Chapter 8
F inally, Mary was finished with her hair, and Melody studied her reflection. She had asked Mary to try a more mature, sophisticated hairstyle, and now, as she observed the artfully placed curls, she was very satisfied.
Correctly interpreting Melody’s expression, Mary assured her, “You look beautiful, Miss Melody. And no one will be able to suggest otherwise.”
Mary emphasised the words “no one”, which left no doubt as to who she was talking about. It made Melody feel a little self-conscious that she was so concerned about Fatima’s opinion of her. Or was it Fatima’s opinion she cared about? There was no doubt that Melody was very aware of how she might look in contrast to their beautiful hostess in Alessandro’s eyes. But why did she care?
Determined that she would no longer worry about Conte Foscari, Melody stood and took one last look at herself in the mirror. Granny had taught her so many things, but of dowager’s most enduring lessons was the importance of being clad in appropriate armour when entering a theatre of war. Whether that armour was the certainty of being dressed in the height of fashion, wearing the most coveted jewels, or being in possession of the most dangerous secrets, a woman should never step foot on the battlefield without the certainty of some strategic advantage. Smoothing down the skirt of her beautiful Worth gown, Melody was confident that Granny would approve.
Descending the stairs, Melody heard voices in the salon. Entering the room, she saw that Alessandro and Rat were dressed in evening clothes and sipping pre-party Cognacs. Fatima had not yet arrived. As Melody entered, Rat and Alessandro glanced up, and she was satisfied to see Alessandro's undeniable look of appreciation.
Both men had stood up, and now Alessandro came towards her, bowed over her hand, and said, “You look beautiful, Miss Chesterton.” Melody acknowledged his compliment with a mere nod of her head. Granny had taught her well.
Whether or not Alessandro had noticed Melody’s more sophisticated hairstyle, Rat had noticed it. Yet again, he was reminded that his little sister was a grown woman now and not a child anymore.
As much as he had been irritated by her insistence on joining him in Morocco, Rat was secretly a little glad that she had accompanied him. Already, Morocco felt so alien; the people, the language, the culture, it was all so far from London, even from his experience travelling through the continent so far. As much as Rat was in awe of Alessandro and taken with Fatima’s beauty and grace, there was a part of him that missed home and the familiarity of London. In Britain, he felt sure of himself and his skills. At home, he knew who he was and his place in society. Even though there was a certain ambiguity to his role as Lord Langley’s ward and mentee, Rat had grown comfortable with how to play that role.
In Morocco, he found himself on his back foot and was sure that the vice-consul’s party would only exacerbate his discomposure. To Rat, Melody was home. She was the person who tethered him back to their family and friends in London and even further back to their roots. As much as she had assimilated into Mayfair society far more than Rat ever would, still, their relationship had a solidarity and solidity that he was suddenly very happy for in this strange, distant land.
Alessandro poured Melody a sherry, and she sat on the beautiful silk couch and sipped it, wondering how long they would have to wait for Fatima. Not long, it seemed. It was almost as if the other woman had wanted to ensure that her entrance into the room was the grand finale. No sooner had Melody had her second sip than Fatima swept into the room.
Swept really was the right word for the woman’s entrance. She was dressed in a gown of deep burgundy silk that was cut far lower than Melody would have dared in the Muslim country. Sparkling rubies dangled from Fatima’s neck, ears and wrist. Granny had drilled into Melody that one could wear an eye-catching gemstone as either a necklace, a bracelet or earrings, but never all three. Except at a ball of course, and only once one was a married woman. Then, it was acceptable to be dripping in diamonds. However, for the more intimate kind of party that they were attending that evening, the dowager would have given one of her signature sniffs of disapproval, looked Fatima up and down, and made it very clear that she agreed with Mary’s assessment that the woman was no better than she ought to be.
Even though this was Melody’s first thought on Fatima’s entrance, her second was a more generous acknowledgement that if anyone could carry off an excess of jewels, it was Fatima. Despite her petite frame, the woman exuded a larger-than-life presence. In fact, the woman’s ability to transcend the physical limitations of her stature was not unlike the dowager countess’ own. Melody realised that Granny would have likely felt an unwilling appreciation of Fatima’s ability to command attention. Certainly, both Rat and Alessandro’s eyes were immediately drawn to her, and Melody felt as if she was suddenly invisible.
“How do I look?” Fatima trilled, twirling to allow for a fuller appreciation of her charms.
“Quite beautiful, as you well know,” Alessandro replied with a wry smile. Just for a moment, Melody wondered if Conte Foscari wasn’t just a little exasperated with Fatima’s constant need to be the centre of attention.
“And Matthew? What do you think?” Fatima asked in her most flirtatious voice.
“Fatima-a-a,” Rat stammered. “I cannot imagine a more glorious vision.”
Very nice, Melody thought indignantly. What about his sister sitting there in her new Worth gown?
Fatima approached Rat and gave him one of her hands. “And how debonair you look in your evening dress.” Rat blushed to the roots of his hair. Melody had to control the urge to roll her eyes.
