Deanna Raybourn - City of Jasmine

“I imagine you’re right.”

He sipped thoughtfully at his drink. “I suppose we could get married, though. I would get respectability and you’d have a lovely title to lord over all those nasty people who have nothing better to do than gossip about you.”

I slipped my hand into his. “Putting one over on the society cats is hardly reason enough to get married.”

“With you I could provide the estate with an heir,” he mused.

“But would you want to?”

He reached down and kissed my cheek. “No. Not even with you, and I adore you. I’ll simply have to go back to Mistledown and make the best of things. I shall be a proper lord of the manor, and when the time comes, it will all pass to a feeble-minded cousin in Ireland.”

“Is he really feeble-minded?”

“Well, he’s Irish, so it’s difficult to tell,” he said with a twinkle. I slapped at his leg.

“Don’t be catty.” I picked up the photograph. “I can tell you think I’m an awful fool for not going to Damascus.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But why?”

Wally leaned down and put his cheek against mine. “Because somewhere in your very large, very tender heart, you are hoping it was all a terrible mistake and that he is alive.”

I reared back as if he’d struck me. “Hoping! What an extraordinary thing to say.”

“But a truthful one. Evie, everyone else sees the brave face. Everyone else sees the big smile and the plucky girl who flies her little plane and waves for the cameras and flogs boots and face cream. But I see everything else. I see the shadows under your eyes when you’ve sat up half the night thinking about him. I see the hunted expression you get anytime his name is mentioned. And I see that somewhere beneath the sophisticated, glamorous façade of the barnstormer who crosses the globe with nothing but her dancing slippers and her best lipstick is the heartbroken girl whose husband called her bluff and left her sitting on a ship when she thought he would come crawling back.”

I blinked back unshed tears, my throat tight and hot. “Damn you.”

“People are always damning me,” he said with a sigh. “And it’s always because I’m right.”

I looked at the photograph again. “Do you really think he’s there?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. The point is it doesn’t really matter, dear girl. What counts is that you find some answers once and for all. You’ve spent the last five years running away from everything, dashing off on another trip just so you wouldn’t have to think about how you were going to pay the butcher or the baker.”

“You forgot the candlestick maker. And you’re quite wrong, you know. Those trips were how I paid the bills.”

“Nonsense. You could have learned to type and taken a nice job in an office somewhere. You could have married again. You could have accepted the annuity Gabriel left you. There were a hundred other ways to keep a roof over your head, my love, and you managed to choose the only way that kept you running. Well, it’s time to stop. Face down your ghosts. Exorcise them once and for all. Forgive them, forgive yourself and get on with the business of living.”

I thought a long moment. “And what if Gabriel isn’t a ghost? What if he really is alive?”

“Then you must find him and demand answers. You deserve them.”

“I suppose so,” I said slowly. “I imagine I could get one of the newspapers to underwrite a detour before the Caspian flight. Aunt Dove’s most successful book was her memoir of travels in the Levant in the ’80s. I could tell them we’re retracing her steps, meeting up with old friends, that sort of thing. I could promise some camel caravans and desert nomads for local colour. They’d lap that up. And I know she would love to see her old friends. I could tell her I want a little rest before the rigors of the Caspian trip.”

“See? You’re two steps ahead as usual, winkling out the difficulties. You’re halfway to Damascus already.”

I smiled. “You’re right, of course. I do deserve an end to it. If Gabriel’s gone, I ought to be able to put him behind me once and for all. And if he’s alive...” I hesitated then gave him a broad smile. “If he’s alive, I’ll let you hold him down while I thrash him.”

“Excellent notion. I’d love nothing better than to get a few licks in myself. I’ve always hated him.”

“Why should you hate him, Wally? You never even met him.”

He shrugged. “He had everything I ever wanted in life and left it on a ship out of Shanghai. I could kill him on that score alone.”

I jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. “You don’t really want me,” I reminded him. “I am not at all your type.”

“Oh, but how I wish you were.”

Two

The next day the editor of a newspaper in Los Angeles came through with tickets for the Orient Express, and Aunt Dove began to pack. She insisted on bringing Arthur along—“Roman air is insalubrious to parrots, dear”—and I left her to go in search of Wally. He was still tinkering with the Jolly Roger, whistling a bit of jazz as he worked.

“How’s my darling?” I called, patting her wing. It had been my idea to paint her to resemble a pirate flag. The black highlights lent her a certain gravitas while the dazzling white skull and crossbones on her tail said I meant business.

Wally looked up from the engine. “Your aeroplane is fine and so am I, thanks for asking.”

“Can I fly her to Venice?”

“Depends. Do you feel like landing her in the lagoon? Venice is water, pet.”

I pulled a face. “Not the Veneto. There’s a darling little airfield where we can get some smashing pictures before Aunt Dove and I catch the train to Constantinople.”

He considered then nodded. “She’ll be fine for that, but no further. I’ll take the train up to Venice and finish working on her there. As soon as she’s able, I’ll hopscotch her down to Damascus. There’s a small airfield just outside the city and the ambassador has already contacted the authorities for you, although I’m surprised he knew who to ask. Are we still in charge over there or is it the French now?”

I rolled my eyes. “Wally, do you ever actually read the newspapers we get? It used to be a vilayet of the Turks. We liberated it and there’s an interim Arab government now. The French are hanging around to act as advisors and we’re out.”

He shrugged. “Makes no difference to me and they change their minds every week. I think it’s a conspiracy on the part of mapmakers to sell their wares.”

“More like another souvenir of the war,” I reminded him.

At the end of the war, the Ottoman Empire, once stretched tautly from North Africa east to the Silk Road and north to the Balkans, had been shattered into a thousand pieces. Britain and France had swept up the choicest bits for themselves, leaving the crumbs for others. Unfortunately it had meant breaking a slew of promises to the native Arabs that they could have a country of their own after the war in exchange for their help in throwing off the Turks, the largest and most powerful of the German allies. These accords had left the whole of the region seething with rebellion and resentment with British and French overlords attempting to maintain an uneasy peace, while Arabs rightfully demanded autonomy. The trouble was the French had been meddling in the Holy Land ever since the Crusades and the British authorities weren’t about to be left out of the oil fields in southern Mesopotamia—particularly not since Churchill had set his heart on building an air force.

“Will you have trouble getting through Constantinople?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t do, although Aunt Dove is insisting on giving me a six-shooter to carry. She says Turks can’t be trusted.”