“That should be fun. Dozens of young females, all hanging on your every word.” He elbowed Max in a good-old-boys gesture. “Speaking of young ladies, have I mentioned that I have a goddaughter of marriageable age?”
“Several times.” Max rolled up his gallery blueprint.
“She’s a corker, I tell you. And pretty. Takes after her mother, my second cousin.”
“I’ve told you, sir, I’m not in the market for a wife. I’m an Egyptologist.”
“And that means you can’t get married?” Bellows’s bushy eyebrows darted down over his piercing eyes.
“That means if I ever do get married, it will have to be someone who either won’t mind me being gone for months at a time, or won’t mind sleeping in a tent or a tomb in the desert and eating tinned food for every meal. She’d have to cope with snakes, scorpions, sand, and no sanitation. What kind of woman would be willing to put up with all that just to be married to the likes of me?” He spread his hands, trying to make a joke of it.
“The right woman, that’s who. One who loves you. Are you saying there are no married Egyptologists?”
“No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying there are precious few happily married Egyptologists. If I did take a wife, she’d have to be someone like Hilda Petrie. She isn’t afraid to descend into burial pits, is smart enough to keep even Petrie’s precious potsherds organized, and runs their camp like a field marshal. She’s a helpmeet, a true member of Flinders’s expedition. An asset. Perhaps her greatest contribution is her artistic ability. Her paintings of tomb reliefs are clear and concise, better than photographs.” His mind was drawn back to the little spitfire he’d collided with that afternoon. Her artwork had been excellent, a faithful copy of Yoakum’s mislabeled displays.
The girl had some spunk, too, firing back when he’d been so abrupt with her. His lips twitched. Yes, any woman who would marry an Egyptologist would have to have grit. Too bad he wasn’t in the market for a wife. If he were, he might choose someone like her.
Chapter 2
Ally checked her supplies and snapped the lid shut on her pastel and chalk case. So far, so good. If she could get out of the house unseen, she could slip away to the museum and avoid the tedium of going on calls with Mother. At least with Mother attending the opera last night, she would be likely to sleep in this morning until well after the time the museum opened.
Her light coat waited. She’d designed the garment herself of buff-colored cotton with long sleeves and large pockets, light enough to be worn indoors at the museum to cover her dress and protect it from paint, charcoal, and chalk. Her mother despaired of her fashion sense when she caught Alicia wearing it, but Alicia loved it. It was almost like assuming a secret identity, covering the socialite with the artist. Or maybe it was less a covering than a revealing of her true self.
She slipped down the stairs, portfolio in hand, listening on the landing for the chambermaids. Nothing. Tense, quiet as possible, she reached the bottom of the staircase… and found herself face-to-face with Mrs. Gannon, the housekeeper. Her heart sank.
“Good morning, Miss Alicia.” Mrs. Gannon nodded, her back stiff as a stair rod. Her sourpuss face expressed her displeasure with life, and her eyes slid over Alicia’s attire and belongings as if she suspected her of trying to abscond with the family silver. “Back to the museum, is it?” The housekeeper kept her finger on the pulse of every bit of gossip about the house, and she delighted in relaying it all to Mother. Though she had no authority to forbid Alicia to leave, Mother would be informed within the half hour that her daughter had left the house.
“Yes, Mrs. Gannon.” Ally stepped to the side to go around the housekeeper, but the older woman sidled with her.
“You do know the reputation that is getting around about young women loitering in the museum? It’s becoming a rather unsavory practice, from what I hear. I do hope you’re taking care.”
“I’m not ‘loitering’ in the museum. I go there to work and to appreciate all the beautiful things.”
“Does Mrs. Davidson know you’re going out today? I understood you would be making afternoon calls with her. She’s ordered the carriage brought round at two. I can tell her you will be back before then?” Censure lay heavily on her words. Though she’d framed it as a question, she was really requiring Alicia to live up to expectations.
“Please tell Mother that I would be delighted to join her for afternoon calls.” