Arabian Nightmare

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

“Are you coming in to watch the dancing, Lady Benedict?”

The first part of the answer was an emphatic shaking of the head, while the second underpinned the distaste of the expression on the somewhat disdainful looking lady so questioned.

“I assuredly am not. More, I thoroughly disapprove of the expedition of which this dance is the inauguration. I consider that even by her contemplation of such a tour into the desert with only her husband and no attendant of her own s*x, with only native camel drivers and servants, Helen Middlemass – nee: Templeton, is behaving with a recklessness and impropriety that is calculated to cast a slur not only on her own reputation, but also on the prestige of her country… And as for her husband permitting to such a proposition?... Well, I think my views on the subject of that love-struck fool, and the shocking way he allows her to ride roughshod over him, are plain.”

Lady Benedict’s cheeks were flushed with anger and her listener knew there was more to come.

“I blush to think of it,” she went on sure enough. “We English cannot be too careful of our behaviour abroad. Examples must be set if our continental neighbours are not to cast their envious stones. And especially here, where we are the guests of the French in their own territory.”

She fanned herself rapidly, as if the mere action could blow away these affronts to her set-in-stone sensibilities.

“It is the maddest piece of unprincipled folly I have ever heard of from a woman in her position,” she finished.

“Oh, come, Lady Benedict!” the younger and less intolerant of the two ladies urged. “You exaggerate, surely. In a few months’ time the century will be two decades old. For what did those brave suffragettes sacrifice if not for women to be free to experience the thrill of adventure and discovery as well as men? I agree it is… unconventional… and, probably, not quite the safest of journeys she and her husband undertake. But I also feel we should applaud her boldness… I also take into account, Mrs Middlemass’s unusual upbringing.”

“And you believe I haven’t?” the more judgemental of the two asked. “It has been deplorable – and that is to understate its full horror. But nothing can excuse this scandalous escapade. I knew her mother years ago, and I took it upon myself to expostulate both with Helen and her brother, but Sir Aubrey is hedged around with an egotistical complacency that would defy a pickaxe to penetrate. According to him, a Templeton is beyond criticism, and his sister, though married, remains of the breed. He has his own life to live and her reputation is her own to deal with.”

The dowager allowed herself a derisive snort.

“The girl herself was, unsurprisingly given her breeding, flippant and not a little rude. Well, I washed my hands of the whole affair right there and then and will certainly not countenance to-night’s entertainment celebrating her departure by appearing at it. I have already warned the manager that if the noise is kept up beyond a reasonable hour I shall leave the hotel to-morrow.”

Which was when, position stated and thrilling to her own sense of narrow and righteous indignation, Lady Benedict drew her wrap around her with a little shudder and stalked majestically across the wide veranda of the Dominion Hotel.

The two men left standing by the open French window that led into the hotel ballroom looked first upon her departure and then at each other.

Both were smiling, heads seeming to shake in unison at the ill-informed intolerance their unsuspected presence, courtesy of a rather large decorative fern, had allowed them to overhear.

“No prevarication there, what?” said one, with a marked American accent. “I guess that’s how scandals are made with you English, eh?”

“Rubbish!” answered his companion, though not combatively so. “The presence of a runt shouldn’t lead to a belief that rest of the litter is less than reasonable. Lady Benedict is, I admit, of a peculiarly English origin, but she is not indicative of all its islanders. Certainly, she does not speak for this one.”

A sip of a particularly fine Dow’s later, he went on:

“To my knowledge, there’s never been a breath of scandal attached to Helen Templeton’s name. And I’ve known the child since she was a baby.”

His own statement brought a smile to his lips.

“And a rum little thing she was too… But scandal?”

The English half of the pairing shook his head.

“Confound that interfering old woman who has yet to know a moment’s passion beyond her own social climbing prejudices! If the sainted Mary herself were to land at this party now she would insist she had come fresh from a Limehouse lamp-post.”

The American laughed, knowing enough of the English and that particular area of London to find the joke amusing.

“She would wreck the reputation of the Archangel Gabriel if he came down to earth, let alone that of a mere human girl.”

“Not a very human girl,” said the American, still laughing at the earlier allusion. “Looks to me like she was meant for a boy and had a change of heart the wrong side of the womb.”

It was the Englishman’s turn to laugh now.

“Looks like a boy in petticoats,” continued the colonial cousin. “A damned pretty boy too.”

“And a damned haughty one,” the Englishman added with a chuckle. “I overheard her this morning, in the garden, making mincemeat of a French officer. Handled him as if he were a new-boy in front of his first governess.”

The American laughed again and his fellow guest went on:

“Tried making love to her, I expect – despite her husband being around. A thing she does not tolerate. Apart from with the man she allowed to place a ring on her finger, she’s the coldest little fish in the world - and, from what I hear, she likes to rule the roost with him also.”

“If we’re not careful,” said the colonial with a chuckle, “we’ll soon be sounding like that disapproving social climber of yours who just left for her room with her fine sense of propriety in an outrage.”

