Chapter 2
A t some point, lulled by boredom at the conversation and the movement of the carriage, Melody fell asleep on Mary’s shoulder. When the carriage hit a particularly large bump in the dirt road, she was jolted from her nap. Awakening with a start, it took her a moment to remember where she was. Lifting her head, she looked out of the window and realised that they must be in Casablanca. In place of the countryside that they seemed to have been driving through endlessly, now they were in the thick of a bustling city.
Various odours, some pleasant, some not so much, wafted through the carriage windows. Melody smelled fresh bread, and her stomach gurgled, reminding her that they hadn’t eaten in a while. Embarrassed by such an unladylike sound, particularly in front of Alessandro, Melody could only hope that they were almost at their destination and that there would be food waiting for them there.
The streets were so narrow and so filled with vendors and their customers that Melody wasn’t entirely sure how they were managing to make their way through. Indeed, the going was slow, and at one point, they came to a complete standstill. There was a lot of shouting coming from up ahead. After they had been standing in the same spot for some minutes, Alessandro opened the carriage door and stepped out.
Returning a few moments later, he explained, “There was some kind of altercation up ahead. Apparently, a boy tried to steal a loaf of bread. The shopkeeper had him by the arm and was screaming for the authorities while the boy swore he was planning to pay. However, this alone is not what has slowed us down. It seems that everyone else on the street took this as an opportunity for entertainment, and all other activity has ceased while people weighed in on what they saw, berated the boy, or in some cases, the shopkeeper for his lack of charity.”
As Alessandro finished his explanation, the carriage began moving again. “What will happen to the boy?” Melody asked.
“I paid for his bread, and the shopkeeper let him go,” Alessandro said nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders as if the gesture was no more than a practical solution to a problem in front of him.
If Melody had been less angry at the man, she might have been inclined to attribute to him a compassion that he seemed reluctant to acknowledge. However, she was not in the mood to consider the conte as anything but a heartless monster and was determined to ignore anything that might muddy that narrative.
Melody had no idea where they were staying in Casablanca. While she assumed they would all be in the same place, Melody could only hope that it was large enough that she could keep her distance from her former beau. The trip had been long and tiring, and having to share such close quarters with Alessandro for many days had Melody at the very end of her tether.
Finally, they seemed to be leaving the narrow, winding streets of what Alessandro had said was the Medina. They had emerged onto a wide, palm-tree-lined boulevard with a very European feel to it — well, European, but with a distinctly local twist. The grandeur of the buildings with their wrought-iron balconies and railings and stucco exterior made it clear that they were entering the heavily European-influenced part of Casablanca; many of these buildings wouldn’t have been out of place in Paris.
“This is Anfa,” Alessandro said as the emerging neighbourhood began to look, sound and smell as if they were as far away from the Medina, even in London or Paris. Melody even caught sight of a charming cafe from which she caught a waft of the delicious intermingling scents of coffee and pastries. The cafe’s patrons would not have looked out of place in a major European city, dressed in the height of fashion.
“Anfa is one of the more upscale Casablanca neighbourhoods and is where we will be staying,” Alessandro explained.
“Yes, thank you for making all these arrangements, Foscari,” Rat said in a tone that Melody found quite nauseating. It was only the week before that her brother had hated the man, and now he was fawning all over him. Not for the first time on that trip, she wondered if she should have stayed behind in Venice. As much as she wished to assert her independence and prove her usefulness, was it worth it in the end? She had to hope it would be.
Finally, the carriage pulled up to a villa that, even by the standards of its grand neighbours, was opulent. It was three storeys high, with tall windows framed by ornate stone carvings and with highly decorative wrought iron balconies and railings. The oak front door was set into a large archway and flanked on each side with marble pillars. The one feature that suggested this wasn’t a home on the Rue de Rivoli was the terracotta-tiled roof. The house was set in a large, lush garden, filled with exotic foliage and flowers whose heady perfume filled Melody’s nose almost as aggressively as the fish had in the Medina.
Whose house was this? Melody knew so little about Alessandro except for the few details that he had shared in Venice, and she had no idea how much truth there had been to those. Perhaps everything he had told her had been part of the elaborate web he had spun in order to use her to get close to Rat. As soon as she had this thought, she felt herself in danger of her eyes welling up with tears.
Biting on the inside of her cheek to get herself back under control, Melody swore to herself that she would never again allow thoughts of Alessandro to upset her. If anything, she should consider the brief and ultimately insincere romantic interlude to be a valuable life lesson.
