Page 2 of The Mademoiselle Alliance

1

I Never Want to Leave

Morocco, 1928

I’m eighteen years old and I’m standing in a street with my husband of just two days beside me and I wish my eyes were cameras and could capture everything I see. The turquoise domes that crown the buildings, the white cloths that helmet the heads of the men. The veiled women who are permitted only a thin net strip to look out onto the world. Do they revel in the anonymity, or do they want to tear off those claustrophobic skins and expose their faces to the bright, hot sunshine of Tangier?

Above me, perpendicular streets cascade through a tangle of houses with filigree balustrades wreathed like lace around them. To my right are laden donkeys and motorcars, a bazaar selling silk and leather, olives and guns. Guards with stories engraved on their sword belts stand in the niches of temples. Naked men wail incantations to a worshipful crowd. Through it all, a descant melody hums: the muezzin calling in tongues I don’t yet understand, but that make my musician-trained body shiver as if I’ve just heard Bach for the very first time.

“Can we explore?” I’m already lunging toward the scent of cinnamon and saffron, wanting to taste it on my tongue.

“There’s more than enough heat, dirt, and poverty waiting for us in Rabat.”

The voice of my husband, Edouard Meric, is brusque and I stop.

It’s the first time he’s spoken to me with anything other than amusement, affection, or pride. He’s eight years older, an army officer working for the French Intelligence Service in Morocco. His dark eyes and brooding air made me think of a breathtakingly real Heathcliff the first time I saw him, but right now he looks more glowering than gothic. He’s the man some might say I’ve given up my dreams of being a concert pianist for, but I can barely recollect that, now that I’m in Morocco and the adventurous spirit born within me years ago as I explored Shanghai with my amah is quivering like the plucked string of a cello.

“We need to get there before dark,” he says, tone conciliatory now.

I climb into the car. The driver punches the accelerator and we lurch, stall, restart.

I almost whisper that I’m a much better driver and could probably take on the task, but my sister advised me to introduce Edouard to my unconventionalities one by one. So I settle for peeling off my gloves and discarding my shawl and hat, which isn’t proper in public, but layers are meant for a less tropical climate.

Through the Spanish zone, the roads are so brutal it feels like our car is being tossed from trough to crest of a twelve-foot wave. Edouard’s expression is grim, so I take his hand and his frown recedes. Such is the power of love—one hand woven into another’s banishes all unhappiness. I smile and his lips turn up in response.

When we reach French Morocco and the roads level out, it’s easier to speak. Edouard flaps a handkerchief back and forth. “God, it’s hot.”

It is warm, but not in the humidly oppressive way of Shanghai or even Marseille, where I was born. This heat sparkles like diamonds.

“Take off your jacket,” I say, glad of my sleeveless dress, which allows my bare arm to bask on the sill of the open window.

Jacket gone, I undo Edouard’s cuff links and roll up his sleeves. “Better?”

“Better,” he agrees.

I rest my head contentedly on his shoulder until Rabat rises up before us, like a crown atop a cliff the color of fire, having burned down everything in its path to reach this place of triumph.

“Look!” I cry, thrusting my head through the car window.

Then I turn around and seize my husband’s hands. “I love you,” I tell him, a vow more urgent than anything I said on our wedding day. “And I love it here. I never want to leave.”

When I lean over to kiss him, he shakes his head. “Not here.” Then he winks. “But definitely later.”

I don’t think I’ve ever smiled the way I do now at the foot of Rabat, ready to throw myself into my next two adventures—one that will take place in this country, and one that will take place in our home, between the two of us, wife and one very handsome husband whom I’d give my heart to, were it possible to pluck it from my chest and hold it out in the palm of my hand.