“I don’t need geography and mathematics,” said Saffron, stubbornly. “I know all about Africa and I can paint.”
“Ah!” said Alice. “Sir John Millais is a dear friend of mine. How would you like to study art under him? I’m sure I can arrange it.”
Saffron wavered: Millais was a founder of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, the most celebrated painter of the day. David Benbrook had kept a book of his paintings in his study at Khartoum. Saffron had spent hours dreaming over them. Then Alice played her trump: “And, of course, as soon as you are sixteen you will always be welcome to return to Entoto as my guest, whenever and as often as you wish.”
As the day of their departure for Djibouti drew nearer, Saffron spent less time with her twin and more in helping Bacheet look after Ryder. He agreed to pose for an hour or two each evening for one last portrait. Since the twins’ future had been agreed upon, his mood had been subdued, but it lightened perceptibly during these daily painting sessions. Saffron was an amusing girl and made him laugh.
Two days before Penrod and the twins were due to leave Entoto for Djibouti, Ryder announced his intention of joining their little caravan, as he was expecting a shipment of trade goods to arrive on board the SS Singapore from Calcutta. During the journey down to the coast Ryder and Saffron spent much time riding side by side at the rear of the convoy. The closer they came to Djibouti, the more serious their expressions became. The day before they came in sight of the town and harbour a flaming row broke out between them. Saffron left Ryder and galloped to the head of the column to ride beside Amber.
That night, as was the custom, the four of them ate supper beside the fire. When Ryder addressed a polite remark to her, Saffron pulled a face and deliberately moved her chair so that her back was turned to him. She did not bid him goodnight when she and Amber went to their tent.
The next day as they came in sight of Djibouti harbour the SS Singapore was lying in the roads and discharging cargo into the lighters clustered around her. While Ryder and Bacheet set up camp on the outskirts of the town, Penrod and the twins rode down to the shipping office at the wharf to pay for and receive their tickets for the voyage to Southampton. The shipping clerk assured them that the Singapore would sail on schedule at noon the following day. Penrod managed to buy a bottle of Glenlivet whisky from the purser. He and Ryder made short work of it that evening, when the twins had retired to their tent not long after nightfall.
Due to the exigencies of the previous evening’s consumption of liquor the two men were late in rising. In the roads the Singapore was already making steam in preparation for her sailing in three hours’ time. Penrod took the luggage down to the wharf and sent it on board, then rode back to the camp and found it in a state of uproar.
“She has gone!” Bacheet lamented, and wrung his plump hands. “Filfil has gone!”
“What do you mean, Bacheet? Where has she gone?”
“We do not know, Effendi. During the night she took her mule and rode away. Al-Sakhawi has gone after her, but I think Filfil has six hours’ start on him. He won’t be able to catch her before nightfall.”
“By that time the Singapore will have sailed,” Penrod fumed, and went to find Amber.
“After Saffron and I climbed into bed, I went to sleep directly. When I woke it was already light and Saffy had gone, just like that, without even a goodbye.”
Penrod studied her face for some hint of the truth. He was sure he had heard the twins whispering when he had passed their tent on the way to his own bed. He knew for certain it had been after midnight, because he had wound his pocket watch before he blew out the lamp. “We will have to go on board. We cannot miss this sailing. There will not be another for months. I will try to persuade the captain to delay until Saffron is on board,” he said, and Amber agreed with an angelic expression.
While Penrod and Amber stood at the starboard rail of the Singapore, Penrod was staring anxiously through a pair of borrowed binoculars as the last boat from the shore approached the ship’s side.
“Blue bloody blazes!” he muttered furiously. “She isn’t on board.”
As he lowered the binoculars, the ship’s third officer hurried down the ladder from the bridge and came to them. “The captain’s compliments, Captain Ballantyne, but he very much regrets that he is not able to delay the sailing until the arrival of Miss Benbrook. If he does he will be unable to make his reservation for the transit of the Suez Canal.” Just then the ship’s siren wailed and cut off the rest of his apology. The capstan in the bows began to clatter and the anchor broke free.