Vice-Consul Madden’s official residence was not far from Fatima’s home and was even larger and grander. The front door was opened by a butler who, in dress, manner, and inscrutability, could have been opening the door to any Mayfair aristocratic home. In fact, once they stepped over the threshold, Melody could have easily believed that they were on Grosvenor Square. There was not a local servant in sight. How had the government persuaded so many maids and footmen to relocate to Morocco? On closer inspection, Melody realised that the butler aside, all the servants were locals, or at least appeared to be. Rather than wearing their local costumes, they had all been styled in dress and hair to look as British as possible. To Melody’s eye, it even looked as if the Vice-Consul had gone out of his way only to hire the most fair-skinned, British-looking servants.
Vice-Consul Madden was a genial, welcoming host. A mousy woman stood by his side, barely speaking above a whisper and seemingly very uncomfortable in her role as hostess. The vice-consul welcomed Alessandro warmly, pulling him in slightly as the men shook hands and said something in a low voice.
Melody noticed this interaction and wondered how much the vice-consul knew about Alessandro and Rat’s roles with the Secret Service Bureau. Indeed, it would make sense if Britain’s representatives in Morocco knew such things.
Alessandro introduced Rat and Melody in the same manner he had throughout their trip: Melody was the ward of the Earl of Pembroke and was travelling in Europe and now North Africa, accompanied by her brother. If the vice-consul knew that this was a cover story, it was impossible to tell from the warm, if slightly distracted, greeting he gave them. His wife’s handshake was limp, and she barely made eye contact as she welcomed her guests.
They moved into the salon, which so mirrored what one might expect to walk into in London that it far more deserved the designation drawing room. The room was already quite full as people sipped on flutes of champagne and nibbled on the canapes that were being passed around by another of the highly anglicised footmen.
As soon as they entered the room, Fatima was hailed by a group of people and drifted away to greet them. Alessandro led the way across the room towards a tall, thin man sporting an impressive moustache. He was holding forth in what looked like a heated conversation with a distinguished-looking middle-aged man with another noteworthy moustache.
At Alessandro’s approach, the two men stopped talking but the tension between them was still evident as the tall man put out his hand and said, “Ah, Foscari. Good to see you.” The man then introduced himself to Rat and Melody as Sir Reginald Lister, the British Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary in Morocco and the guest of honour.
Sir Reginald then turned to the man he had been arguing with and asked Alessandro, “Do you know Monsieur Henri Gaillard, the French consul?”
Melody couldn’t be sure, but it almost felt as if the introduction was a warning. If it was, Alessandro was far too experienced an operative to acknowledge it. Instead, he took the other man’s outstretched hand and greeted him in perfect French. Of course, he also spoke fluent French, Melody thought irritably.
“Conte Foscari, your reputation precedes you,” the Frenchman said, switching to English. “Your newspapers have not always been as supportive of my country as one might imagine they would be.”
“I am the owner of many newspapers and the editor of none,” Alessandro said dismissively and with a lightness of tone that seemed to suggest a disinterest in what his newspapers published.
“And so, you do not dictate the tone that you wish your editors to adopt?”
“Monsieur, this is a party. Surely not the appropriate place for such a conversation.”
Sir Reginald chimed in, “Indeed, Monsieur Gaillard, let us not get into a discussion about our country’s newspapers. Surely, that will not reflect well on your country, after all.”
At this, Monsieur Gaillard’s eyes shot daggers at Sir Reginald, but instead of replying, he made a short bow and excused himself. What on earth was that all about, Melody wondered. She glanced over at Rat, but he seemed as mystified as she was.
They watched the Frenchman disappear into the crowd before Sir Reginald turned back to their group and remarked, “Damn French. How dare that man make such a comment to you. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Did you see what Le Matin printed just yesterday? Here we are trying to talk the Germans off the ledge and dissuade them from taking retaliatory action against the French, and they print some leaked papers before there’s even a chance to present them to the Huns. The Prime Minister was furious, let me tell you.”
Lowering his voice, Sir Reginald continued, “Of course, the Grey faction is probably rubbing its hands with glee.”
Of course, Melody knew that the current British Prime Minister was H.H. Asquith, the leader of the ruling Liberal Party. However, her knowledge of the rest of the government was much shakier. Who was Grey?
Just as Melody had racked her brain and come up short, Rat chimed in, “Why is the Foreign Secretary adopting such a provocative stance towards Germany, do you think, sir?”
Stroking his moustache in what seemed to be an unconscious gesture, Sir Reginald shook his head. He answered, “Well, of course, while this is hardly the place to discuss such things in detail, I must say that it is unfortunate that we have such an insular, xenophobic man who has barely travelled as not just Britain’s Foreign Secretary, but its most powerful one in many years.
“Grey’s faction’s anti-German position is particularly unfortunate given that the British public seems to have drifted towards a far more conciliatory, pro-German mood of recent. Yet, here is Grey doing all he can to stir up anti-German sentiment within the government and beyond. Mark my words, if we end up at war with the Kaiser, Grey will be a significant part of the reason why.”
War? Melody thought with alarm. She was well aware of much of the warmongering that the European powers had been engaged in recently. Nevertheless, it felt as if suspicion of the Germans, in particular, had been a constant hum in the background for most of her life. However, she had always assumed that it would never ignite into more than the occasional flicker of a spying incident here or a stand-off there.
“I would like to speak to you about this in more detail, Sir Reginald,” Alessandro said. “Perhaps, Mr Sandworth and I can call on you and the vice-consul tomorrow?”
“Indeed, I would like to discuss our missing friend. Let us say eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.” With that, the group broke up.