An Arabian Courtship. LYNNE GRAHAM

Overcome by gratitude and a sense of masculine fellowship, King Reija had stated there and then that his firstborn son would marry Ernest Barrington’s firstborn daughter.

      ‘Let me tell you, I was pretty taken aback,’ Ernest was wont to chuckle at that point in the story. ‘I wasn’t even married then! But it was obviously the highest honour the King could think to offer. I should add that, since he’s highly suspicious of Westerners, it was an even bigger mark of esteem.’

      Thus the tale had been told to entertain dinner guests—a rather lighthearted anecdote of exotic climes and a bygone age. Ernest had not met King Reija again. He had retired from the Diplomatic Service as soon as his bachelor uncle died, leaving him a country estate several miles outside Worcester. However, twelve years ago he had chortled when he learnt of Raschid’s marriage to Prince Achmed’s daughter, Berah. The news had come by way of an elderly diplomat dining with them. Since then the family had often teased Polly about Raschid, reminding her that the Koran permitted a follower of Islam four wives. But never had anybody seen the idea of Polly marrying an Arab prince as anything other than hilariously funny.

      Only when their father found himself in serious financial difficulties a month ago had he thought of renewing his acquaintance with King Reija. As Raschid’s father was coming to London on a diplomatic visit, Ernest had requested an appointment with him. ‘I shall ask him for a loan. I should think he’d be delighted to help,’ he had contended confidently. ‘I can’t understand why I didn’t think of this sooner.’

      He had duly gone off to keep his appointment at the Dhareini Embassy. Even before he left home the grey anxiety and strain which had marked him for days had been banished by a very characteristic surge of optimism. Since Ernest had long since forgotten his Arabic, King Reija had talked courteously to him through the offices of an interpreter. Family updates had naturally been exchanged. Ernest had cheerfully produced a photograph of the four daughters and infant son he was so proud of possessing. In return his host had informed him that Raschid had been a widower for four years. Berah had died tragically after tripping and falling down a steep staircase. She had been only twenty-six.

      ‘Naturally I offered my condolences…it could never have occurred to me that the old boy could be leading up to making a thirty-five-year-old promise good. But once I was on the spot, as it were, it wasn’t that easy to work up to mentioning the loan,’ Ernest had confessed. ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when he announced that his conscience had long been troubled by his failure to honour that promise. I lost no time in assuring him that no offence had been caused, but he seemed annoyed at that, so I dropped the subject. Even when he began asking questions about Polly, I still hadn’t an idea of what was on his mind.’

      Polly had listened, as aghast as her mother initially was, while the older man lumbered at ever slower pace to the climax. ‘He told me that it was his dearest wish to see Raschid married again, and then he shook hands with me and the interpreter said, “It is agreed” and I said, “What’s agreed?”

      ‘“My son will take your daughter as his bride,” came the reply. I was struck dumb!’ her father had bleated, mopping at his perspiring brow. ‘Then he started talking about the bride price and things just got out of my hands altogether…if they’d ever been in them, for he’s a wily old buzzard. Hard to think, though, where there could be any advantage to him in the arrangement. The chap really does take this honour business very, very seriously.’

      Surfacing from these unwelcome memories, Polly emitted a choked laugh. ‘I was sold! Why did I ever believe that white slavery was a thing of the past? It’s a wonder Dad didn’t ask for my weight in gold!’

      Maggie’s eyes were reproachful. ‘Polly, that sounds so awful!’

      It is awful, Polly reflected bitterly. Why couldn’t the King have offered her father a loan? Why had there had to be conditions attached? Even as she thought that, her saner self intervened to point out that her father was in no position to repay a loan.

      ‘Dad said there was no pressure on you and that it was a decision that only you could make. I know—I was listening outside the library door,’ Maggie admitted grudgingly. ‘He didn’t say you had to marry Raschid.’

      That he had ever entertained the crazy concept at all, however, had been effective proof of his desperation. Maggie was still at the age where she saw no flaws in her parents. The sad truth was that Ernest Barrington was much too fond of the good things in life and had always lived above his income. Ladybright had been a small and prosperous estate when he inherited it, but the income from the land had never been up to the demands of a large family and a busy social calendar. When the bank had announced their intention to foreclose and force the sale of Ladybright to settle a backlog of mortgage repayments and an enormous overdraft, the accumulated debts of years of extravagance had finally been catching up on their father.

      King Reija had stunned her desperate parent with the offer of a huge cash settlement, equal to meeting his debts and securing the family fortunes into the next generation. A drowning man thrown a rope does not hesitate. Polly doubted that her father had objected to the terms once the money was mentioned; he had been dazzled by the miraculous solution to all his problems. Within an hour of his return home, his attitude of apology and bluster had changed into one of determined good cheer.

      ‘I’m not surprised I’ve taken your breath away, Polly,’ he had been saying by then. ‘A prince—what’s more, a prince who will eventually become a king.’

      Her mother had already had the stirrings of dreamy abstraction on her face. Ten minutes later she had whispered reverently, ‘My Polly, a princess!’

      Anthea Barrington had been in an awed state of ecstasy ever since. Indeed, both of Polly’s parents had a remarkable talent for glossing over unpleasant realities. The jaws of the steel trap had closed round Polly slowly but surely. How could she personally sentence her family to poverty? Her mother was no more capable of coping without money than her father was. And what about her sisters and little Timothy, presently building up his bricks at her feet? Could she deny them the secure and comfortable upbringing which she herself had enjoyed when it was within her power to do otherwise?

      And for what good reason could she deny her family her help? It was not as though she was sacrificing the chance of a loving marriage at some time in the future. Why shouldn’t she marry Raschid and make everyone happy? The man she loved did not love her…at least, not in the right way. Chris Jeffries was very fond of her, but he treated her like a sister.

      His parents were neighbours and close family friends. Polly had known Chris since childhood. And that, she had grasped dully, was the problem. Chris thought of himself as the big brother she had never had.

      Polly’s teenage years had not been painless. She had often turned to Chris for comfort when the going got rough in her own home. A late bloomer, she had been a podgy ugly duckling in her slim and beautiful mother’s eyes. She had been further cursed by shyness in a family where only extroverts were admired. Anthea had never been able to hide the fact that quiet, studious Polly was a distinct disappointment as a daughter. A boy-crazy, clothes-mad teenager always on the trot to parties would have delighted her; one who worked hard at school and went off to university intending to train as a librarian had not. Chris, two years her senior and already enrolled in medical school, had been the only person to understand and support Polly’s academic aspirations.

      Loving Chris had been so easy. If she had a problem he was always ready to listen. From adolescence Polly had innocently assumed that she would eventually marry Chris. When her puppy fat had melted away and she miraculously blossomed into a slender young woman with a cloud of pale hair and flawless features, she had shyly awaited the awakening of Chris’s interest in her as a girlfriend. It had never happened, she reflected painfully.

      A year ago at her nineteenth birthday party she had been forced to accept that her dreams were that—just dreams. Chris had lightly introduced her to his current girlfriend as ‘Polly, my honorary kid sister,’ affection and warmth in his manner and no hint of any other form of feeling. She had stopped living in her imagination.

      Returning to university, she had sensibly