“At least we’re more than comfortable here,” Florence said, but she didn’t turn or stop brushing. “Is it possible that you, of all people, cannot put the time to good use?”
“Sorry, I really ought not to have complained. And there is much I might attend to.”
“No need to apologize.”
Sam felt rebuked by her cool detachment. Not once did she turn and look at him. He got up and stood behind her, putting his hands in her hair. He waited for her eyes to meet his in the mirror, but they did not.
“You are lovely, my dear,” he said, and when he had no response, he left the room.
Chapter 16
Khartoum, June 1862
The consulates and houses of the wealthy formed a clean, quiet enclave, yet the destitute carne. Beggars leaned on the walls baring stumps of mutilated limbs and open sores.
Often, a legless man scooted from gate to gate on a board with rollers under it, and women sat on the ground holding their infants out for passers-by to pity their pinched faces or runny eyes. The one time Florence ventured out with Sam, she was brought to tears at the sight of a maimed child.
Islam required the giving of alms, and she begged Sam to be generous although she knew there would never be money enough to eliminate such poverty. After that she stayed within the walls, often listening to Johann talk of his youth and recite Schiller or Novalis in German.
When Sam was out for the day, she slipped up the back stairs to join the women servants and servants’ wives who gathered in a spacious, airy linen room. There they could talk as they ironed and folded the fragrant linens and clothing that had been hung on the roof to dry in sun and wind, and sometimes mended and sewed or did embroidering. A Nubian called Ferasha managed the house hold, a position of power usually held by a man.
Knowing Sam would not approve her consorting with servants, Florence didn’t mention the hours she spent with them, sewing and practicing her Arabic. These women’s families included in-laws and often aunts and grandparents as well, and their stories reminded Florence of the times she’d enjoyed with women in Sofi. These women, too, complained or made jokes, confident that what they told wouldn’t be misinterpreted.
She told them how she had discarded corsets and petticoats and then proudly showed them the clothes she had made. Although momentarily taken aback by the trousers, they understood her purpose and admired the practicality. Only Ferasha, the one she thought least conventional, appeared to disapprove and silently kept her eyes on an endless piece of tatting.
Ferasha often seemed detached, listening, sometimes with a wry smile but not laughing. Usually her face was passive except for the rare brightening of her eyes, which at other times held something sharp and deeper than melancholy. Florence yearned to know the woman and, one day, pulled her chair close to Ferasha’s and addressed her in a casual voice.
“A lovely name, Ferasha. What does it mean?”
“I don’t know the English. In French, papillon, you know?”
“Yes, butterfly.”
“Zebda debban!” said a woman who overheard and repeated it and others. “It is a problem- flies like the butter.”
Ferasha didn’t laugh, and Florence felt responsible for the uneasiness that followed.
“Florence means zahra or fleur,” Florence said.
“And may you always be like a flower, ensha Allah.”
Florence smiled her thanks. She admired Ferasha’s strong features, straight black hair, the perfect teeth. The woman’s dignity and beauty were commanding, Florence thought, but her sorrow must be substantial, perhaps tragic. She decided she must find a way to be alone with her. As the women laid down their work and slipped away for their rest, Florence stretched and managed to kick over the basket holding Ferasha’s yarns. Spools scattered across smooth tiles and rolled under chairs.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! My foot must have been asleep.”
By the time they had retrieved everything and she stood facing Ferasha, Florence knew her ploy had been transparent and didn’t care.
“So, Madame Baker, you want to know all my secrets?”
“Of course I do. Don’t you want to know mine?”
“I know them. Servants know everything.”
“And tell nothing, is that right?”
“Not always. You hear them gossip.”
“But not you.”
“I will tell you about myself now because it is fair. I know about you. And I fear for you.”
She noted Ferasha’s composure and felt embarrassed by her own childish prying. Dreading what she might hear, not about this woman, but about herself, she sank to the floor. Ferasha squatted beside her and took her hand in her own firm grasp.
“I was very young when I went to serve him in Cairo. This John Petherick was newly come to Egypt, and he thought I was beautiful. He took me from all other duties. I was happy to love him. He is a good man. Three years ago he went home and married one of his own. Now I keep their house.”
“But you are—.” Florence clapped a hand over her mouth aghast at the word she had nearly delivered. She could only hope Ferasha had not understood.
“Yes, I am black. But I was his woman, just like you are Baker’s woman.”
Ferasha stood up, tall and straight, and strode from the room, and Florence slumped to the floor to consider her foolish preconceptions and her own limitations. How was she different from this Nubian servant? Or from those black women who had rolled their eyes and waggled their hips for Sam’s amusement?
She recalled Sam’s telling her of an African ritual in which the women rubbed oil on their bodies:
“All over their feet, their bellies, their ears! Then with capes that cover their heads and reach the ground, they squat over a pot of burning incense until their bodies absorb and give off the fragrance. In some tribes, women are mutilated to stop their pleasure, the only way their men can keep them from other lovers. These women are not like white women.”