The Englishman held up his hands in a gesture of “God forbid!” before finishing his train of thought:

“Perish the thought, my friend… I simply point out that our Mrs Middlemass is a woman who does not take kindly to… being led. What she wants she goes after, and what she wants mostly is the romance of travel and adventures that can go in hand with trips to exotic and, perhaps, dangerous locations. I don’t think she knows the meaning of the word fear.”

“Not exactly conducive to a happy marriage, if you ask me. Why does the husband put up with it? Is he a bought man, or just a weak one?”

“Neither. I happen to know he’s from good stock and has his own money. A successful writer of fiction, or so I’m led to believe. His indulgence of her, I suspect, has its origins in love.”

“Ah,” the American latched onto the word, facial expression indicating he himself had being scorched by its fire himself upon more than one occasion. “The consolation provided to woman by nature for it having denied her equality in physical strength. The ability to inspire devotion and place a ring through the nose of a credulous man… No matter by how great a margin he be her superior.”

His expression became sour and it wasn’t difficult for the Englishman to suspect he was recalling more… personal… memories.

A suspicion soon borne out:

“At least, that is, until a better offer comes along and that same credulous man finds himself shorn of hair and chained to a Philistine pillar.”

Then, almost to himself, as if he had forgotten he was in company:

“Slut”

Expression unreadable now, he seemed to go off-world for a few seconds as his companion regarded his lapse into the vulgar with an almost… forensic… interest.

Then, coming back to the here and now with, neither acknowledgement of, nor apology for, his sudden intensity:

“There’s a bad streak in the family, isn’t there? I heard some fossil in his cups yammering about it the other night. Paterfamilias was mad and blew his brains out, or so the old coot said.”

The Englishman shrugged his shoulders.

“The ‘old coot’, as you so aptly describe the Baronet in question, was right on this occasion. And you may call it ‘mad’, if you like,” he said slowly.

Then, giving the American a long thoughtful look, as if gauging his mettle:

“I live near the Templeton’s’ in England, and happen to know the story.”

He paused, noting the raised interest levels of his fellow guest.

“If you should like to hear it, that is,” he finished.

“The night is clement and our glasses are full,” observed the American, a light in his eyes indicating he’d like nothing more. “What better time to have one’s ears… informed.”

The Englishman indicated a bench on the empty terrace and waited until they were seated before taking a sip of his Port and beginning.

“Sir John Templeton was passionately devoted to his wife,” he began. “After twenty years of married life they were still lovers.

“Then… A girl was born, and the mother died. Two hours afterwards Sir John shot himself, leaving the baby in the sole care of her brother. A brother who was just nineteen, and as lazy and as selfish then as he is now. The description ‘wastrel’ one that might have been coined for him.

“The problem of bringing up a girl child was too much trouble to be solved for one so young himself and in receipt of his own massive character flaws, so he settled the difficulty by treating his baby sister as if she was a boy.

The result is what you see, together with the reactions to her which you hear.”

Gazing over their shoulders at the same time, they could see into the brilliantly lit ballroom, already filled with gaily chattering people.

On a slightly raised platform at one end of the room the host and hostess were receiving their guests.

Brother and sister, that is.

Not, husband and wife.

The brother and sister were singularly unalike. Sir Aubrey Templeton was very tall and thin, the pallor of his face accentuated by the blackness of his smoothly brushed hair and heavy black moustache. His attitude a mixture of well-bred courtesy and languid boredom. He seemed too tired even to keep his drink to hand, and made sure he was next to table that allowed him to relieve himself of such a burden between frequent sips that, as the evening wore on would become gulps.

By contrast the girl at his side appeared vividly alive.

She was only of medium height and though slender with the easy, vigorous carriage of an athletic boy, there was nothing whatsoever boyish about a chest suggestive enough to ensure she had need to take an admiring French officer to task that very day.

Her head was poised proudly and a somewhat scornful mouth and firm chin showed plainly an obstinate determination. Deep blue eyes that met all enquiries with frankness – almost as if in a dare - were unusually clear and steady. The long, curling black lashes shading them and the dark eyebrows above were a foil to the thick crop of loose, red-gold curls that she wore on this occasion piled above her head to reveal ears that were small and well-formed and gave off the misleading impression of a pixy.

“The result’s certainly worth seeing,” said the American admiringly, referring to his companion’s last remark.

A third and younger man came through the French-Windows and joined them without a by-your-leave.

“Hallo, Wilson. You’re late,” greeted the English half of the pairing. “The divinity is ten deep in admirers already.”

A dull red crept into the young man’s face, and he jerked his head angrily.

“I got waylaid by Lady Benedict - poisonous old harridan!”

The older men shared looks of amusement for the immediacy of youth that bypassed their more considered… diplomacy… and simply went with the first description that sprang to mind.

The thoughts of both men describing that description as reserved, given the circumstances and its object.