Stepping Across the Desert

Chapter One

Tiaret, Algeria, May, 1832

T

he

wind

blew

softly

through the trees as Rowena dropped the dress back into the sudsy water. From downriver, she could hear the soft chant of the male slaves resting against the cedars. No time to rest for her.

Rowena closed her eyes as she ran her calloused hands up and down the cloth, the movement slow and gentle. While the garment must surely be out of style in Paris by now, it was still one of Mistress Nadira’s favorites. The fine silk had to be washed with care.

Selma grunted loudly from where she was pulling wet clothes out of the river—a warning to focus. There were guests tonight at the grand house and under no circumstances could they delay with the clothes. Rowena considered the dark-skinned woman her adopted mother, but love as a slave was harsh. No one was willing to take a beating for another person’s badly done work. Selma’s love could include swift slaps to the face, but a warning slap from Selma was better than a whipping.

Rowena unconsciously touched her cheek, remembering the first slap Selma had given her, then wrapped her thin, muslin scarf over her head as a shield. Her heart began to race, and she noticed the throbbing in her feet again. Gently she pushed the silk dress back into the water, singing to herself in hopes she could calm herself down. There was no need to waste energy on anxiety.

“Slow, methodical,” Selma said in Berber, the language they both had in common. “Breathe. I’ll tell you a story.”

Rowena looked up with a smile for her adopted mother. “About your brothers?” she asked.

Selma grunted in mock disapproval but began the well-worn story of her brother the warrior as Rowena hung the yellow dress from a tree branch to start the time-consuming task of wringing out the water.

“Come, sit down here,” Rowena said in Berber when she saw Selma stretch out her back. “I will finish the wash while you tell the part about your brother saving your mother from the lion. Sit here and wring out the water.”

Selma started to protest, but shouts down the river cut her words short. She turned her head with pursed lips and narrowed eyes, but sat down in the seat without a word. Rowena tried to concentrate on the shouted words as she picked up a long, black silk vest embroidered with gold thread.

“Hurry, child,” Selma said wearily. Her story now forgotten, she started to hum a tune in her mother tongue.

“What are they saying?” Rowena asked.

“Keep your eyes down, Fatia,” Selma replied sharply. “It doesn’t involve us.”

Rowena obeyed immediately. The afternoon was still young, and the sun would only get more intense. They must work faster to get the clothes dried and pressed before dinner; Rowena willed her fingers to go quickly as she delicately rubbed a stain out of the embroidery. When shouts floated to them from the river again, she stole a glance at Selma with concern, but Selma simply continued singing.

It was a sad song about a child being taken away—a story that rang all too true to both women. Rowena shook her head sharply and stared at the water. With even breathing, her heart had slowed, and the tears that threatened finally receded.

Thanks to persistence and a little luck, the stubborn stain in the embroidery started to fade. Two years before, when she had begun living here, the tips of her fingers would tingle at the end of the day, sometimes cracking and bleeding. Now her callouses worked much like hardened sponges without nerves.

A sigh escaped her as she rolled back her aching shoulders. Selma clicked her tongue to chivvy her along, but Rowena didn’t need it. She was already dipping the tunic back into the water. Nadira had beautiful garments, just like those Rowena had once worn. They were all made of silk and dyed to perfection. Nadira’s legendary beauty did not keep Saed from having other wives, but it was clear that she was his favorite, his first. The only wife that had ever traveled to France for her clothes.

“Have you thought on Sara’s offer?” Selma asked in Berber.

Rowena looked sharply at her, but Selma didn’t take notice of her glare. “I will not become a concubine.”

“It is more secure.”

“No.”

Selma gave one nod, then continued with her work.

Now that Nadira could not have any more sons for him, Saed seemed to expand his harem every month. Just a few days ago Sara, Mistress Nadira’s personal maid, had offered to train Rowena into being a concubine, an offer that she had received with horror.

As grotesque as it seemed to Rowena, with her English upbringing, entering Saed’s harem was considered an honor. Some woman tried to be chosen well past their prime years. Selma encouraged her to enter it, saying it would provide a luxurious life. But it also meant no escape. No one ever left the harem.

