The Lioness of Morocco(31)
To her chagrin, the gesture was answered with a vacant expression. “Have you seen Madame Hopkins?” he asked Sara. “I was sure I would find her with you.”
“I’m very sorry, but I don’t know where Mrs. Hopkins is. I have not seen her for a very long time.”
André looked at her in consternation.
“I doubt she would dare show up here anyway,” the Spanish woman remarked snidely.
“But why do you judge Madame Hopkins so harshly, ladies? I am certain that she does not merit your low opinion!”
The Spanish woman said nothing, but the Dutchwoman hissed, “We have those people to thank for the fact that the qaid interrogated our husbands as though they were common criminals! He ordered the houses of some merchants searched. And yet Mr. Hopkins is the only foreign slave trader in this town!”
“As far as I know, his guilt has not been proven,” André replied sharply.
“He is under suspicion for good reason, I imagine, and that reflects on the entire foreign community in Mogador,” the Brazilian woman argued heatedly. “Mr. Hopkins has discredited honorable citizens. I, for one, do not like being associated with swindlers and slave traders!”
André could hardly contain his anger. “Did your ‘honorable’ husband not make his fortune on the slave market in Salvador da Bahia?”
The Brazilian woman glared at him. “How dare you!”
“If you were a man, I would dare a great deal more,” André snapped at her.
“It is to your credit that you are speaking up for us, Monsieur Rouston—but please, leave it be.”
Sibylla stood behind him, white-faced. But her back was straight and her chin up. To her right and left were her sons. Tom and Johnny clung to her legs and looked wide-eyed from one woman to the other.
“You’re silent, ladies? Go ahead, have no fear! Repeat your accusations in front of me and my children.” Sibylla’s voice was glacial.
André turned to her. He was desperate to shield her from these witless and self-righteous women. But her look stopped him.
“Should the accusations against my husband turn out to be true—which I do not believe—the fault lies solely with him. Neither my children nor I have even the slightest thing to do with it. Although we are not obliged to justify ourselves to you, if these lies preoccupy you to such an extent, you may come to me in confidence with any questions you have. I shall answer them as best I can.” Sibylla looked around. “Well, then?”
Everyone was silent. The Brazilian woman coughed, Sara stared at her hands, and the Spanish woman hid behind her fan. The Dutchwoman looked supercilious, and only the Frenchwoman smiled. The tension between Monsieur Rouston and the Englishwoman interested her far more than any nonsense about slave trading.
“Well, that’s settled then,” Sibylla continued. “I have one more piece of news for you. As long as my husband is the qaid’s prisoner, I am conducting the business affairs of the Spencer & Son Shipping Company in Mogador. Effective immediately, I am responsible for everything, and believe you me: the slave trade is no part of it!” She added somewhat more gently, “Today we are celebrating the feast of our Lord’s resurrection and I want to contribute to the annual gathering.” She stepped aside and they only now noticed her servant, who had been standing behind her with a large market basket.
“I have baked a traditional English treat. Other countries”—she nodded to the French consul’s wife—“may have a more renowned cuisine. But hot cross buns are among my most beloved childhood memories of Easter. Yours too, Sara?”
Sara was tugging at the ruffle on her sleeve and pretended not to hear. Sibylla raised her shoulders. Then she turned to Nadira. “Please give the buns to the ladies and Monsieur Rouston. They must be eaten while they are still warm.”
“I have never seen a woman with your courage, Sibylla! You overwhelmed that whole gang of resentful biddies with your wit and your baking.”
André had pulled Sibylla behind the tent. Her sons were inside playing with the French consul’s little daughter. Here, they could steal a few undisturbed minutes.
Sibylla laughed. She felt liberated and carefree for the first time in weeks. The ordeal with Benjamin was far from over. But tomorrow, she would at last be able to visit him and ask him all the questions that had been weighing so heavily on her mind. Rusa had obtained permission for her.
“This son of a donkey! I am going to teach him some wisdom!” the governor’s mother had exclaimed when Sibylla told her the qaid had been denying her permission to see her husband for three months.
