Penny Jordan Tribute Collection

‘I think you can guess why. He doesn’t want me to marry Faisal,’ Felicia told her bleakly, driven by the need to confide in someone.

‘I know,’ Zahra admitted. ‘He has spoken of this to me. You must not get upset, Felicia, it is just that Faisal….’ she coloured, patently embarrassed. ‘Well, you are not the first girl he has believed himself in love with, and Uncle Raschid is merely anxious to protect my mother. She does not understand these things. To her a betrothal is as sacred as a marriage, and that is why Uncle Raschid will not allow you to become engaged until he is sure that your marriage will be a happy one.’

In other circumstances Felicia might have seen the wisdom behind these words, but Raschid’s implied criticism of Faisal fuelled her anger, causing Zahra to eye her with growing concern as indignant colour burned her cheeks.

‘You must have patience,’ Zahra soothed. ‘Raschid will come round in time, I am sure of it. You must have siyasa.’

‘Siyasa? What is that?’ Felicia enquired, intrigued in spite of herself.

Zahra laughed. ‘It is what in England you would call tact, but more! It is the art of getting what you want without forcing the other man to lose face.’

‘It is obvious that your uncle does not think me deserving of siyasa,’ Felicia complained. ‘I honestly believe he wants to humiliate me!’

Zahra made a shocked, tutting sound.

‘Never would he be so impolite to a guest,’ she averred firmly. ‘He is merely anxious for my mother. He wishes to protect her, that is all. Marriage is a big step….’

‘So your uncle was telling me,’ Felicia agreed wryly. ‘He seems to be quite an expert on the subject, although he isn’t married himself.’

‘That is because his betrothed died,’ Zahra explained in a low voice. ‘It used to be the custom for a girl to be engaged to her first cousin, and this practice was adopted by Raschid’s father, so that Raschid is my mother’s brother, but he was also my father’s cousin.’

It was all rather difficult for Felicia to assimilate, with an aching head, but she did her best.

‘Raschid is, of course, my mother’s stepbrother,’ Zahra continued. ‘He was the child of my grandfather’s second wife. That is why he is of your religion and we are not. Faisal will have told you something of this?’

‘He told me that your uncle’s grandmother was an English girl—a Christian,’ Felicia admitted, curious, despite her averred dislike of Faisal’s uncle.

‘Yes, that is so,’ Zahra agreed. ‘Raschid’s grandparents met in the desert, when he rescued her from a sandstorm. They fell deeply in love and since Raschid’s grandfather was the head of his family he was free to marry whomever he chose. It was for her that he built the house at the oasis, for despite their love, sometimes she yearned for her old life amongst her own people. Raschid’s mother was their only child, and she was the second wife of my grandfather. That is how Raschid comes to be Christian. It is a romantic story, is it not?’

Felicia allowed that it was.

‘I do not think Raschid will marry now,’ Zahra mused. ‘I think he enjoys his single state too much.’ She dimpled a smile at Felicia. ‘Mother is constantly suggesting this girl or that, for his approval, but he always has an excuse.’

‘Another example of siyasa!’ Felicia commented dryly, wincing when Zahra clapped her hands and laughed.

‘I am going to enjoy having you staying with us, Felicia. Poor Uncle Raschid! He will not be able to stand out against you for long, especially when Faisal comes home. Mother has always spoiled him dreadfully, and I don’t think she would object if he took four English wives!’

Umm Faisal might not, Felicia thought tiredly, but she certainly would. She closed her eyes, trying to relax and ease the tension from her muscles, but Raschid’s darkly sardonic features would keep transposing themselves between her aching head and the peace she sought.

In the end she welcomed Umm Faisal’s entrance, to bear her chattering daughter away and leave her guest a glass of chilled fruit juice and the promised sleeping tablet.

IT WAS THE unfamiliar figure of the maid tiptoeing past the window that eventually woke Felicia. She opened her eyes, disorientated, and wondering where she was, and then the events of the previous day came flooding back. Of course! She was in Kuwait faced with the seemingly impossible mission of trying to persuade Sheikh Raschid to accept her into his family.