Had Sam heard these stories or seen for himself? These people are like children or animals, he said, not like us. But what about the proud Nubians? And if a man takes a woman like Ferasha, would he take any native woman? Would Sam have a native woman? If she hadn’t come with him, would he? She imagined Consul Petherick looking very much like Sam and lying naked with the beautiful Ferasha, or looking into her eyes across a table, taking her hand. He must have loved Ferasha, for she was wise and handsome, more attractive than the Abyssinian women and certainly as attractive as many white women.
A great weight held her down, kept her from rising from the hard floor. Petherick had married his own kind, a suitable woman from a good family. Any other woman was the wrong kind, be she brown or black – or even a white foreigner. Who are these men that they can use birth as an excuse for betrayal?
“I don’t know anything!” Florence moaned. Laying her face against the cool tiles, she sobbed.
The whole house lay silent and shuttered against the heat while the servants slept in their quarters. Florence crept to her own bed chamber, undressed, and lay on the bed, not expecting to sleep. The shutters admitted thin stripes of light, and she watched the filmy curtains stir and her eyelids grew heavy.
She didn’t hear Sam enter the room and barely felt the bed move as he lay down beside her. But she sensed he was watching her, waiting for her to move into his arms as she usually did. This time she did not stir.
* * *
Evenings at seven-thirty, a servant brought three glasses of dry sherry to the dining room balcony where Sam, Florence, and Johann gathered to watch the sun slip into the sandy hills and listen to the last birdsongs in the gardens.
“The sundown aperitif,” Sam said, “is a time-honored ritual by which foreigners maintain the civility of their home countries and separate themselves from native squalor and corruption.”
“What would Khartoum be without foreigners?” Florence asked. “Was it here at all?”
Sam didn’t feel like rattling off his usual historic
al summary, but the question brought to mind Khartoum’s most profitable industry. He had been learning more of the brutal slave trade, and Johann suggested there was no way to separate economics from politics. The talk went back and forth between the two men. Sam had been reading stacks of newspapers kept for him at the Consulate over the last year, and he reported the old news.
“The southern states in America have seceded from the union, and their confederate armies have been winning battles under some very strong leaders. It may be that the slave trade will not be so easily stopped there. Ending slavery in America would affect the traffic everywhere. It is the backbone of the economy here and touches every official in Khartoum. Turks, Arabs, Egyptians all profit either directly or indirectly.”
“And have the British taken a position?” Johann asked.
“Our position is complex. Our desire for general trade interferes with and, at the same time, expands the market in human flesh. But our anti-slavery stance makes our presence unwelcome. It contributes to the anxiety of legitimate traders.”
“If the traders feel threatened,” Johann said, “they might very well react with violence and ignite tribal wars.”
“True enough. But they do us an injustice,” Sam said. “Whatever our hopes and feelings, our longstanding policy is to develop legitimate markets here.”
“Is it true,” Johann asked, “the British want to occupy and rule East Africa?”
“To have dominion over, that is, to establish protectorates, and let the natives rule themselves, in their fashion. You know, the Arabs, Germans, Belgians, French all want the same thing. There will be many nasty little wars before we have rail lines and real commerce in Africa.”
“Maybe not, if the United States fail to abolish slavery,” Johann said.
“Do you think that can happen?” Florence spoke for the first time since her question had launched the discussion.
“It won’t happen,” Sam said, “I firmly believe my government will help the North to preserve the union. However, I intend to keep quiet here about an anti-slavery position.” He sighed and looked around for the servant. He didn’t want to say that here in Africa any interference on their part could cost them their lives. Officials could block delivery of supplies and refuse to issue or honor travel permits. Slavers were armed and ready to slay intruders without a qualm.
Every bearer and escort he hired could be his enemy, could murder them, abscond with their goods, and join the slavers. Sam decided he must change the subject.
“I’ve had a number of lessons this week, the latest from the Viceroy. He says that the firman from Said Pasha is not valid and we have no rights here in the ‘White River’ over which he rules!”
“What can he do to us?” Florence asked.
“He can use force if we move without permission, though I doubt he will. He wants to intimidate me. And I will not be bullied. But for now let’s not neglect that sunset.”
Sam took Florence’s hand and drew her to the balustrade as the blood-orange sun flattened itself against the desert. The White Nile shimmered, and below in their cages under the palms, baboons and birds fell silent. Florence was absorbed by the stillness, yet Sam felt she was withholding herself from him, as she had last night.
“Be careful, Sam. You might annoy the Pasha.”
“Don’t worry, dearest. I’ll try to be tactful.” Sam put an arm around her shoulders, but she turned away.
“I believe dinner must be ready.” She walked over to the chaise where Johann lay and touched his arm. “Come on, Hannie.”
Johann arose and walked beside Florence. Sam followed and asked himself what could possibly be wrong.
* * *
Florence again faced the mirror of her dressing table and took pins from her hair without looking at the mirror. She was aware of Sam pacing behind her, but when he spoke, she hadn’t expected the peevishness of his words.
“You scarcely spoke at dinner. You weren’t listening,” Sam said. “Even Johann seemed to notice. What’s wrong?”
Florence shrugged but made no denial as she slowly ran the brush from her scalp to the ends of her hair. He stopped pacing and stood behind her.
