She leaned her head back and listened to the steady beat of the horses’ hooves. Park Lane was almost deserted. People did not leave the warmth and comfort of their homes without good reason in weather like this. The snow was now accompanied by a dense fog. Pea soup, Londoners called the impenetrable fog that rose up from the Thames and mixed with the sulfurous smoke of countless fires.
They arrived at her parents’ house, an elegant white building with pillars on each side of the black, lacquered entrance.
“I can’t wait to hear what Mr. Moffat has to say,” Sibylla gushed, stepping out of the carriage. “I have already read so much about the Orient, but how much more exciting it will be to hear a first-hand account.”
“I just hope it doesn’t get around that I’m married to a genuine bluestocking,” Benjamin replied with a shake of his head, thinking of the books and magazines stacked on Sibylla’s nightstand. “The gentlemen at the club might begin to think that I’m henpecked.”
Once they had entered the house and been welcomed by Sibylla’s parents, Richard whispered to Benjamin, “Hopkins, I must have a quick word with you.”
Liam Moffat had arrived just behind them. While Mary and Sibylla were greeting the guest of honor, Richard pulled his son-in-law into a corner of the dining room.
“I’m afraid I’ve had some bad news. Our man in Mogador has died. It appears he fell victim to a typhus epidemic.” Richard pulled out an envelope and handed it to Benjamin.
“It’s very bad for us, indeed,” he continued as Benjamin scanned the letter. “Considering all we have spent on the gifts for the sultan and his court alone just to ensure our business goes smoothly. And now this!”
“We must quickly send someone in his stead,” Benjamin agreed. “Our ventures in Morocco have been going so well. It would be a terrible pity if we had to pull out.”
The butler opened the dining room’s double doors and Liam Moffat entered with Mary on one side and Sibylla on the other.
“Why have you two been huddling together?” Sibylla whispered as Benjamin took her arm.
“Your father has just informed me that our commercial agent in Mogador has died.”
She looked at him pensively. “So we need someone to take over the business there.”
A fire crackled in the marble fireplace. A large rug lay on the hardwood floor. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and crystal mirrors graced the walls. The long rosewood dining table was surrounded by delicate chairs on slender legs. The food was arrayed around a splendid silver centerpiece. There was carrot-and-potato soup with parsley, turbot fresh from Billingsgate, cutlets and game pie, French cheese, and exotic fruit for dessert. Benjamin served Sibylla, and Mr. Moffat insisted on serving the hostess.
“Of course, compared to this sumptuous meal, my fare in Morocco was rather plain. I would live for days on nothing but dates, flatbread, and goat cheese,” Mr. Moffat commented.
“I so wish I could see the places you have visited with my own eyes!” Sibylla said.
“I am quite sure that an intelligent and energetic woman like yourself can realize such a plan,” Moffat replied chivalrously.
“And I suppose you wouldn’t mind assisting my wife in implementing this plan,” Benjamin nearly spat.
Sibylla looked up in surprise. It was the first sign of jealousy her husband had shown.
Moffat inclined his head. “Inshallah, as they say in the Orient: if God wills it.”
Benjamin’s face began to blaze, and Mary quickly took over. “Please, Mr. Moffat, do share some of your adventures with us.”
While the Scotsman was talking, Benjamin leaned over and hissed in Sibylla’s ear, “What a showoff!”
Moffat was a cartographer and land surveyor whom the Royal Geographical Society had sent to Morocco at the behest of Sultan Moulay Abd al-Rahman because the Alaouite ruler wished to modernize his country. By collecting data on boundary lines, river valleys, mountain ranges, oases, and deserts, Moffat had made the mysterious country in northwest Africa somewhat more accessible to foreigners. Richard wanted to know all there was to know about trade goods and natural resources, and Sibylla was captivated by the description of the old caravan routes that led through the Sahara from the Mediterranean to Timbuktu.
When Moffat reported that some of the most important items being traded in the country were slaves taken from the heart of the continent, the table grew quiet. Richard’s father, Horatio, had founded the family shipping company with funds derived from the slave trade. His captains had used glass beads and colorful cotton cloth to buy young men and women from local tribal chiefs along the coast of Guinea and sold them to sugar plantations in the Caribbean. Horatio had been a respected businessman at the time, but no one spoke openly of this blood debt anymore. The slave trade had been outlawed in England for almost thirty years now.
“What happens to the Africans who end up as slaves in Morocco?” Sibylla finally asked.
“Many of the men become soldiers. Some become farmworkers, and the ablest among them gain influential positions at the sultan’s court. Many become domestic servants, but the most beautiful women are sold into harems.”
Mary’s eyes grew wide. She had learned about harems in her novels. “Did you ever visit such a place, Mr. Moffat?”
He shook his head. “That would surely have cost me my life. No stranger is allowed to see a Moor’s women.”
“So one must acquire one’s own harem to find out how it works.” Benjamin chuckled, swirling his wine.
Richard, seeing that Benjamin was ready to launch into cruder remarks, shifted the topic back to business. “As you know, our commercial agent in Mogador has passed away. Do you know anyone who could be entrusted with that post?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid the local British consul is in a much better position to help you with such matters.”
Richard furrowed his brow. “I fear it’ll take us a good six months before we’re back in business.”
“But, Father, we already have someone for Mogador,” Sibylla announced, placing her hand on Benjamin’s arm. “My husband.”
Chapter Four
Mogador, early May 1836
“Why, it’s like we never left London.” Benjamin peevishly handed the binoculars back to Captain Brown. According to Captain Brown, the Queen Charlotte was within striking distance of Mogador’s harbor, but dense fog obscured everything.
The captain placed the binoculars in his pocket. “Like I’ve been tellin’ ya. Foggy a lot along the coast here. The Canary Current cools the Atlantic air and the result is this damned mess.”
“Captain, we’ve been anchored out here for two days now. How much longer can this last?” Sibylla stood at the railing between Brown and her husband, fighting the impulse to retch. She’d been battling a debilitating case of seasickness ever since coming aboard at the end of March.
“It’s clearing. We’ll reach port today.”
Surprised, she and Benjamin followed his outstretched arm and were able to make out a thin tower through the swirling curtain of fog.
“Minaret on the big mosque,” Brown explained. “Only thing that can stop us now is a northwest trade wind. But I should think a British West Indies sailor can handle it!”