Granny had tried so hard to instil in Melody the importance of always being in control of any given situation. Now, Melody understood better what the steely old woman had meant. She had allowed herself to lose control and had given in to a girlish, romantic fantasy—just as Alessandro had known she would. He read her naivety entirely correctly, and perhaps that was what she most hated him for; he had exploited her wide-eyed innocence, and she knew she could never get it back. Alessandro would always be the first man who broke her heart, and she would never be that open or trusting again.
Following Alessandro out of the carriage and into the villa’s grounds, it did occur to Melody that perhaps this was his house. She knew, or thought she knew, that he only spent part of the year in Italy. She had assumed that he spent the rest in London, but perhaps that wasn’t the case. A swarthy, middle-aged man opened the solid oak front door. He had a well-groomed beard and was wearing a long robe — she thought it was called a djellaba — that wasn’t unlike the ones that the men had worn in the Medina. The only difference was that this one was made of a fine fabric and had elaborate embroidery on the wrists and neckline.
Despite his rather grand outfit, it did seem as if this man was some kind of butler, or whatever the Moroccan equivalent was. Whoever the man was, he seemed to know Alessandro and was expecting him. Putting his hands together as if in prayer, he bowed. “Omarh ybarek fik, Sidi,” the man intoned almost reverently.
Alessandro inclined his head slightly in response, “As-salaam alaykum, Ahmed.” He then started speaking quickly to Ahmed in what Melody assumed was Arabic. She was tempted to roll her eyes; of course, Alessandro spoke the language fluently. She should have expected nothing less.
Apparently, he had shared a joke with the servant because they both chuckled. Then, he gestured towards her and said something. She heard her name and then Rat’s but had no idea what was being said. The men laughed again. What was he saying about her?
Finally, the servant, Ahmed, bowed in her direction and said in perfect, if heavily accented English, “Lalla Melody, welcome to Casablanca.” Then he turned towards Rat, bowed yet again, and said, “Sidi Matthew, it is an honour. You must all be eager to wash off the dust of the road. Let me show you to your rooms and then Lalla Fatima is waiting for you in the salon with refreshments.”
Given the rumbling that Melody’s stomach had been doing increasingly, she hoped these refreshments were more than beverages. Ahmed led the way up a grand, pink marble staircase. Her room was the first they came to. Melody opened the door into a large, airy room whose huge picture window looked out onto the gardens. The room was decorated with restrained taste, with a feminine touch. There were freshly cut flowers in a crystal vase on a charming table with a mosaic top, and the bedding and curtains were silk in various pastel colours.
Melody was charmed with the room and couldn’t help but exclaim in delight, “Oh, it is lovely.” In truth, after days of discomfort during the trip from Venice, she would have been happy to lay her head on any fabric that was on a moderately comfortable mattress and pillow. Still, the prettiness of the room was an added pleasure, and she couldn’t help sighing with relief at what looked to be an adjoining bathroom. Looking into the room at the large, claw-footed tub, she wondered whether she would have time for a bath. Then Melody considered that, apparently, they were awaited by the lady of the house and realised with reluctance that she would have to be satisfied with washing her hands and face.
Ahmed left her and Mary to explore the room while he carried on with Rat and Alessandro. Mary had learned how to serve Melody from Ginny, Tabby Cat’s own maid. One of Ginny’s most cherished tenets was that a good lady’s maid never had to wait to fully unpack in order to allow her mistress an appropriate change of clothes on arrival at a new residence. This was a rule that Mary had taken to heart. She now began to unpack a carpet bag she was holding and retrieved a fresh shirtwaist, a hairbrush, and a few other necessities that enabled Melody to leave her bedroom a short while later looking and feeling refreshed.
While Mary had brushed and re-pinned her hair, Melody considered who this Lalla Fatima might be. Finally, for no particular reason, she decided that there was something about the name that suggested a woman of advanced years. Of course, even as she thought this, Melody realised how illogical such a thought was. However old Fatima was, she had been young once, with the same name. As Melody was being readied, she took the chance to write in her diary.
Dear Diary, I wish that Mary would hurry up. Does it really matter if I have some hair out of place? I am sure that some sweet old lady will hardly notice, let alone care what I look like. And I know that Alessandro will not care.
I do not know much about Lalla Fatima, and of course, I could hardly question Conte Foscari. Perhaps she is an elderly woman whose husband was an acquaintance of Alessandro’s father. Yes, I believe that would make total sense.
As she wrote, Melody was increasingly convinced that she was going to enter the salon to find a woman of advanced years, resting on her cane and squinting at her guests with eyes dimmed by age.