Engaged To The Doctor Sheikh
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‘It’s unbelievable!’ Lila whispered, walking across to a small chest of drawers to trace her fingers along the silver filigree design set into the wood. ‘Is this design traditional?’
Barirah smiled.
‘It is the most common motif in our decoration although by no means the only one. It shows the vine that grows over the dunes after rain, and see here...’ delicate fingers traced the pattern ‘...the moonflower.’
It was the palest pink, perhaps more mauve in tone, open like a full moon, a half-open bud beside it, and seeing it pain speared through Lila’s heart and she fell to her knees, her hands reaching out to touch the flowers, to grasp the material and bring it to her face, feeling it against her skin, smelling it...
Barirah knelt beside her, held her, while she cried, then dried her eyes with a clean white tissue.
Lila turned to face her.
‘My mother had a shawl—she wore it over her head and around her shoulders. It was this pattern! Why didn’t I remember? How could I have forgotten that?’
Tariq, in the arbour outside the doors that opened into the garden, had heard the words, heard the anguish in the woman’s voice, and wondered just how hard it must have been for a four-year-old to have lost not only her parents but the world as she had known it.
Barirah was helping Lila to her feet, comforting her with soft words and soothing noises, and he stepped back, showing the servants where to leave the food, then waiting for the two women to appear.
He sat, resting his tired eyes behind closed lids, dozed perhaps, aware he should be seeing his father, telling him of this development but not wanting to put further stresses on their guest.
Had he been less tired, he realised now—too late—he’d have taken her to the hospital, let her get on with her work. Officials could have confiscated the Ta’wiz, verified it, and it could have been returned to the palace, without her.
But even as these thoughts rambled through his exhausted brain, an image of the woman, Nalini’s suspected daughter, hovered behind his eyelids, her dark almond eyes sparking with anger at him, her fingers clinging to the pendant—a last gift from her mother.
No way would she have given it up.
‘He’s been working far too hard.’
Barirah’s voice woke him from the half-dream, woke him as his memories of Lila’s angry eyes had shifted to an image of her soft lips—woke him just in time, really...
The two women joined him in the arbour, Barirah making her apologies for having to leave.
‘But Tariq will take good care of you and, when you are rested, take you to the hospital to show you around.’
She gave Lila a brief kiss on the cheek and departed on silent feet, leaving Tariq to wonder again just how big a mistake he’d made in bringing the woman here.
His guest was eyeing the array of food with almost childlike delight.
‘But what is it all? You must tell me,’ she said, moving around the table to see each dish more clearly. ‘Olives I know, although the pink ones are different. And the little white balls—cheeses? Hallie, my foster mother, made labneh—cheese from yoghurt—but it was a little dull.’
But there was tension beneath the flow of words, and Tariq realised that the young woman had been hit by so much information and so many new and emotional experiences in the few hours since she’d arrived that she was running on adrenalin.
‘Sit,’ he ordered, and tired as he was he stood up, selected a brightly patterned plate and began to place an array of small delicacies on it.
He handed it to her, laid a napkin on her knee and said, ‘Try a little of each. You’ll soon learn what you like and what you don’t. And I’m sure you’ll recognise tastes you’re familiar with, though they may be delivered differently.’
She took the plate from him and looked up into his face.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, simply, her dark eyes smiling now, the lips he’d seen behind his eyelids curving slightly.
He definitely should have taken her to the apartment at the hospital!
CHAPTER THREE
LILA WATCHED HER HOST, pouring cool lemon drinks into tall glasses.
‘Can you tell me about my mother?’ she asked, when he finally settled back in a fat-cushioned cane chair. ‘Well, about Nalini, who might be my mother?’
He hesitated, tipped his head to one side as if the question might be better seen from another angle, then finally replied, ‘What would you like to know?’
‘What would I like to know?’ she demanded. ‘Everything, of course.’
He smiled.
‘Tall order for over lunch,’ he said, still obviously hesitant.
‘Well, anything at all,’ Lila suggested. ‘What made you think I was related to her? Something must have, as you said her name.’
Another smile, small but there—a reminiscent smile...
‘You are very like her, not only in looks but in some of your mannerisms, or movements, something I cannot explain, although I could see it when I looked at you.’
