Immediately she put out her hand to stop him from turning any more of the pages, unable to stop herself from demanding in a shaky voice, ‘That photograph—how…?’
‘Your father sent it to me,’ he told her. ‘He sent me many photographs of you, Petra, and many letters, too.’
‘My father!’ This was news to Petra, and it took her several minutes to absorb it properly. It was hard enough to accept that her father could have done such a thing, but what was even harder was knowing that he had kept his actions a secret from her. And from her mother? Petra felt cold. Surely not? What could have motivated him when he had known how badly her mother had been hurt by her father’s actions?
As her glance met that of her grandfather Petra knew that he could see what she was thinking.
A little awkwardly he beckoned her to move closer to him. When she hesitated, he told her, ‘There is a box, over there. I would like you to bring it to me.’
The box in question was sitting on an intricately carved table, its surface smooth and warm to Petra’s touch. She could tell just by looking at it that it was very old.
‘This belonged to my own grandfather,’ her grandfather said as she took it to him.
‘He was a merchant and this box went everywhere with him. He said that it had originally been made for one of the sultans of the great Ottoman Empire.’ He gave a small smile. ‘He was a great story-teller, and many times as a small child I would neglect my lessons to sit at his feet and listen to his tales. Whether they were true or not!’
As he was speaking he was reaching for a heavy bunch of keys, searching through them until he found the one he was looking for.
His fingers, obviously stiffened by old age, struggled to insert the key in the tiny lock and then turn it, but once he had done so and pushed back the lid Petra was aware of the mingled scents of sandalwood and age that rose from its interior.
She couldn’t see what was inside the box, but waited patiently as her grandfather sighed and muttered to himself, obviously sifting through its contents until he had finally found what he wanted.
‘Read this,’ he commanded her brusquely, handing her a worn airmail envelope.
‘It is your father’s letter to me, telling me of your birth.’
Hesitantly Petra took the envelope from him. She wasn’t sure she was ready to read what her father might have written. All her life she had looked up to him as a man of strong sturdy morals and infinite compassion, a man of the highest probity and honour. If she should read something that damaged that belief…
‘Read,’ her grandfather was urging her impatiently.
Taking a deep breath, Petra did so.
The letter was addressed to her grandfather with true diplomatic formality, using his titles.
‘To he who is the father of my beloved wife Mija,
I have the felicitation of informing you that I am now the proud father of the most beautiful baby daughter. I had thought when Mija came into my life that there could be no place in it to love another human being, so great and all-encompassing is my love for her, but I was wrong. I write to you now as one father to another to tell you of the most wonderful, precious gift we have received in Petra’s birth, and to tell you also that we now share common ground—we are both fathers—we have both been granted the unique privilege of being gifted with daughters.
And it is as a father that I write to you begging you to reconsider your decision regarding the exclusion of Mija from your family—for your own sake and not ours. I have made a solemn vow that I shall surround Mija with all the love she will ever need. We have each other and our beautiful daughter and our lives will be filled with love and joy. But what of you? You have turned away your own daughter and denied yourself her love and that of the grandchild she has given you.
I beg you to think of this and to put aside your pride. I know how much it would mean to Mija to have word from you, especially at this time.
Whatever your decision, I have made a vow to my daughter that I shall ensure that you, her grandfather, and the rest of the family are kept informed of her life.
The letter bore her father’s formal signature at its end, but Petra could barely focus on it as the paper trembled in her hand and her eyes stung with tears. It shamed her that she could have doubted her father for so much as a single heartbeat.
As he took the letter from her, returning it to its envelope and replacing it carefully in the box before relocking it, her grandfather said gruffly, ‘Your father was a good man, even though he was not the man I would have chosen for my Mija.’
‘My father was a wonderful, wonderful, very special man,’ Petra corrected him proudly.
Had her mother known what her father had done? If so she had never spoken of it to her, but then neither had her father! Suddenly, despite her private knowledge of her grandfather’s secret purpose in wanting her here in Zuran, she was glad that she had come!
‘He understood my feelings as a father,’ her grandfather acknowledged.
Petra had to close her eyes to conceal the intensity of the emotions that rushed over her.
‘You say that now! You claim to have loved my mother. But you never made any attempt to contact her—to…’ Petra refused to say the word ‘forgive’, because so far as she was concerned her mother was the one who had the right to extend that largesse, not her grandfather! ‘You must have known how much it would have meant to her to hear from you!’
Impossible for her to hold back her feelings—or her pain—any longer. Petra knew that her grandfather must be able to hear it in her voice just as she could herself.
‘When she left you told her that you would never permit her name to be spoken in your hearing ever again. You said that she was dead to you and to her family, and you forbade them to have anything to do with her. You let her die—’
Petra heard herself sobbing like a lost child. ‘You let her die believing that you had stopped loving her! How could you do that?’
As Petra fought for self-control she could see the pain shadowing her grandfather’s eyes, and suddenly it seemed as though he shrunk a little, and looked even older and more fragile than he had done when she had first walked into the room.
‘There is nothing I can say that will ease your pain. No words I can offer you will lighten either your burden—or my own,’ she heard him saying sombrely. ‘It is still too soon. Perhaps in time… But at my age time is no longer either a friend or an ally. I am sorry that we have not been able to make you properly welcome here in your mother’s home, Petra, but now that that old fool my doctor has ceased his unnecessary fussing I shall give instructions that a room is to be prepared for you. We have much to discuss together, you and I.’
Like his desire to see her married to the man of his choice? Petra wondered suspiciously, abruptly back on her guard; he might look frail and sorrowful now, but she couldn’t forget the cunning and deceit which history had already proved him capable of.
And once she was living here beneath his roof she would virtually be a prisoner. With no passport she had no means of leaving the country! Which meant it was imperative that she persisted with her plan to have Rashid refuse to consider her as a wife.
Even if that meant seeing Blaize again and the risk that could entail?
Unable to give herself a truly rational answer, Petra diverted her own thoughts by telling her grandfather, in a cool voice she intended would make him fully aware of her determination to retain her independence, ‘I have made arrangements for an overnight trip into the desert tomorrow, so—’
‘The desert!’ To her surprise, his eyes lit up with pleasure and approval. ‘It is good that you wish to see the