Chapter 3
M ary had taken long enough with Melody’s hair and change of clothing that by the time she descended the staircase, she was able to locate the salon by following the sound of Rat and Alessandro’s voices, who were already there ahead of her. She could hear the murmur of a soft, feminine voice in reply.
If she had paused for a moment and considered what she was hearing, Melody would have realised that the dulcet tones she was hearing were not coming from a woman of seventy or eighty. Even so, she could barely contain her surprise when she walked into the room and came face to face with the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. The embodiment of grace and sophistication in front of her was obviously their hostess, Lalla Fatima.
Melody had never thought of herself as particularly large, yet when Fatima rose to greet her, she felt thickset and ungainly next to the petite, delicate woman. Fatima had large, brown, almond-shaped eyes that were framed by long, thick eyelashes. She had a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and full lips that curved into a welcoming, if somewhat insincere, smile. Fatima’s very long, almost black hair was only pinned up at the front and otherwise flowed down her back in a glossy stream.
If Melody had to guess, she would have said that Fatima was a few years older than she was, but that wasn’t because there was anything aged about the woman’s perfect skin. Instead, it was a somewhat knowing look in those huge eyes that quickly took in everything about Melody and seemed to judge her no competition. This feeling of being assessed and found wanting was not something Melody could have rationally explained, but rather a strong intuition based on the very slight raise of one eyebrow and a quirk of Fatima’s beautiful mouth. Melody had seen Granny make a very similar expression on many occasions when the dowager was judging and dismissing the people she aimed it at.
Holding out a tiny hand, Fatima said in slightly accented but otherwise perfect English, “Welcome. You must be Miss Chesterton. Sandro has told me all about you. Please, take a seat.”
Sandro? Whoever this woman was, it was obvious that she and Conte Foscari were well acquainted.
“Then you have the advantage, Lalla Fatima,” Melody replied in what she hoped was a polite, easy tone that in no way conveyed her true feelings.
“Please, just Fatima and I hope that I may call you Melody,” the woman said in an affable tone, but with a gleam in her eye and another quirk of her lips that made Melody suspect that her own tone had been a little less insouciant than she had intended.
Was it possible that Fatima knew or at least suspected Melody’s brief but mortifyingly embarrassing history with Alessandro? Just the thought of it caused Melody to flush with shame. If Fatima noticed this, she was either kind enough, or more likely clever enough, to pretend to ignore it.
Fatima continued, “Sandro and I are very old friends.” Again, there was something underlying the seeming innocence of her words that led Melody to conclude that they were, or had been, more than old friends. She also suspected that such an implication on Fatima’s part was no accident.
Melody had always considered herself intelligent. After fourteen years of learning at the dowager’s feet, she felt herself more than able to participate in the thrust and parry of multi-layered society conversation. Even in her short time out in society, Melody had been perfectly able to navigate even the most forked-tongued banter nimbly, and to hold her own against the aristocracy’s most arch matrons. Yet, she had a suspicion that she might have before her a woman who was a formidable sparring partner. Perhaps a woman who would even be a worthy adversary for Granny!
Whatever Alessandro might have intuited about the layers of meaning replete in the slight conversation between the two women, Rat was oblivious to it being anything other than the casual chitchat of new acquaintances.
He said with an eagerness that immediately made Melody suspicious, “Fatima was just telling me that her father was Moroccan and was the ambassador to France in the 1890s, which is where he met her mother. Fatima grew up in Paris and briefly in London, which is where she and Alessandro first met.” Rat said all this with the eagerness of a puppy dog and Melody’s heart sank at the realisation that her brother was already in thrall to the beautiful Lalla Fatima.
Searching her head for a safe topic of conversation that wouldn’t expose her any more than she had already managed, Melody remarked, “Your English is flawless, Fatima.”
“Merci beaucoup. When I first arrived in Britain, my English was so bad. But Sandro was a wonderful teacher, and we spent so much time together, and now you hear the result.”
So much for a safe topic, Melody mused.
Fatima continued, “Do you speak French, Melody?” Reluctantly, Melody had to admit that, while it was better than her Italian, her French was not all it should be after many years of lessons.
“No matter,” Fatima said in a tone that barely concealed her condescension. “I will help you when you visit the modiste.”
Melody wasn’t sure whether this was supposed to insult her clothes or her capacity to involve herself in anything more serious than her wardrobe; perhaps it was a double-handed insult.
Again, all of the hidden meaning beneath their hostess’ words was utterly lost on Rat. “Fatima, how widely is French used in Morocco?”
“Well Matthew, at least in the regions under French influence, such as Casablanca, French is spoken by the Moroccan elites, and of course between those of us of French origin.”
