Lady Bulwer looked both pleased and smug. She obviously failed to note any hint of irony in Lady Penworth’s words. Emily recognized the signs. Her parents would out-diplomat the diplomats, smoothing over any bumps of disharmony in the Bulwer household, and conversation would flow placidly through conventional channels. Boring, but unexceptionable. And only too familiar.
Then Julia touched her arm.
Still looking straight ahead, and still with a faint, polite smile on her face, Julia indicated that Emily should look at the left-hand corner of the room. Emily had never understood how it was that Julia could send these messages without making a sound or even moving her head, but send them she did.
In this case, it was a message Emily received with interest. Off in the corner were two young men pretending to examine a huge globe while they took sideways glances at the newcomers. This was much more promising than the possibility of trouble between the ambassador and his wife. Refusing to pretend a lack of curiosity—she was growing tired, very tired, of pretending—she looked straight at them.
One was an extraordinarily handsome man, clean-shaven to display a beautifully sculpted mouth and a square jaw. His perfectly tailored black tailcoat outlined a tall, broad-shouldered physique. The blinding whiteness of his shirt and bow tie contrasted with the slight olive cast of his skin. His hair was almost black, and his dark eyes betrayed no awareness of her scrutiny. He stood with all the bored elegance of the quintessential English gentleman. Bored and probably boring.
The other man looked far more interesting. He was not so tall—slim and wiry, rather than powerful looking—and not nearly so handsome. His nose was quite long—assertive might be a polite way to describe it—and his tanned face was long and narrow. Like his companion, he was clean-shaven, though his hair, a dark brown, was in need of cutting. While his evening clothes were perfectly proper, they were worn carelessly, and he waved his hands about as he spoke in a way that seemed definitely un-English. He noticed immediately when she turned her gaze on him and turned to return her scrutiny. She refused to look away, even when he unashamedly examined her from head to toe. His eyes glinted with amusement, and he gave her an appreciative grin and salute.
The cheek of him! She laughed out loud, making Julia hiss and drawing the attention of her mother and Lady Bulwer. Sir Henry must have noticed something as well, for he waved the young men over to be introduced to Papa.
They both stopped a proper distance away, and the handsome one waited with an almost military stiffness. Sir Henry introduced him first. “This is David Oliphant, Lord Penworth. He’s with the Foreign Office and will be your aide and guide on the journey. He knows the territory and can speak the lingo. All the lingos, in fact—Turkish, Kurdish, Arabic, whatever you run into along the way.”
Oliphant bowed. “Honored, my lord.”
Lord Penworth smiled. “My pleasure.”
“And this young man is Lucien Chambertin. He’s on his way back to Mosul where he’s been working with Carnac, digging up stone beasts or some such.”
“The remains of Nineveh, Sir Henry.” Chambertin then turned to Lord Penworth with a brief, graceful bow and a smile. “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord, for I am hoping you will allow me to impose on you and join your caravan for the journey to Mosul.”
He spoke excellent English, with just a hint of a French accent. Just the perfect hint, Emily decided. Sir Henry was not including the ladies in his introductions, to her annoyance, so she had been obliged to position herself close enough to hear what they were saying. This was one of the rare occasions when she was grateful for her crinolines. They made it impossible for the ladies to stand too close to one another, so she placed herself to the rear of her mother. From that position, she could listen to the gentlemen’s conversation while appearing to attend to the ladies’. What’s more, from her angle she could watch them from the corner of her eye without being obvious.
“I cannot imagine why you should not join us,” Lord Penworth told the Frenchman. “I understand that in Mesopotamia it is always best to travel in a large group. You are one of these new archaeologists, are you?”
Chambertin gave one of those Gallic shrugs. “Ah no, nothing so grand. I am just a passing traveler, but I cannot resist the opportunity to see the ruins of Nineveh when the opportunity offers itself. And then when Monsieur Carnac says he has need of assistance, I agree to stay for a while.”
“Well, my wife will certainly find the ruins interesting. She has developed quite a fascination with the ancient world.”
Oliphant looked startled. “Your wife? But surely Lady Penworth does not intend to accompany us.”
“Of course.” Lord Penworth in turn looked startled at the question. “I could hardly deny her the opportunity to see the ancient cradle of civilization. Not when I am looking forward to it myself.”
“I’m sorry. I was told you were traveling to view the possible site of a railway.”
“I am.” Penworth smiled. “That is my excuse for this trip. General Chesney has been urging our government to build a railway from Basra to Constantinople. His argument is that it would provide much quicker and safer communication with India. Palmerston wanted me to take a look and see if there would be any other use for it.”
The ambassador snorted. “Not much. There’s nothing of any use or interest in this part of the world except for those huge carvings that fellows like Carnac haul out of the ground.”
The handsome Mr. Oliphant looked worried. Before he could say anything, dinner was announced, the remaining introductions were finally made, and Emily found herself walking in to dinner on the arm of M. Chambertin. He had behaved quite correctly when they were introduced and held out his arm in perfectly proper fashion. He said nothing that would have been out of place in the most rigidly proper setting imaginable. Nonetheless, she suspected that he had been well aware of her eavesdropping. There was a decidedly improper light dancing in his eyes.
She liked it.
About dinner she was less certain. The oxtail soup had been followed by lobster rissoles, and now a footman placed a slice from the roast sirloin of beef on her plate, where it joined the spoonful of mashed turnips and the boiled onion. The onion had been quite thoroughly boiled. It was finding it difficult to hold its shape and had begun to tilt dispiritedly to one side.
“This is really quite a remarkable meal,” Lady Penworth said to their hostess. “Do you find it difficult to obtain English food here?”
