Chapter 11
M ary hadn’t been happy at the thought of Melody travelling without her. However, it was very clear that she also had no desire to travel on horseback through the wilds of Morocco. She started folding clothes until Melody intervened to explain that she was to take as little as possible.
“What does that even mean?” Mary complained.
“It means that I need to be able to carry my possessions on the horse I am riding. We will be taking some mules, but they will carry provisions, not my clothes.”
Mary gave a sniff that was worthy of the dowager. “That sounds like a very inappropriate way for a well-brought up young woman to travel. I cannot imagine what Lady Pembroke would say.”
Melody didn’t bother to ask which Lady Pembroke Mary was referring to. As indebted as she was to Tabitha for making her Melody’s nursemaid so many years before, it was the older Lady Pembroke, the dowager countess, who Mary revered. Perhaps it was because she and the old woman recognised in each other someone who adored Melody above all others.
Before they could bicker any further about the trip, there was a gentle knock at the door. Mary went to answer it and found a young servant girl holding a pile of folded clothes topped with a wide-brimmed hat and a sturdy pair of riding boots.
“Lalla Fatima has sent these for you,” the girl explained. Mary took them from her, and the girl scuttled off.
“I don’t know what things have come to when you are wearing hand-me-down clothes.”
“I am not wearing hand-me-downs, Mary. Well, I am, but for a good reason. It will be very hot on the trail, and I do not have any appropriate clothes with me. To say nothing of needing split skirts to ride astride.”
“Astride!” Mary exclaimed in horror.
“Yes, astride. This is a long journey, and there is no place for British upper-class niceties. Now, fetch the large carpetbag and let us see if we can fit everything in.”
Two hours later, they had eaten a hearty lunch and were ready to set off. Omar had returned with a small travelling bag, and an excited but nervous Mustafa was waiting anxiously by the door.
Rat had struggled to find appropriate clothes in his luggage and had finally landed on two light linen suits and the most sensible shoes he had with him. He suspected that he was going to look absurd on the trail next to Omar and Fatima’s men in their djellabas and with scarves wrapped around their heads. He also thought that the djellabas looked comfortable and cool compared to his suit.
“Omar, would it be seen as disrespectful if I were to wear a robe like yours?” Rat asked.
“Not at all, Sidi Matthew. A djellaba and tagelmust on your head are very practical for a trip such as ours. I am sure that we can find you something if you would prefer to travel in it.” Rat indicated that he would, and twenty minutes later, the only thing that distinguished him from the Berbers he was travelling with was his fair skin and reddish-brown hair.
Rat was concerned about the sight of them all clearly setting off on such a trip. Would it look suspicious? However, there wasn’t time to finesse the plan. The people holding Alessandro already had a head start.
By the time they were ready to leave, the call to prayer was beginning to echo from the city’s many minarets. Fatima explained that once they were on their journey, it was permissible for the men to miss the one o’clock prayer and instead combine it with the four o’clock one. However, until they were on the road, it was best that they postpone leaving so the men could pray.
Ever since they had arrived in Morocco, Melody had found the call to prayer, particularly the early morning one, to be quite haunting. There was something so melodic in the muezzin’s chanting. The sound would carry across the streets of the city, commanding all Muslims to perform their prayers.
Finally, almost thirty minutes later, they were ready to leave. Omar had explained that they usually would not ride in the middle of the afternoon, but there was no time to be lost, and they would have to do as much as they could before sunset.
Melody had no idea what to expect. Where would they sleep? What would they eat? She was worried that any questions might come across as anxious or even sound like she was whining. Instead, she kept her thoughts to herself; she would find out soon enough. It appeared that Omar was very familiar with the route they were to take, as was at least one of the servants. Between them, they took the lead with everyone else following in pairs. Two more servants brought up the rear of the caravan. It was not lost on Rat or Melody that all the servants carried rifles.
The ride out of Casablanca was pleasant. Even though the sun was high in the sky, there was a gentle breeze. The olive groves and palm trees provided some much-appreciated shade along the trail. There was a delightful scent in the air, which Fatima, who rode beside Melody, identified as jasmine.
Melody looked around her with interest. It was a very different view from atop a horse than it had been through a carriage window. They passed men tending the fields and women washing clothes and shopping in the local markets. Melody noticed that people would raise their heads in momentary interest but then immediately go back to whatever they were doing. Children would chase their horses for a while, but then they lost interest and went back to playing in the fields.