Lila felt the words drop into the empty space inside her. They didn’t fill the space, of course, but it did feel a little less empty.
‘But who was she?’ And why do you think she stole the Ta’wiz?’
No smile this time.
‘Nalini was my father’s second wife’s sister, if you can follow that. To make it more complicated, in Karuba we talk about the wives as mothers, so my mother—my father’s first wife—is First Mother, while Nalini’s sister is Second Mother. Nalini was the younger sister and she came to live in the palace as Second Mother’s companion. And, truthfully, when she arrived it was if a light had been switched on, and all the old shadows in the palace disappeared, bringing the place back to life because she was such fun.’
He paused and Lila knew he was back in that time, seeing pictures in his head.
‘We loved her, all of us,’ he added simply.
‘So why would she leave? And why would you think her a thief?’
He shrugged.
‘I was a child so I cannot answer that for you. You must realise that the theft—and Nalini’s link to it—brought shame to Second Mother and she never forgave her sister for that. You will hear many stories and not all of them will be good ones, so you will have to sift them through for yourself. One of them, perhaps it was true, was that my father had arranged a marriage for her and she didn’t wish to marry whoever it was—didn’t want to be forced into an arranged marriage. This would have angered my father, and infuriated Second Mother, who was jealous of her sister’s popularity and would have been pleased to see her go. But I can tell you that Nalini was beautiful, and she brought joy to many people.’
Again that hesitation, then he added, ‘I was eight, and I loved her.’
Lila closed her eyes, trying to picture her mother—to picture the man beside her as a child. She tucked the words ‘beautiful’ and ‘joy’ into the empty space and accepted that she’d hear little more from this man now.
Some other time she’d ask again, but in the meantime, living here in what he’d called the women’s house, she did not doubt she’d hear the other stories he’d spoken of.
Not all of them would be good, he’d also said, but maybe they would help her put together a picture of the woman who’d become her mother.
In the meantime...
Should she ask?
But how else to find out?
‘And my father?’
He shook his head, as if sorry this conversation had begun. Not that a headshake was going to stop her.
She waited, her eyes on his face. He’d taken off his headscarf before meeting them in the arbour, and without it casting shadows on his face she could see the lines of weariness.
But doctors often looked like that...
‘We really don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘There was a lot of talk—speculation—but there was also the fact that she might have gone away on her own. No one knew.’
He bowed his head, as if suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion.
‘I need to sleep,’ he said. ‘It was a long night.’
‘Is there a problem at the hospital?’ she asked. ‘When we video chatted, you seemed so positive. You sounded excited that things going well enough for you to begin the outreach programme you want to run.’
Dark eyes met hers—not dark dark, but with a greenish tinge, and framed by eyelashes most women would die for.
‘The hospital is working well, the outreach programme ready to begin, but...’
He looked so shattered it was all she could do not to reach out and touch him—to offer comfort.
‘It is my brother,’ he explained, his voice deepened by despair. ‘He’s been battling leukaemia for four years and just when we think it’s gone for good, he comes out of remission. He has had an autologous stem cell transplant and an allogenic one from me, and some other close members of his family, but there’s a kink...’
He paused then added, ‘There’s a kink—that’s a very unprofessional explanation but it’s how I think of it—just some slight difference in a chromosome that makes the sibling matches not quite right. I’ve been searching worldwide donor bases to see if I can find a match.’
Leukaemia, she knew, came in so many forms, so many sub-types and deviations and, as Tariq had said, there were many chromosomal differences that made both treatment and likely outcomes very difficult to predict.
‘How old is he?’ she asked, thinking that the younger a child was diagnosed, the more chance he had.
‘Eighteen now. He has been ill for three years—well, ill, then in remission, then ill again. You must know how it goes.’
Tariq’s voice told her of his despair and she knew he understood just how little chance his brother had of a full recovery.
Of any recovery?
‘But Khalil is a fighter,’ he added, ‘and we’re all fighting with him. You’ll get to meet him at the hospital, of course, although probably only through glass as his immune system is wrecked.’
Lila shook her head, aware of the stress and agony this must be causing his family.
