very well chosen,’ Claire agreed. ‘The only way anyone could get into Saud’s room is through mine, or…’
‘Mine? Yes. I am sure that no one suspects the truth, but it is always wise to take every precaution. While you are living here as my wife a certain standard of behaviour will be expected of you. Ramadan is behind us now and you may expect to receive bride visits from the female members of my uncle’s family. Zenaide will help you if there is any point on which you are in doubt.’