Still, if Rowena was to be a slave the rest of her life, Selma argued that she should not risk going to the slave market. To Rowena’s fortune, she had been privately bought and sold since the moment she had been kidnapped five years ago. The slave market was something she had never experienced and never wished to.

“

Balik A’brid

!”

The fierce command echoed through the trees. Surprised, Rowena scrambled to obey. She grabbed the basket and threw herself onto the bank before realizing that the command was not for her. Instead, it was directed at Saed’s head slave, Mohammed, by a tall man with shoulders twice as wide as even Saed’s personal guards. He appeared from the forest as though by magic, his red burnous flying about him like a sandstorm, yet never daring to hinder his long, determined strides. Mohammed obediently fell into step behind the man, trying to maintain long enough strides to keep ahead of the other slaves. An aura of panic surrounded the entire group. Even the lowest slaves could not seem to focus on their tasks.

Rowena squinted, trying to find the reason for such strange behavior. Some in the group were house slaves, which added to the incongruity. Selma gasped just as Rowena’s eyes fell on the bundle the man carried. In them was Youssef, Nadira’s eldest son. The boy bounced like a limp fish to the rhythm of the stranger’s steps, his eyes closed, his soaked clothing leaving Rowena and Selma to think the worst. Youssef was nearing his fifteenth birthday, but in this man’s arms, he looked like a child.

A long stick poked into her ribs. Rowena turned around abruptly to find Selma looking steadily at her.

“It is none of our business.”

Rowena sent a silent prayer towards the boy before reluctantly turning back to her work. As she did so, she noticed the stranger was wearing black, English-style boots over tight brown riding trousers underneath his burnous.

For the first time in years, tiny bubbles of excitement popped within her. If an Englishman was here, it was possible—but—no. No. She shook the hope away. Even if the French soldiers were here, they would not bother to rescue slaves.

When Selma and Rowena arrived that evening, the entire household was buzzing with the story about Youssef. He had been thrown into the river by his horse, and before Mohammed had been able to do anything, the stranger in red had appeared from nowhere to fish the boy from the rocky waters.

It was a miracle Youssef was alive, and for that Saed wished to celebrate. Already the smell of lamb and couscous and dates wafted through the air, along with honey cakes and strong tea. Rowena entered the female baignoires, where she slept with forty-four other female slaves, and heaved a sigh. Her stomach growled as she listened to the story being told once again, the weight of her exhaustion intensifying the moment she sat down.

“Fatia! Come! Mistress is asking that you perform for the man who saved Youssef’s life. You must bathe!” commanded Sara from the tent opening. The urgency in the command pushed Rowena to her feet.

“Coming!” she called out in Berber, grabbing her soap before running from the tent towards the female bathing house. Before she went far, Sara grabbed her hand.

“Mistress wished you to bathe in our quarters. You are to put on perfume and a silk dress. I was told to make you look as beautiful as Venus.”

“A-a silk dress?” Rowena sputtered. “I have no such dress.”

Sara smiled. “Come. You must hurry.”

Rowena kept herself only one step behind Sara until they entered the cool, marbled bathroom reserved for Nadira’s personal maids and slaves. She slowed to take in the sight. The green marble seemed to transform the room into a stone pond. On the eastern wall hung a life-sized oil painting of the mistress with kind, golden eyes.

Truthfully, Nadira was the kindest woman Rowena remembered knowing, though she knew that might be due to her not having known very many women in her life. Although everyone described her as a jealous wife, Nadira radiated an energy of kindness and love to those around her. Every Saturday she gave out dates and cakes to the slave children, and she always made sure each worker was given proper clothing. Often, she spoke with the elder slaves to make certain the pregnant women didn’t work past their eighth month or that every child saw the doctor when they fell sick.

To those who had never known anything but misery or cruelty, Nadira’s kindness was easy to accept—but Rowena had known luxury. She knew there was more to the world than working for Nadira, and she couldn’t give her heart to loving the woman who owned her, who kept her from going home, who kept her from the future she was entitled to.

Or rather, had been entitled to a long time ago.

“You should practice. Perhaps if tonight’s performance pleases Mistress Nadira she will move you permanently into the house quarters.”

“Yes, Sara,” Rowena said, managing to suppress a shudder.

