When she regained consciousness, Davina knew she was in a hospital bed. The ward was dark and she realized it was night.

"Fergus Sinclair?" she said weakly to the nurse who came to check on her. "Did he fall? Is he hurt?"

"Quite a lot of people were hurt last night," the nurse said briskly. "And I don't know anything about the men who were brought in. You've had a very nasty knock to the head and you need to rest and not worry. We'll make inquiries about your friend in the morning."

Though she tried to stay awake, she fell almost immediately into an exhausted sleep.

In the morning she opened her eyes to find her mother sitting next to her bed. "Fergus?" she said again, before even wondering how Delia knew what had happened. "He was a hundred feet above the auditorium and then Aileen and I couldn't see him. We only heard a huge crash. Is he all right?" Her gray eyes were dark with worry. "Is he here in the hospital? Is Aileen with him?"

"He's in men's surgical and yes, Aileen is with him." Her mother's lovely face was tense and drawn. "He wasn't over the hall when he fell. He's hurt badly, though, and at the moment Aileen is the only visitor allowed."

"Was Aileen hurt as well?" she asked, feeling as if her heart was being squeezed within her chest. If Fergus was badly hurt, what would happen to Aileen's plans for a clinic?

"Aileen received some cuts and bruises in the melee, but otherwise she's all right."

Davina gave a prayer of thanks. "Are you going to take me home now?"

"Home?" Her mother's eyebrows rose. "You may think you just have a sore head, honey, but it's a very sore head. Can't you feel how tightly it's bandaged? There's no way you're goin' to be comin' home for another two or three days."

Davina didn't protest. Men's surgical was probably only a short walk down a hospital corridor. As soon as she was able, she was going to find him.

It was the next day before she was able to walk without becoming dizzy. On the pretext of having a bath, she left the ward and, in her nightdress and dressing gown, made her way to men's surgical.

Before she reached the ward itself a nurse hurried up to her.

"I'm afraid this is a men's ward, miss. You've got terribly lost. Would you like me to get someone to escort you back?"

Davina was about to shake her head but then, remembering her still ma.s.sive headache, said, "No. And I'm not lost. A friend of mine, Dr. Fergus Sinclair, is a patient on this ward. I know he isn't allowed any visitors other than his wife, but I'd like to know how he is doing and I was hoping to have a word with Mrs. Sinclair."

The nurse eyed her doubtfully. "Dr. Sinclair is still very poorly, but if you'd like to take a seat in the waiting room, I'll tell Mrs. Sinclair where you are."

"Thank you." There was nothing Davina wanted more than to be able to sit down. The effort it had taken to walk the short distance from her bed had left her feeling not only dizzy but profoundly sick.

The waiting room was blessedly empty and she sat down gingerly on a slippery-looking leather chair and took deep breaths in order to fight off her nausea.

As the sick feeling receded, Aileen opened the waiting-room door. Her face was ashen with anxiety and there were blue circles beneath her eyes.

Davina started to rise to her feet, but Aileen forestalled her.

"Don't get up, Davina," she said, her voice breaking. Then, as if her legs would hold her upright no longer, she collapsed on the chair next to Davina's and took a tight hold of her hand. "Fergus has broken his back," she said starkly. "It's going to be months and months-perhaps a year-before he'll be able to walk again. They are going to do the bone grafts here and then as soon as he can be moved by ambulance they are going to transfer him to a hospital near our home in Caithness. He'll be in traction to allow the bones to align properly as they heal."

Davina closed her eyes for a moment, trying to take it all in. Fergus wasn't going to be paralyzed. That was the main thing. It would, though, end his work in Whitechapel. And it would mean the shelving of Aileen's plans for the free clinic.

As if reading her thoughts, Aileen said, "When Fergus is recovered-and no matter how long that process takes-we'll come back to Toynbee Hall, Davina. And there will be a free clinic for the women of Whitechapel. It is just going to have to wait a year, that is all."

Davina squeezed her hand, knowing that no matter when it was, her mother would still be a staunch financial supporter.

Aileen said quietly, "I have some other news, Davina, and this time it's good." Despite her exhaustion, she smiled. "I'm pregnant. Fergus doesn't know yet. I was going to tell him on our wedding anniversary at the end of the month, but now I'm going to tell him just as soon as he's well enough to appreciate the news."

"Aileen is having a baby? But that's wonderful, honey." Delia's face lit up. "It will give both of them something to look forward to during Fergus's recovery."

Davina had told Delia when they were back home in the garden, having afternoon tea with Wallis Simpson.

"Is Aileen the friend you introduced me to at the c.o.c.ktail party?" Wallis asked. "The young woman married to the doctor?"

Davina nodded.

Her mother waved a hand in the direction of a cane chair, indicating that Davina should join them, saying as she did so, "Dr. Sinclair had a ghastly accident and broke his back. He's going to be able to walk again, but it will be a long time before he does so. Now do tell me about Fort Belvedere. Are you meeting with lots of objections?"