So, it seemed that everyone was on first-name terms already. For his part, Rat seemed delighted by Fatima’s use of his given name,
“What language is spoken most commonly by Moroccans?” he asked.
“In Casablanca, you will usually find people speaking Arabic, though there are some Berber languages spoken here. If you have cause to go out into the countryside, you are more likely to encounter a range of Berber dialects. Luckily, I have a man who can aid you, Omar. He speaks many languages.”
It was one of Melody’s great regrets that, for all her intelligence and education, she spoke no other language with any real fluency. Granny had always harped on the importance of learning foreign languages, well, at least Italian and German. She had always been less enthusiastic about French. Rat’s theory was that the highly opinionated old woman had never forgiven the French for executing their aristocracy during the French Revolution. Despite the dowager holding this opinion, at Tabby Cat’s insistence, Melody had suffered through many years of French lessons. Yet she would be hard-pressed to carry on any conversation that was more complicated than ordering some food in a restaurant. She was always impressed by anyone fluent in even one other language, let alone many of them. She was intrigued by this Omar already.
“Ah yes, Omar,” Alessandro chimed in. “He was extremely helpful during the crisis in ‘05. I am glad that he is still willing to be of assistance.”
1905? What had happened in 1905? Melody tried to remember. She had a vague memory of it being one of the things that Rat and Alessandro had droned on about during the interminable carriage ride from Tangier to Casablanca. She thought that it was something about the Germans challenging French influence in Morocco. Why did they do that again? Now that she thought about it, she did remember Alessandro explaining that this incident greatly strained France’s relationship with Germany and caused Britain to view Germany as a growing threat. Was that it? Or was it the other way around? No, she really did remember it being Germany who challenged France. Though she had no idea why anyone cared what happened so many miles from Europe, at the tip of North Africa.
As if her thoughts had been expressed out loud, Fatima asked, “Do you believe that we are in danger of another such crisis now?”
As they continued to discuss the precarious current situation, Melody wondered at the wisdom of Alessandro including Fatima in the conversation. She was half-French and had been raised in Paris. Surely, her allegiance was not with the British Government. Whatever her history with Alessandro, how could he trust her enough to disclose sensitive intelligence? Rat had described the conte as a seasoned intelligence operative. However, this seemed like the kind of slip of the tongue that a man of Alessandro’s supposed experience would know better than to let happen.
Melody had no idea what the mission was that Rat had spoken of, but she assumed it had something to do with this new crisis. Though, why did the British care that France had antagonised Spain and Germany? And now that she thought about it, why were they staying in the home of a French citizen? After being thrust into a murder investigation when they were in Venice, Rat had considered Alessandro a suspect almost until the end. At the time, Melody had hotly defended him, unable to believe that the handsome, charming man flirting with her could be a cold-hearted killer.
Of course, Alessandro had turned out to be innocent of the murder and had been instrumental in saving Rat and Melody from being the killers’ latest victims. Nevertheless, now that Alessandro’s behaviour towards her had been exposed as a charade, she found herself questioning his motives and loyalty towards Britain. In Venice, it had been Rat who had pointed out that only one of the conte’s parents had been British, while his father had been Italian. Thanks to the seemingly sweet and harmless Xander Ashby and his revealed hostility towards Britain and willingness to spy for Austria-Hungary, they had come to realise that someone of dual citizenship could have surprising loyalties.
Rat’s current feelings towards Alessandro couldn’t be further from his initial suspicious wariness, but was it possible that he had been right all along? Her brother had told Melody very little about their supposed mission in Morocco. Perhaps if she had paid more attention to their conversations, Melody might have gleaned more. Now, it occurred to her to wonder just how much Rat really did know. Of course, she couldn’t imagine what nefarious motives Alessandro might have that would necessitate him bringing Rat along with him. However, as Melody was learning, her inability to conceive of something didn’t make it less likely to be the case.
Melody determined that as soon as she was able to get Rat alone, she would press him to share more information with her and alert him to her concerns about staying in Lalla Fatima’s house. Even as she thought this, Melody observed the look of devotion that was shining from her brother’s eyes and realised that this wouldn’t be an easy conversation.
His newfound admiration for Alessandro would be hard enough to counter, but this new infatuation with Fatima was going to make Rat even less persuadable. Of course, she didn’t know that there was anything to be concerned about. However, Melody wanted to put him on his guard. Melody doubted that Rat would be open to hearing her concerns, at least at first. Still, she had to try. Her brother was a highly intelligent, thoughtful young man. Melody was sure that once she had expressed her worries, her brother would be more aware of any irregularities with Alessandro and Fatima, whether or not he wanted to be.