Sibylla squinted provocatively at André. “Are you out to ruin my reputation or are you back in Mogador so soon because you have missed me?”
André loved the fact that she was flirting with him, yet he had no choice but to ruin her carefree mood. “I would like nothing better than to ruin your reputation in every conceivable way, but unfortunately, the reason for my visit is somewhat grave. War is brewing on the border with Algeria. I have been asked by the French government to travel to Marrakesh with important news for the sultan.”
“What kind of news? And why Marrakesh? I thought the sultan was going to be in Fez.”
“He has canceled his stay there. The news concerns Abd el-Kader and one of his own insurgent subjects.”
“Abd el-Kader? He’s the Berber leader who called for the jihad in Algeria against the French, is he not?”
“Yes. And he is serious about this. He has joined forces with a Moroccan tribal leader to overthrow the sultan.”
“Oh no! But what can that have to do with me?” Sibylla asked.
“The Moroccan Berber leader is sheltering Abd el-Kader. Now my job is to convince Abd al-Rahman to surrender him to France. In return, I am going to reveal to the sultan that the insurgents are planning his overthrow. Should Abd al-Rahman not agree to this deal, the French will begin bombarding Moroccan harbor cities. And you know what that would mean for Mogador.”
“War,” Sibylla concluded quietly. “Dear Lord!”
They were both silent as Sibylla let André’s news sink in. “When do you leave for Marrakesh?”
“First thing tomorrow.”
“Please wait one more day. Please! I am finally going to be permitted to visit Benjamin tomorrow. But after that, I shall accompany you to Marrakesh.”
“You wish to do what?”
“If what you say is true, I cannot wait until the fall to petition the sultan for Benjamin’s release. I must do it now.”
“Never! This is absolutely the wrong time!” André was aghast.
“I’ll decide what the wrong time is,” she snapped at him. “And if you won’t take me, I’ll ride by myself. Benjamin cannot stay marooned on that island any longer. If war really were to break out, he would need to be with his family.”
“But you are completely mad! Can you really believe the sultan is going to give you Benjamin? You told me yourself that the qaid’s henchmen took all of your money. Abd al-Rahman is going to want more than a handful of dirhams borrowed from a maid for the life of your husband!”
Sibylla smiled mischievously. “There is a simple solution: we buy my husband’s freedom with the information about the conspiracy.”
The following morning, Sibylla was taken to the Island of Mogador by the same team of rowers who had carried her husband there three months earlier almost to the day. She was nervous and exhausted, having spent the night packing and thinking about her impending visit to the sultan. Now she was focused on her first encounter with Benjamin since his arrest. She had questions about the shipping business: details of merchant meetings, when she needed to consult Toledano, how to deal with the harbormaster and the captains. In addition, she wanted to inform Benjamin that she was now conducting the affairs of the company. And most of all, she needed to hear at long last what he had to say about the accusations of slave trading. This last question had occupied her days and her nights.
At least now she had a little money at her disposal. A promissory note for Benjamin’s share of the skins he had purchased in Fez had arrived. As had a promissory note from her dowry, which would last until the end of the year to feed her and her children, to pay the servants, and to repay her debt to Nadira.
Sea spray came over the low side of the boat and splashed on Sibylla’s tunic. She wrapped her arms around the basket on her knees and looked back at the shore. Along the sand, pack camels laden with tall loads were moving southward in a long line behind their drivers. Behind them, bathed in sunlight, rose the white walls of Mogador. It was such a peaceful image. She could hardly imagine that war might actually threaten the city soon.
The six men rowed rhythmically past the frigates and brigantines. The Island of Mogador lay before them in the morning mist. The pointy parapets and the tall minaret made the island look like the spiny back of a dragon emerging from the water. High in the air, she saw a falcon, seemingly tiny and almost motionless. Sibylla shaded her eyes and watched as it suddenly swooped down at the island like an arrow.
The thought of her husband made her self-conscious, and she was honest enough to admit that she had not much missed him during his three months of captivity. She had missed André far more.