His brown eyes flooded with unexpected tears. ‘I can’t…they’re all gone. Prince Tariq took them away.’
‘They’ being his retinue of slavish servants, Faye gathered, for Tariq had told her that that was what he would do. Prince Tariq? Was that how he had to refer to a brother old enough to be his father? Did such stifling formality in the ibn Zachir royal family exercise its rule even over little children? And, she thought sadly, yes, yes, it did for Tariq’s hard self-discipline was the proof of it. Without even thinking about it, Faye scooped Rafi up and set him on her knee.
‘I’m a big boy. Big boys don’t get cuddled,’ Rafi told her chokily.
‘Shall I put you down again?’ She wasn’t teasing. She was afraid of embarrassing herself or him by doing something unacceptable.
Suddenly the little boy just pushed his head into her shoulder and sobbed out loud, clinging to her in considerable distress. She nursed him until the storm of tears was over, compassion stirred by the depth of the unhappiness he revealed. Even Tariq had called his little brother ‘obnoxious’, not an encouraging sign. So who did the poor child have to turn to? It was not his fault that he had been taught to behave like a little monster, but how hard it must be for Tariq, who had been raised far more strictly, to appreciate that fact.
‘You like children.’ Shiran wore a huge and relieved smile and she turned to address the servants waiting in the passageway.
Faye blinked in surprise as two middle-aged nursemaids hurried in with a pair of identically clad baby girls in their arms.
‘Basma and Hayat,’ Shiran announced.
‘Twins? My goodness, what age are they?’ Faye was enchanted.
‘Nine months. You would like to see them closer?’
‘They’re only girls!’ Rafi exclaimed fiercely.
Settling the little boy down on the seat beside her, Faye smiled at the twins. The little girls wore elaborate long pink satin frilly dresses with full net underskirts: so impractical and uncomfortable for babies she reflected with rueful sympathy. ‘Basma and Hayat…those are pretty names—’
‘I don’t like them!’ Rafi howled at the top of his voice.
‘I don’t like shouting, so please behave yourself—’
‘I don’t like you either!’ Rafi threw himself off the divan and stormed away.
Ignoring him, Faye went on getting to know the little girls, who were easily told apart for they were not identical twins. Basma was full of confident mischief, her sister Hayat more anxious and shy.
Eventually, Rafi slunk back. ‘You like them better than me.’
‘Of course not,’ Faye said gently. ‘I like all of you.’
‘Nobody likes me,’ Rafi muttered fiercely and kicked at the divan base.
Faye looked down into his miserable little face and curved a wry arm round his rigid little body. ‘I do…’
Toys were brought in then. Rafi was a pain, wanting all her attention, sulking when he couldn’t have it but, between sulking and clinging, a kind of peace emerged. The morning hours passed and Faye was surprised when lunch was announced. The children were removed again to their own quarters. At the last minute, Rafi darted back. ‘I see you soon…?’
‘If you want.’
Some time after she had eaten, Shiran approached her to tell her that it was time for her bath. Faye frowned. ‘Isn’t it a little early?’
‘It will take many hours to dress you for the ladies’ reception tonight, my lady.’
‘Oh…’ Faye wasn’t sure how she felt about making any form of public appearance. She still could not face the prospect of seeing Tariq again. The night he had promised her stretched before her like the worst of threats and the sweetest of dreams for the conflicting emotions dragging her first one way and then another would give her no peace.
She had only slipped into the water already drawn for her use when her maids hurried in loaded with baskets of lotions and she realised that privacy was not on offer. Rose petals were hastily scattered on the surface of the scented water and Shiran insisted on washing her hair. Such a production was made of the varying rinses that Faye sighed at the longevity of the experience.
There was washing and there was washing, but Faye felt as if she were being scrubbed within an inch of her life. Wrapped in a towel, she was urged into another room in the same block, a steam room full of billowing clouds which almost sent her to sleep, so lethargic did it leave her. Next she was persuaded to lie down on a special couch to be massaged. The rich perfume of the oil rubbed into her skin made her eyes even heavier but she enjoyed the stiffness being eased out of her muscles, the smooth feel of her own pampered skin. Tea was served in the aftermath, all the maids giggling and chattering with an informality that charmed her.
Her hair was dried and polished with a silk scarf. A manicure and a pedicure followed and a great debate opened over the shades of nail polish available. While that was going on and Faye lay back on her sofa feeling like a beauty queen, a slim leather box arrived and her companion became very excitable. With great ceremony the box was brought to Faye and opened. Within lay a note.
‘Wear the anklet for me,’ ran the note and it was signed by Tariq.
Anklet? Faye hooked a finger into an anklet studded with large dark blue sapphires.
‘How His Royal Highness honours you!’ Shiran proclaimed. ‘This belonged to Prince Tariq’s late mother.’
Faye wondered if a chain went with it. Since she rarely wore jewellery, it struck her as a very exotic item but she kn
ew she was sentenced to wear it for, if she said no, she might then seem rude. A bouquet of white roses arrived an hour later. Again her companions were ravished by their admiration but Faye’s heart turned as cold as the Ice Queen’s. Too many memories that hurt were stirred by those pale perfect blooms.
When it was time to get dressed, she was taken aback by the fabulous outfit laid out for her perusal on the bed. But then she had nothing worthy in her case of any social occasion at which a sapphire anklet might be worn. Indifferent to her own appearance, she donned the gold silk strappy sheath which was worn as an underdress. Then with reverence she was inserted into an extraordinary violet-blue chiffon gown, every inch of which caught the light with exquisite gold embroidery overlaid with precious stones, and which dragged a fan-shaped train in its wake. The dress weighed a ton. Gold shoes with incredibly high heels were slipped onto her feet and she wondered how on earth she would move in so much heavy finery.
Another leather box was delivered. This time the maids whooped with unconcealed delight. Excitement was at a high. Faye undid the clasp to reveal a breathtaking diamond tiara, a pair of drop earrings and a bracelet. Why the heck was Tariq sending her such items? But the answer was writ large in the appreciative faces surrounding her. He was good as his own PR firm, she decided. His generosity in loaning her such hugely valuable articles to wear impressed everyone to death.
The tiara was slid into place, the earrings inserted, the bracelet attached to her wrist. A mirror was then carted over to her.
‘You are so beautiful, my lady.’ Shiran sighed happily.
In heels which elevated her a good few inches, Faye hardly recognised herself. Her hair had been transformed into a shining silken mane to support the tiara and fell smooth as a sheet of pale gold far below her shoulders. She glittered from head to toe like a fantastic jewellery display. In strong light, she would blind the unwary.
Led from the room, she had to walk with small shuffling steps. It was a long walk to the vast reception area thronged with women in outfits that soon gave her a different view of her own theatrical glamour. She still had the edge, but only just. Guided to a seat of honour and the cynosure of all eyes, she was introduced to one woman after another. Arabic phrases were murmured, no English was spoken. The amount of bowing and scraping she received increased her tension to the extent that she could almost have believed that she were dreaming the whole strange event.