The maid threw back the curtains with a shy smile, but in response to Felicia’s questions, she only shook her head and left the room, reappearing several minutes later with Umm Faisal.

‘So! You are feeling better?’ the older woman exclaimed in her slow English, giving her guest a beaming smile. ‘That is good. Zahra has gone to the university, but she left a message to say that she will meet you in Kuwait later in the day. Ali will take you in the car and wait for you.’

‘Zahra has left?’ Felicia sat up and stared disbelievingly at her watch. How on earth could it be eleven in the morning? When she broke into an appalled apology Umm Faisal shook her head, plainly undisturbed.

‘It is the pill,’ she assured Felicia, ‘and you will feel better for the long sleep. My brother has gone to the bank, and so we are alone. Selina will bring you rolls and honey or fresh fruit if you prefer and then we shall drink tea and you will tell me all about my Faisal. Zahra laughs at me, but a mother grows anxious for her only son, when he lives amongst strangers.’

Felicia could only sympathise. She missed Faisal already, and longed for his presence as a bulwark between herself and Raschid.

‘It is a bad time for him to go to New York, just when you are visiting us,’ Umm Faisal acknowledged, ‘but Raschid thought it necessary.’

And Raschid’s decisions must never be questioned, Felicia thought resentfully.

The fresh fruit and delicious warm rolls Selina brought helped to revive her, and after a refreshing shower Felicia dressed in a flattering ice blue linen skirt, attractively pleated at the front, a toning striped blouse, completing an outfit that was both cool and practical. The skirt had a matching jacket, but the morning was so warm that Felicia left it hanging in the wardrobe. Pale blue eyeshadow and soft pink lip-gloss gave her a hint of sophistication, building up her seriously depleted self-confidence.

With a good many nods and smiles Selina led her to Umm Faisal’s private sitting room on the ground floor. The older woman was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, and she rose gracefully when Felicia entered. The room was cool and shadowy, a long divan beneath the iron grille of a window, heaped with cushions covered in vivid silks, the rich crimsons and peacock blues picked out in the jewel-coloured Persian carpet, a vibrant note of colour against the black and white tiled floor. On a small low table stood a brass samovar, bubbling gently, the scent of mint tea wafting towards Felicia as she crossed the room. Above the faint whirring of the air-conditioning she could hear the sound of birds singing.

‘Raschid had an aviary built when we moved to this house,’ Umm Faisal explained. ‘It is pleasant to walk in the gardens in the evening and listen to their song.’

‘I thought I heard fountains playing when we arrived last night, and they sounded wonderful,’ Felicia acknowledged.

‘Ah yes. There is no sweeter sound to the Arab ear than that of water, and even now when we no longer need to fear the dry season I have to force myself not to waste a drop.’ She shook her head. ‘Old habits die hard, and Raschid is constantly chiding me for my folly. He bought this house for us when my husband died—Raschid really prefers the desert, but it is not safe to bring up children so far from medical care even in these days. He gave up much when Saud died—but then Faisal will have told you that.’

Had he? Felicia could remember well enough Faisal’s complaints about his uncle. ‘He must have been very young,’ she murmured now involuntarily, referring to Raschid.

Umm Faisal smiled. ‘Barely nineteen. He was the son of my father’s second wife. My mother bore no sons to my father, so he took a second wife, but Yasmin was never truly happy. She was her parents’ only child and had been educated in England according to her mother’s wish. However, when it came to her marriage her father insisted that it must be in the old tradition. My father was her second cousin, but although she was a dutiful wife, she rarely smiled or laughed. She died when Raschid was three, and I have often wondered if she yearned for her mother’s country. Raschid does not speak of it, but her death saddened him greatly. He has not had an easy life,’ Umm Faisal continued quietly, ‘and it is for this reason that I should like to see him settled with a family of his own.’ She looked at Felicia with contemplative eyes. ‘In Raschid, East and West meet, and I know that he is sometimes impatient of our ways. It was his wish that Zahra and Nadia attend the university—and I think the English part of him yearns for a closer companionship with his wife than Moslem girls are taught to expect. It is for this reason, I think, that he has never taken a bride.’