Swallowing hard, she began to warm her voice as her vocal teacher had once taught her. Like bees, the other slaves swarmed around her, carefully removing her dirty clothes, clicking their tongues at the line that divided her skin into two very distinct colors. Rowena continued her scales, closing her eyes against the veiled women who washed her body and hair. She stopped her practice only to wash her face, beginning again as oil was poured over her hair and an ivory comb ran through the strands.

“Come now with the dress,” Sara commanded a young girl as Rowena stopped her voice exercises. The slave combing perfume through her hair stepped away as a pink silk, empire-waist ball gown was presented to Rowena. The style must have been about twenty years out of date, which was why she was allowed to wear it.

Still, as she stepped into the gown and that unmistakable rustling of silk reached her ears, Rowena could not help feeling beautiful. It took much of her strength to keep from crying at the familiar touch against her skin as she smoothed the silk down her concave abdomen. Sara molded her hair into a spiral, smiling at her from the large mirror. Rowena smiled back, knowing Sara couldn’t possibly understand the pain that silk against her skin caused her.

For years, she had denied herself the pleasure or pain of remembering her old life. Carefree afternoons in the garden; dinner parties where she sang for her father’s friends and business partners—it seemed a world away. But now the memory of standing in a pale blue dress with her hair pinned in ringlets was too vivid to dismiss. It was her seventeenth birthday, and she had her future planned out down to the very moment when all of London would shiver with awe at the sound of her voice.

The image that now looked back at her was nothing like the pampered girl she remembered. Instead, she was a woman in an overworked body with darkened, callused hands and gnarled feet.

A self-pitying sigh escaped her as Sara finished the placement of her hair. The older servant raised her brows in a warning. It was an honor to perform for Saed and his guests. An honor to wear a silk ball gown. Rowena didn’t bother explaining herself. She hadn’t spoken in confidence to anyone in so long that she wasn’t sure she knew how anymore.

“You look very beautiful,” Sara whispered with finality in Arabic.

“

Shokran Gazillan

,” Rowena answered. Her Arabic had improved greatly since Saed had bought her, but it was still heavily accented. Berber, the language she had used to speak to her own servants, was what she spoke in the baignoires. Sara used to speak to Rowena in French, proud that she knew the language fluently, but since the invasion of the French army, Saed had forbidden it from being spoken in his house. Not even Nadira dared to speak it, though it was her mother’s language.

“Master Saed wants you to sing only European songs tonight,” Sara instructed her. “He wishes to impress this man.”

She stepped away to admire Rowena, scrutinizing her with a critical eye. When Rowena received approval with a firm nod, she once again warmed her voice, this time with a song. The bathhouse fell silent as Rowena sang

Ave Maria

. It was the last song she had learned before her life had changed forever.

Audible sighs of pleasure filled the room. Rowena closed her eyes, pretending she was singing in an opera house in London, with her father watching from the front row. As the last note rang out, she felt something cold placed around her neck. She recoiled and opened her eyes. Sara smiled at her again through the mirror.

“But why?” Rowena asked as she gazed at the heavy, intricate detail of the traditional Algerian necklace. The necklace contained four large rubies, each surrounded by small diamonds. Rowena had never worn anything like this, not even when she had performed for Saed’s brothers just a few months before.

“Nadira told me you should wear it,” Sara answered. “Now, it is time to go. Are you ready?”

“The most beautiful voice you have ever heard is right here in our very own home,” Saed announced. “And she is here tonight to honor you, my friend.”

The words gave Rowena no pleasure. Saed would say anything to impress his guest; it did not mean he thought anything of her. She was a slave, here to do his bidding.

At Saed’s signal, the boy slave standing near Rowena tapped his large stick. Immediately, Rowena raised her head and began

Auld Lang Syne

, the first song her German teacher had ever taught her. As she sang, the young boys sat together on the floor eating dates while the two men smoked. Their manners were relaxed. The Englishman seemed at ease with the local traditions of eating with fingers and passing food to one another, something she had seen many Europeans struggle with when coming to Northern Africa.

