The Lioness of Morocco
Julia Drosten
Part One
The Blue Pearl of the Atlantic 1835 to 1840
Nothing shall ever happen to us except that which God has ordained for us. And if you put your faith in God, He will guide your heart. For God knows all things.
—the Koran
Chapter One
London, June 1835
The fifteen clerks taking their lunch break in the counting house of the Spencer & Son Shipping Company almost choked on their food.
There at the door stood Sibylla Spencer, visibly out of breath and pressing an envelope against her chest as she looked from one startled face to the next. The boss’s twenty-three-year-old daughter normally visited only once a year, when she and her stepmother distributed Christmas presents.
Yet it was not Christmas but the middle of June. It did not bode well that Sibylla had appeared unannounced, distraught, and, it would seem, unaccompanied in the rough masculine world of the Port of London. At least this was what Mr. Donovan, the lead accountant, feared. He stepped away from his desk with some hesitation.
“Your father is in a meeting with the dock committee, Miss Spencer. He should be back within half an hour. Do you wish to wait for him? Peter”—he motioned to one of the apprentice clerks—“get a chair for Miss Spencer.”
As Sibylla impatiently shook her head, another voice came from a desk near the window. “This seems urgent. I shall escort you, Miss Spencer, if you will allow me. I was on my way to the docks anyway.”
A tall young man with an elaborately tied silk cravat, stylishly tight vest, and highly polished shoes took a briefcase from his desk, walked over to Sibylla, and bowed briefly, folding his tall frame in half like a pocketknife.
“Benjamin Hopkins,” he said in a slightly nasal, vaguely arrogant voice. “I’m your father’s leading purchasing agent.”
Relieved, Donovan retreated to his desk. Benjamin heard muttering and felt the piercing eyes of his coworkers on his back. All of twenty-eight years old, he had managed to become the right-hand man of shipping and business magnate Richard Spencer. And he never missed an opportunity to make the boss aware of his colleagues’ smallest mistakes. That, along with his fastidious attire and affected speech, led to widespread dislike and ridicule.
Yet if Benjamin was sweating under his high-collared shirt, it was not because of the palpable hostility from his coworkers, but rather the scrutiny of Sibylla’s sapphire-colored eyes. She studied him for some time without uttering a word and, just as he feared he would be turned down, she nodded. “Very well, Mr. Hopkins.”
Benjamin breathed a sigh of triumphant relief. “I certainly hope that you are not bearing bad news,” he said, looking at the envelope in her hand.
“That’s hardly any concern of yours, Mr. Hopkins.” She turned on her heel and hurried down the stairs.
As Benjamin snatched his coat off the hook and slipped it on, he overheard someone say quietly, yet distinctly, “Just look at that bootlicker; now he’s going after the boss’s daughter.”
“What’s keeping you, Mr. Hopkins? I’m in a hurry,” Sibylla called.
Benjamin strode through the door with his head held high.
Sibylla was already settled in her elegant two-seater. “Come on, Mr. Hopkins! Or are you averse to a woman holding the reins?”
“Oh, on the contrary, I would consider it an honor to be your passenger!” he exclaimed, climbing in next to her.
“Let’s not exaggerate now, Mr. Hopkins.” She clicked her tongue and the brown hackney mare pulled so forcefully that Benjamin lost his balance and fell against the seat. But even Sibylla’s disdainful look was not enough to shake his confidence.
Over the course of yearly company Christmas parties, he had seen Sibylla turn from a child to a graceful young woman. She’d had many suitors, but her willfulness and sharp wit had proved too daunting for all of them. Before long, she had gained a reputation for being intent on controlling a man, and this deterred many. Benjamin, on the other hand, saw an opportunity. Company gossip was swirling around Richard Spencer’s fear that his daughter might end up an old maid. And the greater that fear, the less likely he would be to object to a son-in-law like Benjamin, who had neither an impressive family tree nor a fortune of any note.
“What is this meeting my father is attending?” Sibylla asked as she maneuvered through the hustle and bustle of carts, stevedores, sailors, dock agents, laborers, and employees of the surrounding offices.
“I’m certain a lovely young lady such as you would rather talk about more entertaining subjects,” Benjamin replied with his most charming smile. Alas, what had proven so effective with other women earned him no more than a look of annoyance.
“Would I be asking if I weren’t interested?”
Benjamin laughed sheepishly. “Well, it’s about trade with the Maghreb, that is to say, trade with Northern and West Africa. Your father, as president of the West India Dock Company, received a letter from the general consul of the British government in Morocco. The sultan is extending an invitation to British and Continental traders. His coffers are empty after many years of war against the rebellious Berbers. Trade with the Moroccan Jews has stimulated the domestic economy, and now we are supposed to improve overseas trade.”
“Isn’t it dangerous there? I’ve heard of pirates taking Christians hostage and selling them as slaves.”
“I’m impressed by your knowledge, Miss Spencer.”
“I read often. Most of all about foreign lands I’ll probably never see.”
He nodded as he wondered if she might be satisfied with the carefree society life of attending tea parties or receptions wearing the latest fashions and exchanging the latest gossip.
“Fortunately, the pirate problem along the coast is under control,” he explained. “Some local rulers have been effectively bribed and others intimidated by our navy. The sight of our battleships is very impressive, I can assure you. And Sultan Abd al-Rahman’s invitation means lucrative business.”
“So the members of the dock association are deciding whether to send ships to Morocco?”
“Yes, they’re discussing the port of Tangier on the Mediterranean and Mogador on the Atlantic. The trouble is that it’s difficult to find people willing to work in an uncivilized Arab country.”
“Mogador,” Sibylla muttered to herself. “How mysterious!”