She pitied the woman who eventually took him on, Felicia thought grimly, but naturally she did not voice these thoughts to her companion.

Today Umm Faisal was dressed in Eastern costume, and Felicia suspected that the Western garb of the previous evening had been donned merely to put her at her ease. Her heart warmed towards this tiny, plump woman whose ways were so very different from her own, but who was plainly willing to welcome her son’s friends into her home. Remembering the gifts she had bought in London—still unpacked—Felicia was tempted to run upstairs and get them, but decided to wait until Zahra returned.

She tried not to feel too dismayed when Ali brought the Mercedes to the door later that afternoon, wishing that Umm Faisal was going with her.

The arrangement was that Ali would drive to the university to collect Zahra and then take both girls back to Kuwait town so that they could look at the shops at their leisure, but when they were driving through Kuwait, Felicia remembered that she had no Kuwaiti money and she persuaded Ali to drop her outside a bank and go on to collect Zahra without her.

‘I shall wait for Zahra here,’ she assured the puzzled servant, gesturing to the large plate glass building behind her.

As she emerged from the interior of the car she was glad that she had changed her striped blouse for a thinner, sleeveless one, with a gently scooped neckline.

The bank cashier was politely helpful, patiently explaining the denominations of her Kuwaiti money and showing her the rate of exchange. He spoke excellent English, and although Felicia doubted that her few pounds would go very far, it was reassuring to have money in her purse.

She emerged from the welcome coolness of the bank into the harsh sunlight, fascinated by the panorama of life passing by in front of her while she waited for Ali to return with Zahra. Hawk-eyed, bronzed men in their white dish-dashes; their robes immaculately clean, their headdresses held in place by glinting gold igals.

A group of old men sat cross-legged on the pavement, and to her amusement Felicia realised that they were watching a television in a shop window.

Although men were undeniably in the majority, she noticed several girls walking about unescorted, some wearing jeans and blouses, but there were still plenty of women who retained the traditional black burga, veils covering their faces as they swayed gracefully in the wake of their men. The men were fascinating, Felicia reflected. Even in middle age they retained their upright carriage and good looks. Black eyes glittered curiously at her, hawk noses and thin lips a reminder of their heritage. It was impossible not to admire them in their strict adherence to their way of life, though she liked that Faisal was more gentle by nature, more malleable, ready to indulge and cosset her, the effect no doubt of his Western education, and a result of the close bond that evidently existed between him and his mother. Raschid was cast in a far different mould.

All too easy to imagine him staring down the length of his arrogant nose at some unfortunate female who had incurred his displeasure.

Ali was gone longer than she had anticipated, and she scoured the busy street looking for the familiar Mercedes. A group of youths were approaching her, their eyes bold and assessing, and Felicia was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. So much so that she almost wished for the protection of the enveloping black garments of the other women to hide her from the openly lascivious glances she was attracting.

When she did see the Mercedes gliding to a halt several yards away, she started to hurry towards it, but it was not Ali who got out of the car. It was Raschid himself, his face dark and forbidding as he strode towards her, the thin silk of his shirt open at the neck to reveal the strong, tanned column of his throat. A tiny thread of awareness filtered through her dismay, coupled with the unwelcome admission that these olive-skinned men with their arrogant profiles and lean grace made their English counterparts seem pale and flabby in comparison. Her heart was beating uncomfortably fast, her pulses racing, her mouth dry with nervous fear. Instead of going to meet Raschid, she hung back, frozen to the spot like some poor little mouse, petrified by the cruel grace of the falcon on his downward swoop.

Dark fingers, like talons, gripped her arm, swinging her into shocked contact with a hard male body, the scent of male skin filling her nostrils as, momentarily, she was pressed against Raschid’s lean length.