Saed was dark, slightly taller than Rowena herself, and although he was strong, there was little build to him. He reminded Rowena always of the men her father used to describe after coming home from a boxing fight. The Englishman was much taller. His skin was tan, and he had a build that was more like those of the slaves who did the heaviest labor. For a moment she found herself lost in the difference of the English man, which caused her to repeat too many verses of an opera she couldn’t quite remember. Noticing a flicker of amusement in his eye, she quickly focused on the top of the curtains as she finished the ballad and began a different song.

After just three more songs, Saed made an impatient gesture for her to stop. He looked grim, which was never a good sign.

“Mr. Sutton, we are honored tonight not only by your presence and company,” he said gravely. His voice lifted the sleepy silence from the room, instantly bringing the family to attention. “But also because you have, by the grace of Allah, saved my first son.”

Saed placed his hands on the young boy’s shoulders and squeezed them with love.

“You have honored me, Saed, with your hospitality and your generosity. I did only what one does for a brother.”

While no one paid attention to her, Rowena dared to look again at the stranger. When she heard his English name, her heart raced. With so much adrenaline running through her veins, she had to fight the urge to faint.

“I grow weary of this concert because it is not enough for what you have done, my friend,” said Saed. “Nadira wishes to give you a gift. One we hope will please you and comfort you, as we are comforted with our son safe and alive.”

He flipped his robes back dramatically. Mohammed stepped up, holding a small, golden box towards Saed. Rowena shrank back, but found a man standing directly behind her, forcing her to stay put. Saed presented the box to Mr. Sutton with ceremonious words that Rowena had trouble understanding. Then Nadira stepped forward, kissing Mr. Sutton’s hands.

Something pushed her forward. She tried to plant her feet firmly onto the floor, but a second later a large staff struck the back of her knees, forcing her to kneel.

“In gratitude, my wife would like to present to you the most beautiful virgin of all our slaves. It is a small payment to the enormous debt that we owe you,” Saed announced as Rowena tried desperately to scramble to her feet, to get out of the way before someone noticed her clumsiness. It was not until Mohammed swiftly kicked her in the side that she understood.

She was the gift.

Anger built up in her chest, but she ground her teeth against it and continued to stay still. Five years ago she might have screamed at them, shouting that she was not cattle to be given away as a present, but now she knew it was of no use. From her kneeling position, the flicker of light from her silver bracelet reminded her she was not Rowena Brayemore now, but Fatia, the slave.

“I am honored by these splendid gifts, my brother,” Mr. Sutton said. A coldness in his voice that hadn’t been there before sent a shiver through Rowena.

Saed laughed. “Tomorrow we will talk more about the business. For now, we should all rest.”

With that, two men whisked Rowena away through the opposite door, where Sara waited.

“Sara!” Rowena gasped as the other woman dragged her through the hallways towards the servant’s quarters.

“Hush,” Sara commanded as they entered the green marbled bathroom.

“

La afham!

” Rowena whispered. “I don’t understand!”

Sara gently took the pins from Rowena’s hair before quickly pulling a comb through it. Rowena swallowed hard against her tears, but could not stop shaking.

“Stop,” Sara said forcefully. “You are not to cry. Allah has sent you here. This is your life now.”

Rowena shook her head, snatching her chin from Sara’s fingers. “I do not believe in Allah, Sara.”

“Whoever your god is, he has sent you here and made you Saed’s slave. And now Saed has given you to this Englishman. Now! Listen to me!”

Rowena focused her attention on Sara’s stern brown eyes. The severity in them kept her from fainting.

“Listen to me,” she repeated. “You make sure this man likes you. Make sure he understands you are not to be left behind. Saed has given you to him, and if he doesn’t take you with him Saed will see it as a disgrace. He will think that you did something to displease this man and will probably sell you.”

“But I do not want to be this man’s slave. I do not know him.”

“Listen, Fatia! Do not allow fear to swallow you. Think about if this Englishman takes you with him. Perhaps he will take you back to Europe with him and then you will find your life again there. Perhaps he is kind and will do that for you. Won’t he have no choice but to set you free?” Sara turned Rowena around and took up her hair again. “Do whatever you must, Fatia, to make certain this man takes you with him.”

The plan was so clear it shocked her senseless. Perhaps being given to an Englishman as a concubine was not how she had planned it, but it was the only option she had. This was her chance to go home.