By the time they stopped for the night four hours later, Melody had remembered how long it had been since she’d ridden regularly. Apparently, for at least that first night, they’d be camping. Melody was determined not to complain or in any way show any discomfort she might feel. It seemed that there was a tent that she would be sharing with Fatima but that the men would all be sleeping wrapped in blankets. Not that it was cold. Nevertheless, she did feel for Rat, who, despite their early days of living on the streets of Whitechapel, had spent the last fourteen years in the comfort of Mayfair and had likely hoped that he would never be sleeping rough again.
Omar and the male servants quickly got a fire going and put a conical-shaped pot on it.
“It is called a tagine,” Fatima explained. “All sorts of meat and vegetables can be cooked in it. We brought some supplies with us. Cook sent us off with some dough that the men will cook on the coals.”
Melody saw something brown being scooped out of a jar and put into the tagine pot. “What is that?” she asked.
“We call it khlii,” Fatima explained. “It is a kind of preserved meat. Usually, beef, though sometimes lamb. It is dried, spiced and then stored in fat in the jars you see.” Melody must have scrunched her nose because Fatima laughed and said, “It is tastier than it sounds. And it is what we will be eating a lot of, so hopefully, you will get used to it.”
Melody was embarrassed. She didn’t want to come across as a spoiled young English miss and yet was worried that was how she seemed. The truth was that ever since Alessandro had been arrested, Fatima had been far nicer. Perhaps nicer wasn’t the right word. She seemed genuinely concerned for Alessandro’s safety and had stopped all the flirtation with Rat and the cattiness towards Melody. And if she were being honest with herself, Melody was grateful for female company on this trip. Fatima hadn’t had to lend her the clothes and could have instead used Melody’s likely discomfort in her own clothes as an opportunity to mock her. Moreover, it seemed very likely that Fatima’s connection to the Sultan’s family would prove useful, or at least Melody hoped it would.
As the sun began to set, Melody saw Rat standing at the edge of the camp, looking out at the mountains in the distance. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said teasingly.
Her brother turned but didn’t smile. Instead, he looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“What’s wrong, Rat?” Melody asked, putting out her hand to touch his forearm.
Rat gave her a half-smile, “Am I that obvious?” he asked.
“Only to me,” she assured him. Realising that there could be only one thing that was on his mind, Melody said, “We will find him and get this mess sorted out. I know we will.”
“And what if we do not? What if I am not up to this? As it is, without Omar and Fatima, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
In her gentlest voice, Melody tried to set his mind at rest or at least buoy his self-confidence. “How would you know where to start? This is a very different part of the world to Britain, or even Europe.”
“Yet, Alessandro knows how to operate here. He has contacts and can even speak some of the language.”
“Rat, be sensible. Alessandro is probably almost ten years older than you and, I would assume, has been an operative for some years. You have only just started. I doubt that he knew how to operate somewhere like Morocco when he started out. He probably had someone to guide him then, much as you do now.”
Later, in the tent she shared with Fatima, Melody took out her diary. It seemed like forever had passed since she had last had the chance or the motivation to write in it.
Dear Diary, where do I even begin? Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was dressed in a new Worth gown and jewels and being introduced to the Envoy to Morocco, and now I am in a tent, in the middle of who-knows-where with a very sore rear end after less than a day on horseback. Though, I must admit, there is something quite exotic and romantic about sitting around the fire, eating the food the men have cooked on the coals, and watching the last of the sun dip beneath the horizon. Oh, and we passed some camels earlier. They are strange-looking creatures.
All in all, if I wanted an adventure, I have one now. I just wish that this adventure wasn’t at the expense of Alessandro’s freedom and perhaps even his life. What is going on? I thought that the politics of our investigation in Venice were murky, but Morocco makes that situation seem like child’s play. And here is the thing I do not understand: why do any of these European countries believe that they have a right to rule here?
As Melody wrote this, she thought about something Xander Ashby had said when she had thrown in his face that the Italian people had deserved their independence from the Hapsburg Empire. His comeback had been to compare the situation to Britain’s Irish situation, or even their king’s dominion over Wales and Scotland. At the time, she had claimed that these were entirely different circumstances. But were they? And what about Britain’s colonisation of India and beyond? She could hardly damn the French and Germans for tussling over Morocco like it was a shiny toy on Christmas morning yet have no problem with her own country's imperialism.
There were things that Melody had never questioned when she was in London, had never had a reason to question. That the population of the British Empire were not only better off than when they were independent but that they, for the most part, recognised and were grateful for that fact was a given. Yes, there were people who advocated for Irish Home Rule, and she had heard Wolfie talking about actions against the authorities in India over the past few years. She had sensed that Tabby Cat and Wolfie had a certain sympathy for the rebels. It was indisputable that they took a more measured view than Granny.
Melody’s last thought before she fell asleep was to wonder how Alessandro was and to hope that they arrived in Fes in time.