Chapter Thirty-five
Chantelle was blurry-eyed when she entered the baths the next afternoon, but nothing could have kept her away, not her queasy stomach, not Adamma’s warnings that everyone would be talking about her today, and certainly not her own desire to hide herself away.
She had too much pride for that, and besides, she had herself in hand now.
As far as anyone could tell by looking at her, she wasn’t the least bit upset over what had happened yesterday.
But Adamma hadn’t exaggerated. She was the center of attention.
If she had been favored by Jamil for only a day or two, that would have been normal and not worth more than a passing comment.
But she had been summoned not only before her training was even near completion, but also for six nights in a row, which was apparently a new record for Jamil.
Because of that, a definite reaction was expected.
Well, she had reacted all right, and exactly how it was hoped she would by those who were envious of her.
But she’d be damned if anyone here would know it.
So she endured the sneers and gloating looks, the whispers and outright laughter when she came near, though to be fair, she realized not all the women were so petty in their jealousy.
She even managed to smile through a run-in with Noura, who couldn’t wait to tell her that Jamila was so exhausted that she was still sleeping at this late hour.
That had hurt, because she had felt the same way yesterday morning.
She was exhausted today as well, but for a different reason.
She had found no pleasure in last night’s sleeplessness.
The whole evening had been a miserable experience.
She had refused all visitors and so suffered only Adamma’s company.
And the girl had behaved as if she were the one out of favor, moping around with a long face.
Misery loves company, but Chantelle would rather have done without last night.
She hadn’t been able to eat more than a few bites of her dinner, thanks to her emotionally distraught state, and even that much she had lost later in the night.
Her stomach still didn’t feel up to nourishment, which was another mark against Jamil.
The bloody sod had given her indigestion.
Chantelle had just left the baths to enter the communal chamber when Adamma rushed in, wreathed in smiles, to tell her she had been summoned for tonight.
And the girl couldn’t have said this quietly.
No, she had to practically shout it, deliberately, Chantelle suspected.
But Aunt Ellen would have been proud. Chantelle didn’t even bat an eye.
She did no more than nod and calmly leave the hammam to return to her rooms, giving the impression that she accepted the summons as a matter of course. But she didn’t. No, not in the least.
Once in her quarters, she went straight into her bedchamber and did not come out.
She could hear Adamma pacing on the other side of the curtain that separated the two rooms. She hadn’t said a word to the girl, so she was no doubt anxious to begin the preparations.
But Chantelle had nothing to prepare for.
Adamma waited no more than twenty minutes before she finally poked her head through the curtain. She found her mistress in front of the window, staring out at the garden.
“Lalla?”
“Yes?”
“Shouldn’t we begin—”
“No.”
“But—”
“I’m not going, Adamma.”
Shahar hadn’t turned from the garden. Her voice hadn’t been raised in the least. Adamma chewed on her lower lip. She should have expected this, but hadn’t.
“Are you ill, lalla?” she asked hesitantly.
Chantelle glanced over her shoulder. “Ill?” She smiled tightly. “No, but that excuse will do as well as any to avoid a battle royal. Have Kadar inform Haji Agha so the Dey can make other arrangements for tonight.”
Adamma groaned and rushed to the front door to find the black eunuch in his customary post outside it. “She’s not going!” the girl blurted out.
Kadar came instantly to his feet. “Is she ill?” He asked the same question.
“No, but you must tell Haji Agha that she is.”
“It won’t work, girl.”
“You better hope it does, because she means it. She’s not going.”
Kadar grunted and hurried away. He should have known the little English wouldn’t remain docile for very long. She was too proud, that one, and too willful for her own good. Perhaps Haji Agha would believe that she was ill.
“I don’t believe it,” the Chief Black Eunuch said after Kadar had delivered his message. “What is wrong with the girl now?”
“I should think that is obvious, my lord.”
Haji frowned. Yes, it was obvious. Shahar was no doubt upset that she had been ignored yesterday. The Europeans always took longer to acclimate themselves to the way of things here. She would be angry and jealous, and her jealousy would probably be worse than her previous defiance had been.
“The Dey will never believe she’s ill,” Haji said more to himself, for he had already concluded that he had to at least try this way. Without the use of drugs, that left only force, and Jamil would not like having her “delivered” to him.
“Perhaps he will accept it even if he doesn’t believe it,” Kadar suggested. “He knows her temperament by now.”
“We can only hope,” Haji grunted. “By the Prophet’s beard, the girl is more trouble than she’s worth,” he added as he departed for the Dey’s apartments.
He should have known it wouldn’t work.
“Is she ill?” Derek asked suspiciously.
Haji could only stammer, “I—I haven’t seen her myself, but—but her attendants assure me—”
“Ill or not, have her here at the appointed hour, Haji.”
And that was that.