“What is it, Florrie?” he pleaded now, “you’re not worried, are you? All our talk of slavery?”
“I have other things on my mind,” Florence said, without letting their glances meet in the glass. “Why do you always expect me to respond to your choice of subject?”
“Of course you needn’t do that. But I don’t like your suggesting I’m a despot. Do I impose my will on you?”
“I’m sorry.”
She would not turn, would not blurt out her complaints. She heard him move toward the table and the clink of crystal as he refilled his glass. She had no way to explain without showing her pettiness.
She was ashamed to admit she felt jealous of his children, hated his having a family, and had sneaked a look into his journal. And she didn’t know how to talk to him about the Consul and Ferasha. At dinner when Sam had spoken of Petherick, Florence listened for clues as to whether he knew about Ferasha. All she learned was that Kate Petherick was strong, courageous, and utterly suitable for her role. She felt guilty for her punishing behavior and irritable because she couldn’t justify it, much less stop it.
“Are you having second thoughts, Florrie? Will the expedition be too rigorous for you? Am I expecting too much?” His tone was conciliatory.
“I don’t know what you expect! Tell me! Would you rather I didn’t go with you?” She knew her voice quavered and her quick intake of breath was nearly a sob.
“By God, Florence, you’re going to have to say what it is that’s bothering you!”
Sam put down his glass and stood behind her and grasped her shoulders. Florence allowed him to turn her to face him. She lowered her chin and leaned her forehead against his body. He stroked her hair and sighed.
“When you are ready, Florence, let go of this mood, talk to me.”
“I will, Sam, I will, when I sort it out a bit. I do love you.”
“Well, then, I can wait.”
Florence wanted to know his intentions and his feelings and had no idea how to have that sort of talk with him.
* * *
At breakfast Sam determined not to look for signs that Florence’s mood had survived the night. She took part in small talk and then excused herself to visit Johann, who had not come down. Sam had another cup of coffee before he went to Johann’s room, where he found them laughing together, and he seized the opportunity of her happiness to ask Florence to accompany him to the French Embassy. With Johann looking on, she agreed without apparent tension.
Outside the gates, Sam took her elbow firmly and guided her through the streets as he commented on the French plans for Suez, and on the dissolute emperor and his conniving empress.
“As for the ambassador, I’m told he is the epitome of French foreign emissaries, all arrogance and posturing. He dresses like a dandy, so I’m told, and behaves like a Turk. It is said he and the Pasha are thick as thieves.”
“The housekeeper says he’s gallant.”
“Arab housekeepers! They have opinions on everything,” Sam said and wondered when she had heard the housekeeper speak about the French Ambassador.
“Ferasha isn’t an Arab, she’s Nubian.”
“A colored servant, Florence. Keep your distance. Remember your position.”
“I don’t know who said it. It wasn’t Ferasha,” Florence said. “Sam, do you know about Ferasha?”
“That she was Petherick’s concubine? Of course. Everybody knows. He treated her very well, and she ought not to talk so much.”
“She says very little, but she told me she had been his mistress. No, not that, exactly. She said she’d loved him.”
“No doubt she did. But don’t forget she’s not white. Some things are possible, but not love, not friendship.”
“So then, I may not be her friend, but her ‘mistress.’ She may not be his ‘mistre
ss,’ but only his concubine.”
“That is all true, if you want to play with language,” Sam replied. He saw the lines etched from her flared nostrils to her lips and tried to ignore the shrill note in her voice. They had reached the gates of the French compound, and Sam’s hand was on the bell pull.
“The English language!” Florence said and faced him with her eyes flashing. “To English men the rules are perfectly clear! Always so clear! Tell me clearly then, am I your mistress, or do you think of me as your concubine?”
She looked away. Sam drew a breath to speak but then said nothing. He felt as if she had slapped him, but the pain was worse than if she had. When she turned back there were tears in her eyes.
“Oh, Sam, I’m sorry,” Florence said. “Forgive me.”
“It’s all right, Florence, we’ll talk later. For now, calm yourself, and don’t think about this sordid quarrel.”
He pulled the cord and a bell chimed beyond the wall. A servant in red satin and gold escorted them through a formal garden and into the mirrored reception hall.
“Ah, what an occasion! The renowned English hunter honors us with a visit.”
Striding toward them with both hands open before him was a young man, tall and slender with olive skin set off by the creamy froth of a ruffled shirt. His dark curls were scarcely tamed, but a neatly trimmed beard emphasized his high cheekbones and firm jaw. He bowed.
“And he brings his beautiful wife.”
When Florence said later that she had never seen so romantic a figure, like the engravings of Lord Byron, Sam reminded her that the poet was none too honorable.
“Louis Ronsard, monsieur, at your service. I have only recently arrived in Khartoum, but I have already been told about you and Madame.”
His glowing eyes and warm smile lent sincerity to this speech, and they returned his smile, as he motioned them toward a low table circled by Louis XIV chairs. Before seating himself, he struck his palms together twice, and two small boys in red coats brought trays. Sam noticed that Florence tucked her dusty shoes under the hem of her skirts.