‘She has hair the colour of the desert after rain,’ the Sheikha commented to one of the women clustered behind her. Danielle had been oblivious to their presence until the Sheikha spoke, having eyes only for the diminutive woman on the divan.
‘Such hair colour is an indication of a swift temper in England,’ one of the women replied softly, but not so softly that Danielle couldn’t hear her.
The Sheikha smiled, and indicated that Danielle was to mount the dais.
‘How fortunate then are English men,’ she said dryly, ‘for unlike our men who must judge by repute alone, one look indicates whether they have a wife of spirit, as temperamental as an Arab mare, or one with the docility of a courtyard dove. Which do you think a man would prefer?’ she demanded, looking at Danielle with shrewd brown eyes.
Thrown off guard, all Danielle could say was, ‘I don’t know. I suppose men like women have different needs. Some prefer placid women and some spirited.’
‘She speaks wisely,’ the Sheikha said to her women, ‘And Hassan has not lied, her beauty is that of the waterlily which flowers in our pools, pale and delicate, curling in on itself when threatened. While you remain in Qu‘Har you will live amongst my household,’ the Sheikha told Danielle. ‘As Hassan has no doubt told you, it is not permitted for our women to walk unescorted in the streets, nor to go unveiled in the presence of men other than their fathers and husbands. Naturally as a European you would not be expected to observe these rules, but as the daughter of our brother you would reflect upon his standing were you to be seen flouting them. The choice is yours, Danielle. Should you wish to adopt our customs while you live among us Zoe will provide you with a chadrah and instruct you in the laws of our country, but should you prefer to retain the customs of the West this we shall quite understand.’
Choice? What choice? Danielle wondered with a certain amount of grim bitterness as she acknowledged the shy smile of the girl the Sheikha had indicated. Were she to insist on wearing her own clothes she would be branded as selfish and uncaring of her stepfather’s reputation, but were she to dress and behave as an Arab girl it would be tantamount to denying her own personality.
Everyone was waiting for her to speak. She remembered all the generosity and love her stepfather had given her, and acknowledged that there was only one thing she could say.
‘I shall wear the chadrah’, she said bleakly, suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of presience so strong that she immediately wanted to recall the words. It was as though she had committed herself to an alien uncharted course; as though her life would never be the same again simply by the speaking of that one sentence. Don’t be so silly, she chided herself. All she was doing was ensuring that none of Hassan’s family would ever again have cause to criticise his choice of second wife!
The Sheikha smiled.
‘So be it. Go with Zoe. We shall talk again, you and I. It is many years since I have seen Hassan and you will tell me all about England which I have not visited since I was a girl.’
Remembering that she was supposed to back out of the room, Danielle moved slowly away from the dais, earning an approving smile from Zoe who was at her side.
Once outside the audience chamber, as Zoe told her the room was called, she led Danielle back down a long corridor.
‘A suite of rooms has been prepared for you….’
They went up a flight of spiral stairs which seemed to go on for ever, Zoe pausing on the landing for Danielle to catch up with her before opening a door.
A suite, she had called it! Danielle stared round at her palatial surroundings in mingled bemusement and awe, following Zoe like a sleepwalker as she led her from the exquisite salon to a sumptuous bedroom, the low bed draped in silk coverings which closed over it very much in the fashion of a fourposter, but far more delicate and gilded with what Danielle recognised to her astonishment was gold leaf. Beyond the bedroom was a small dressing room lined with mirror-fronted wardrobes, an obviously modern innovation, and beyond that a bathroom with sunken bath, shower and other sanitary fitments, all in a delicate pale pink marble to match the colour scheme in the bedroom.
‘The maid will bring you some caftans to choose from,’ Zoe announced when the tour was finished. ‘And then tomorrow the dressmaker will call and you will be able to choose exactly what you want…’
‘I shall only be here for three weeks,’ Danielle protested weakly. ‘It really isn’t necessary, Zoe.’
‘To refuse the Sheikha’s gift is to insult her,’ Zoe said seriously.