"Not from the Prince. He's given me a free hand." Wallis, bandbox smart in a navy dress edged in white, flashed Delia a broad smile. "And I just love fixing furniture and choosing decor. Lady Mendl is giving me a hand. We spent the whole of last week pulling up carpets and taking down curtains. There isn't one room that looks as it did in Freda Dudley Ward's time."

"Or Thelma Furness's?" Delia asked naughtily.

Wallis's smile broadened. "Or Thelma's. That gal really did have appalling taste, Delia. Her bedroom at the Fort was done in the most frightful shade of pink and the bedposts were decorated with Prince of Wales feathers!"

As her mother and Wallis shook with laughter, Davina, who wasn't remotely interested in how the Prince of Wales's home was decorated, ignored the vacant chair.

"I won't join you, if you don't mind," she said to her mother. "I haven't seen Fawzia for ages and I want to be with her."

"Then you'd better go fast, Davina. She has a river cruise with Jack this afternoon. He'll be here at any moment."

"Is Aunt Gwen going with them?"

"I don't think so." Her mother avoided looking her in the eye. "I don't think Gwen likes water."

Davina pursed her lips disapprovingly, well aware of what Zubair Pasha would think of such an arrangement, knowing he had been right where Delia's chaperoning skills were concerned.

For the next few weeks Davina visited the hospital daily. Whenever she could, she persuaded Aileen to leave the hospital for a short walk or to a cafe for elevenses or lunch.

"Fergus is going to be transferred to Inverness soon," Aileen said as they sat having tea and sticky buns around the corner from the hospital. "I can't wait for him to be somewhere his parents can visit him, but I shall miss you, Davina."

"I shall miss you, too," Davina said sincerely. "It will mean I will see more of Fawzia-I have a guilty conscience where she is concerned-but we don't have much in common anymore. All she can think about is being the exotic center of attention at parties and b.a.l.l.s. When you and Fergus go to Scotland I'm not going to stay in London. Even though the season isn't quite over, I'm going to return to Cairo. My mother will be disappointed but I don't think she'll raise any objections. She knows she has lost the battle to turn me into a debutante."

It turned out her mother was more than disappointed; she was seriously cross.

"It just isn't fair to Fawzia," Delia said. "She is having a great time and yanking her back to Cairo before the season is finished is cruel."

"She doesn't have to come back with me. She can stay in London with you and the two of you can travel out to Cairo together in a few weeks. I can go to Cairo alone."

Her mother was about to leave the house for dinner at Quaglino's and, taking a leaf out of Wallis's book, was dressed with stunning severity in a narrow, backless sheath of black crepe. The skirt skimmed high-heeled black suede shoes and her fiery red hair blazed like a flame.

She picked up her slim evening bag and said, "No, Davina. You can't. You're only eighteen."

Davina shook her head in disbelief. "Of course I can. You were married when you were my age. And before that you used to ride for miles in the Blue Ridge Mountains unaccompanied. All I shall be doing is catching a couple of trains and a boat. I have Chandler blood, remember? I'm quite capable of doing things without a chaperone."

"Sweetheart, I've been at Fort Belvedere all afternoon watching the Prince of Wales fetching and carrying for Wallis as if he were a slave and she was the Queen of Sheba. Where that relationship is going heaven only knows and I'm beginning to have great concerns about it. What I don't need is to be worried about you, as well."

She turned to pick up her chinchilla stole, revealing a flawlessly creamy back.

"You don't need to be concerned about me." Davina's voice was one of sweet reason. "All you have to do is give me a kiss, send me on my way, and tell me that you'll see me in Cairo in a month's time."

"Land's sakes, you really are the most exasperating child! All right, go back to Cairo by yourself-and don't blame me if you fall into the hands of white slavers!"

"I won't," Davina said, loving her mother so much that it hurt, "but white slavers aren't very likely. Daddy has already agreed to my plans and has bought me the tickets and I don't think white slavers travel first cla.s.s."

Four days later, when her train from Alexandria steamed into Cairo's chaotic station, Darius was waiting to greet her.

"How did you know what train I would be on?" she asked, tingling with pleasure as he took her small suitcase from her hand.

"Petra told me. We don't usually socialize, but she kindly made an exception since she can't be here. She's at Abdin Palace with your amba.s.sador. He's having a meeting with King Fuad. I don't think your sister is Lampson's official secretary yet, but she might as well be. Why the nifty head bandage? Did you fall?"

"Yes, but only after I was. .h.i.t with a flying object."

He stared at her, but said nothing. She didn't mind. She wasn't ready to launch into an explanation of what had happened at Olympia.

Since she obviously didn't want to talk about it, he asked, "What are you going to do now you're home?"

"I'm going to spend as much time as possible in Bayram el-Tonsi Street," she said, checking that the horse pulling the gharry they had chosen showed no sign of ill-treatment.

"That's where the Old War Horse Memorial Hospital is, right?"

She nodded. "And I'm going to approach the Anglo-American Hospital and see if they'll take me as a student nurse."

He helped her into the gharry, saying to the driver, "Garden City, minfadlak."

He was wearing dark gla.s.ses and a white linen suit that looked as if it had been tailored in London. A group of heavily veiled young women stopped and stared at them.