“You’ve no idea.” Lady Bulwer sighed sadly. “It has taken me ages to convince the cook that plain boiled vegetables are what we want. You can’t imagine the outlandish spices he wants to use. And the olive oil! It’s a constant struggle.”
“And in that battle, the food lost,” muttered Emily, poking the onion into total collapse.
A snort from M. Chambertin at her side indicated that her words had not gone unheard. After using his napkin, he turned to her. “You do not care for rosbif?” he asked with a grin. “I thought all the English eat nothing else.”
“We are in Constantinople, thousands of miles from home, and we might as well be in Tunbridge Wells.”
He made a sympathetic grimace. “Perhaps while your papa goes to look at the railway route, Sir Henry can find you a guide who will show you and your friend a bit of Constantinople. You should really see the Topkapi—the old palace—and the bazaar.”
“Oh, but we aren’t going to be staying here. Julia and I are going with my parents.”
Mr. Oliphant, who had been speaking quietly with Julia, heard that and looked around in shock. “Lady Emily, you and Lady Julia and Lady Penworth are all planning to go to Mosul? Surely not. I cannot believe your father will allow this.”
Emily sighed. She was accustomed to such reactions. Lady Emily, you cannot possibly mean… Lady Emily, surely you do not intend… All too often, she had restrained herself and done what was expected. She intended this trip to be different. Still, she was curious as well as an
noyed. Was Mr. Oliphant about to urge propriety, or was there some other reason for his distress? “Why should we not?” she asked.
Mr. Oliphant took a sip of wine, as if to calm himself. Or fortify himself. It was impossible to be certain. He cleared his throat. “I fear Lord Penworth may not be fully aware of the difficulties—dangers, even—of travel in this part of the world. The caravan route through Aleppo and Damascus and then across the desert is hazardous under the best of circumstances, and these days…” He shook his head.
“My friend does not exaggerate,” put in M. Chambertin, looking serious. “Although the recent massacres in the Lebanon seem to be at an end, brigands have become more bold, and even the largest caravans—they are not safe.”
“But we are not planning to take that route.” Emily looked at Julia for confirmation and received it. “We are to sail to Samsun on the Black Sea, travel by caravan over the mountains to Diyarbakir, and then down the river to Mosul. And eventually on to Baghdad and Basra. Papa discussed it all with people back in London when he and Lord Palmerston were planning the route. So you need not worry.” She smiled to reassure the gentlemen.
M. Chambertin and Mr. Oliphant exchanged glances, trying to decide which should speak. It fell to Mr. Oliphant. “I do not question your father’s plan, Lady Emily. These days that is by far the safer route, though no place is entirely safe from attacks by brigands. However, he may have underestimated the physical difficulties of the trip. The mountains—these are not gentle little hills like the ones you find in England. They are barren and rocky, and we will cross them on roads that are little more than footpaths. It is impossible to take a carriage. If they do not go on foot, travelers must go on horseback or on mules. And this early in the year, it will still be bitterly cold, especially at night.”
“You needn’t worry,” Emily assured him. “We are all excellent riders, and I am told that the cold is preferable to the heat of the summer.”
M. Chambertin smiled at her and shook his head. “I do not doubt that you are a horsewoman par excellence, and your mother and Lady Julia as well. However, the journey over the mountains will take weeks. We will encounter few villages, and those are of the most poor. There will be times when we must sleep in tents or take shelter in stables. Nowhere will there be comfortable inns where ladies can refresh themselves.”
Emily and Julia looked at each other, sharing their irritation. Male condescension was obviously to be found everywhere.
“I believe you misunderstand the situation, gentlemen.” Julia spoke in her iciest, most superior tones. “We are not fragile pieces of porcelain. We are grown women, and English women at that. I do not think you will find us swooning at the sight of a spider. Or, for that matter, at the sight of a lion. Since Lord Penworth has determined that we are capable of undertaking the journey, I see no need for you to question his judgment.”
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Author’s Note
The book to which Lord and Lady Penworth frequently refer is The Cities and Cemeteries of Etruria by George Dennis, a two-volume work of more than a thousand pages, first published in 1848. It is still regarded as an important reference on Etruria. Unfortunately for Mr. Dennis, he never received the honors he deserved during his lifetime because of his lack of academic credentials. His book was, of course, appreciated by perceptive readers like Lord and Lady Penworth.
Around the time of our story, Prince Torlonia retained the Florentine archaeologist Alessandro Francois to conduct explorations of the Etruscan necropolis of Vulci on his estate. In 1857, the archaeologist discovered what is now known as the Francois Tomb, with its magnificent frescoes. I transported it to Prince Savelli’s estate so that my characters would not have quite so far to travel from Rome and pushed its discovery up by a year. Carlo Ruspi was an artist noted for his drawings of works discovered by archaeologists, and he did indeed do the drawings of the Francois Tomb murals. The murals themselves were detached from the tomb shortly afterward and are now in the Villa Albani in Rome. Prince Savelli was right: The paintings do shed light on aspects of Etruscan history.
As for other personages in this story, Lord Cowley was the British Ambassador to France in 1856 and John Freeborn was the British consul in Rome. Mr. Freeborn did irritate Palmerston by handing out diplomatic passports right and left when the Roman Republic collapsed in 1849. However, all else in this book about these gentlemen and their wives is pure invention.
About the Author
Lillian Marek was born and raised in New York City (the center of the universe). At one time or another she has had most of the interesting but underpaid jobs available to English majors. After a few too many years in journalism, she decided she prefers fiction, where the good guys win and the bad guys get what they deserve.
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