But what could she say?
Then Tariq was speaking again, so she didn’t have to say anything.
‘You should rest now and I definitely need sleep,’ he said. ‘But perhaps, by five, you might be sufficiently rested to visit the hospital. I had planned tomorrow to be an orientation day for you—more learning your way around than work—but this afternoon the unit I ordered for the outreach clinic will be delivered and as you’ll be using it quite a lot, you might like to join me when I take possession of it?’
‘I’d love to,’ Lila told him with genuine enthusiasm, because it had been his description of the service he hoped to provide to the children of nomadic tribes that had heightened her interest in Karuba—that had given her more reason to come than just the search for her family.
‘Shall we say five at the main entrance to the women’s quarters?’ he said, standing up and moving to ease kinks of what must be tiredness from his limbs.
‘If I can ever find the main entrance again,’ Lila said with a smile.
It was just a smile—nothing more—Tariq told himself as he strode away as swiftly as his tired limbs would carry him.
But the smile had touched some part of him that rarely recognised emotion.
Surely not his heart!
No, he believed his father was right—their people had survived for generations in a dangerous, arid land because the head ruled the heart, making decisions based on practicality, sound business principles and common sense, rather than emotion.
Worry over Khalil was confusing him, and seeing Nalini again—well, Nalini’s daughter—remembering that bitter time in the palace when even the children had been affected by the poisonous atmosphere—anyone would be confused.
Barirah was right, he shouldn’t have brought her here.
But the Ta’wiz!
With Khalil so ill...
His head could scoff all it liked but some ancient instinct, not necessarily in his heart but something deep in his soul, told him the Ta-wiz should be here in the palace...
He made his way slowly through the gardens towards his own quarters. He needed sleep more than anything—just a few hours—but as he reached the small courtyard in front of his wing of the palace, he saw again his father’s words, this time rendered in the mosaic tiles in the courtyard.
He should speak to his mother, tell her of Lila Halliday’s arrival, even though gossip about it would surely have reached her by now.
All the more reason to talk to her personally, he told himself. But weariness overcame duty and he walked up the shallow steps and shuffled off his shoes, heading into the house to the sanctuary of his bedroom.
He would sleep, and later, when he met the doctor, he would set aside the confusion of this morning and meet her as a colleague, a colleague he hoped would help him fulfil a dream he’d held for a long time.
To bring better health to the children outside the cities and towns—to ensure they were inoculated against the worst of childhood diseases—because he knew the divide between the towns and the desert was diminishing, and the children of the nomads were part of the future of his country. Health and education—with these two platforms, they could become anything they wished...
He slept...
* * *
Lila woke with a start to find a young woman sitting on a mat by her door, her hands busy, fingers flying as she did some delicate needlework.
‘I am Sousa,’ she said, rising gracefully to her feet. ‘I am here to look after you. You would like refreshment? A cool drink? Tea, perhaps? I know English people like tea, but I don’t know very much about Australians.’
She was so openly curious Lila had to smile.
‘Australians drink a lot of tea,’ she said, not adding that many of them drank a lot of beer and wine as well. Her family hadn’t, though not for any apparent reason, happy to accept a glass of wine to toast a special occasion but not bothering otherwise.
But thinking of her family—the one that was real to her—reminded her that she was here on a mission, a double mission now, not only to find out all she could about her parents but also to clear her mother’s name.
And Sousa might at least know something!
‘I’d love some tea,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could join me and explain a little about how things work at the palace. I am to meet my boss—Sheikh al Askeba—at five, but that still gives us time for a chat.’
Sousa disappeared with an alacrity that suggested she was dying to find out more about the foreign visitor, returning with a tea tray only minutes later, complete with warm scones wrapped in a table napkin, and jam and cream to go on them.
‘Sheikh al Askeba—that’s Tariq, your boss—he should be Crown Prince because he’s the oldest son, but he wanted to study and fought with his father for the right to be a doctor, which is very good for our country as he has built the hospital, and brought in many famous medical people from overseas, but that meant Khalil had to be Crown Prince and now he is so ill, everyone is worried. If he dies, who will the King choose as his successor?’
‘Are there only the two sons? And can daughters not take over?’
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