Davina didn't blame them. Where looks were concerned, Darius was film-star cla.s.s.

As they moved out into a tumultuous stream of cars, buses, bicycles, and donkey carts, she leaned back against the leather seat. In a little while she would tell Darius all about Toynbee Hall and the Sinclairs and Sir Oswald Mosley. For now, though, she just wanted to relish her happiness. The heat was overpowering, but she didn't care. Heat meant that she was in Cairo, and Cairo meant that she was home.

EIGHTEEN.

"And so it was hideous, Petra. The most hideous thing you can possibly imagine." Petra and Davina were seated in cane chairs on the lushly watered lawn of Nile House. Nearby, the donkey Davina had rescued munched happily on alfalfa. Davina gazed unseeingly at him. "All Aileen and I heard was gla.s.s shattering and then as we struggled to get to Fergus I was. .h.i.t on the head and went down like a ton of bricks."

Petra adjusted her large-brimmed sun hat, so that her face was in a little more shade. "From the sound of it you were lucky not to have had your skull fractured."

"And Fergus was lucky he wasn't killed."

Their drinks were on a small table positioned between them. Petra reached for her Tom Collins. "How were things in London when you left?" she asked, stirring the ice cubes around with a straw. "Did you see much of Jack while you were there?"

Her voice, as always when she spoke of Jack, was queerly abrupt and her eyes didn't meet Davina's. Instead she looked with studied intensity across the Nile toward the hazy outline of the pyramids.

"I didn't, though I would have liked to. All my time was spent in Whitechapel. I did see Uncle Jerome a few times. Since meeting Fergus he's become even more involved with Toynbee Hall. He's helping to set up a council of East End citizens to take whatever action is necessary to try to put an end to the present street violence. The Archbishop of Canterbury is the council's president."

A shutter came down over Petra's face at the mention of Jerome's name. Thinking that it was because Petra was tired of hearing about London's East End, Davina said, "What is the situation here, at the palace? Why was Sir Miles Lampson meeting with the King?"

"Oh, the usual." Petra stopped stirring the ice cubes. She popped a maraschino cherry into her mouth and Davina noticed that it was the exact same color as her lipstick. "Street violence here never completely comes to an end, Davvy. The King took away parliament's full const.i.tutional rights ages ago-it now operates only in an advisory capacity-and the Wafd is agitating to have full const.i.tutional power restored."

"And Farouk? Is he as exasperating as ever?"

Petra pulled white-framed sungla.s.ses down her nose and looked at her over the top of them. "Farouk," she said, "has the attention span of a gnat."

Davina giggled.

Looking at the donkey gently rambling across the lawn, Petra took a sip of her drink and then said, "What about Fawzia? We haven't talked about her. Is she enjoying the season? According to Delia's letters she's received lots of proposals."

"Shoals of them. Not, though, from the person she might have accepted."

"And who was that?" There was amus.e.m.e.nt in Petra's voice. "The heir to a dukedom?"

"No." Davina hesitated and then, aware that Petra had declared ages ago that she no longer had the slightest interest in Jack, said, "The person she spent most time with was Jack."

To Davina's horror, Petra turned white.

Terrified she had miscalculated, Davina said anxiously, "It doesn't matter to you, does it, Petra? I mean, it was you who did the chucking."

"Most definitely. Of course it doesn't matter to me." Petra shot her a brittle smile, but there was no longer any amus.e.m.e.nt in her voice. "If you don't mind I'm going to find some shade, Davvy. The sun is giving me a headache. It's good to have you back, though. I did tell you that, didn't I?"

As she watched Petra walk back to the house Davina was touched at how much Petra had obviously missed her. Though Darius hadn't said so when he had met her at the station, she was hoping he, also, had missed her very much.

"D'you fancy a ride out beyond the pyramids?" Darius said, standing with one foot on the wide shallow steps fronting Nile House.

He was dressed in jodhpurs and boots, his white shirt open at the throat. Behind him, parked in the graveled driveway, was a low-slung cream sports car. Wryly Davina noted that it wasn't British, but a German Mercedes-Benz.

"I thought it would give us a chance to catch up," he added, making no attempt to come into the house.

"Give me five minutes," she said, her smile radiant, "and I'll be right with you."

She didn't suggest that he should come inside to wait. For the last couple of years Darius had chosen never to enter Nile House, regarding it as part of the enemy camp.

Ten minutes later, in a caramel-colored silk shirt, jodhpurs, and riding boots, her shoulder-length hair braided into a fat pigtail, she ran down the steps and across to the car.

"Why a German car?" she asked as she slid onto the cream leather seat beside him. "Is it another one of your too-subtle-for-most-people-to-understand anti-British statements?"

"Yes, it's an anti-British statement." He put the car into gear. "But what do you mean about people not understanding?"

His face was unsmiling, but then it nearly always was.

She knew him too well to mind.

"Well, it's like your never coming into the house," she said as he drove toward the Kasr el-Nil Bridge. "I know why you don't, but I doubt if anyone else has even noticed. You can't expect them to, not when you still go to the Gezira Sporting Club and other British hangouts, like the Turf Club and Shepheard's."