“Now, Miss Amber Benbrook,” Penrod said grimly, “I think it’s time you delivered the truth. Just what is your sister playing at?”
“I should think that is perfectly obvious, Captain Ballantyne, except to a blind man or an imbecile.”
“Nevertheless, I would be most obliged if you could explain it to me.”
“My sister is in love with Mr. Ryder Courtney. She has not the slightest intention of leaving him. I am afraid we are to be deprived of her company on this voyage. You will have to make do with mine.”
A prospect that I do not find particularly distressing, he thought, but tried to disguise his pleasure.
The tracks of Saffron’s mule headed straight back along the main route towards the Abyssinia border. Except where they had been overridden by other travellers they were easy to follow. Saffron had made no attempt to cover them or to throw off any pursuit. Soon Ryder knew that he was overhauling her, but it was the middle of the afternoon before he made out her mule in the distance. He urged his own mount into a gallop. As he came within hail he let out an angry shout. She stopped and turned back towards him. Then he saw that it was not her at all, but one of the camp servants: a dim-witted lad whose sole employment was chopping firewood for the camp. Anything more demanding was beyond his limited capabilities.
“What in the name of God are you up to, Solomon? Where do you think you are going on Filfil’s mule?”
“Filfil gave me a Maria Theresa to ride back to Entoto and fetch a box she had forgotten,” he announced importantly, proud of the task with which he had been entrusted.
“Where is Filfil now?”
“Why, Effendi, I know not.” Solomon picked his nose with embarrassment at the complexity of the question. “Is she not still in Djibouti?”
When Ryder came in sight of the harbour again, the Singapore’s anchorage was empty, and the smoke from her funnels was merely a dark smear on the watery horizon. Ryder stormed into his camp and shouted at Bacheet: “Where is Filfil?” Bacheet remained silent but rolled his eyes in the direction of her tent.
Ryder strode to the tent and stooped through the opening of the fly. “There you are, you scamp.”
Saffron was sitting cross-legged on her camp-bed. She was barefooted and her most extravagant hat was perched on her head. She was looking extremely pleased with herself.
“What have you to say for yourself?” he demanded.
“All I have to say is that you are my dog and I am your flea. You can scratch and scratch as much as you will, but you’ll not get rid of me, Ryder Courtney.”
They were half-way back to Entoto before he had recovered from the shock, and had come to realize how happy he was that she had not sailed with the Singapore. “I still don’t know what we should do now,” he said. “I shall probably be arrested for child abduction. I have no idea of the legal age for marriage in Abyssinia.”
“It’s fourteen,” said Saffron. “I asked the Empress before we left Entoto. Anyway, that is merely a guideline. Nobody pays much attention to it. She was thirteen when the Emperor married her.”
“Have you any other gems of information?” he asked tartly.
“I have. The Empress has expressed her willingness to sponsor our union, should you care to marry me. What do you think of that?”
“I had not thought about it at all,” he exclaimed, ‘but, by God, now that you raise the subject it is not the worst notion I have ever heard of.” He reached across, lifted her off the back of her mule, seated her on the pommel of his own saddle and kissed her.
She clamped her hat onto her head with one hand and flung her other arm round his neck. Then she kissed him back with a great deal more vigour than finesse. After a while she broke away to breathe. “Oh, you wonderful man!” she gasped. “You cannot imagine how long I have wanted to do that. It feels even nicer than I hoped it might. Let’s do it again.”
“An excellent idea,” he agreed.
The Empress was as good as her word. She sat in the front pew of the Entoto cathedral with the Emperor at her side, beaming on the ceremony like the rising sun. She was dressed in a Saffron Benbrook creation, which made her look rather like a large sugar-iced chocolate cake.
Lady Packer had prevailed on her husband, Sir Harold White Packer, Knight Commander of Michael and