‘Oh, well, in that case…’
Zoe spent half an hour with her going through a few basic do’s and don’ts, her smile kind when Danielle stopped her, protesting that she would never remember everything she had been told.
‘It is not as hard as you imagine,’ Zoe comforted her. ‘And one of us will be with you always to help you… I shall see you again at the evening meal,’ she added, rising lithely from the divan. ‘You remember the way?’
Assuring her that that at least was something she would not forget, Danielle watched the door closing behind her, feeling rather forlorn. Despite the disparity in their cultures and upbringing she liked Zoe, with her gentle eyes and soft voice. She was the Sheikha’s niece, she had explained to Danielle, and had been chosen to be one of the Sheikha’s attendants, much to her family’s delight, for it was a very great honour, and if the Sheikha was pleased with her at the end of her year’s service she would reward her by adding handsomely to her dowry and helping her parents to find her a good husband.
Danielle had been aghast by these revelations, but Zoe seemed to find nothing to question in them, happily accepting her father’s right to find and choose her marriage partner. Nothing had been said about her proposed marriage to Jourdan, and Danielle wisely kept silent, surmising that it was not generally known.
When Zoe had gone Danielle examined the contents of the wardrobe Zoe had discreetly pointed out to her. Half a dozen jewelled silk caftans wafted gently in the draught from the opening doors, their colours ranging from palest pink to deepest jade green. She lifted one out and held it against her, surprised to discover how the Oriental robe transformed her from a neat European into a sultry Easterner. It must surely have been a trick of the light which gave her lips that sultry pout, she decided, hastily replacing the caftan with the others. There was a gentle knock on the door and when Danielle went to answer it a young girl stood there, eyes modestly downcast.
‘The Sheikha has sent me to attend the Sitt,’ the girl said, stepping into the room. ‘She has also sent you this chadrah so that you will be able to conceal yourself as you walk about the palace.’
Danielle took the thick, black, enveloping cloak with thinly concealed distaste, shrinking away from the thought of wearing a garment whose sole purpose was in such direct opposition to her own principles, but she was here in many ways as her stepfather’s emissary, she reminded herself, and rather than cause offence she would wear the tentlike garment. She was only grateful that the fasting month of Ramadan was past, she was just thinking, when the high, thin sound of the muezzin broke the silence, startling her to such an extent that she dropped the cloak.
The maid prostrated herself immediately, remaining prone for several seconds before rising calmly with lithe grace and walking over to Danielle.
‘You will want to bathe before the evening meal, and I shall attend you. The Sheikha has sent some perfumed oil for you made from the roses of her own garden. You are greatly honoured.’
Danielle wanted to protest uncomfortably that she did not need any help, but the girl was already walking through into the sumptuous bathroom, running the water and pouring something from a small vial into the marble depths, which immediately turned the water milky.
‘I can manage by myself,’ Danielle began, but the girl’s expression was so puzzled and hurt that Danielle found herself relenting when she asked if Danielle meant to send her away.
‘European girls are not used to having a personal maid,’ Danielle tried to explain, asking the girl her name.
‘Zanaide,’ she replied shyly. ‘The Sheikha will think I have offended you in some way if the Sitt sends me away…’
The huge brown eyes looked so mournful that Danielle hadn’t the heart to insist, but her British heritage told her there was something vaguely sybaritic about lying full length in the deliciously scented water while Zanaide’s small hennaed hands gently sponged her body, but by the time she was ready to step out of the bath and into the towel Zanaide was holding for her, Danielle was beginning to feel her inhibitions completely slipping away, until Zanaide commented admiringly on the colour and texture of her skin.
‘So white and soft! The man who looks upon such beauty must surely be blinded by it—but the Sitt must eat more and gain flesh.’
‘In European countries men prefer their women to have less flesh,’ Danielle explained with a wry smile, guessing the direction Zanaide’s thoughts had taken.
‘The Sitt is not already betrothed?’
Somehow the personal nature of the questions had ceased to bother Danielle. She shook her head, still smiling.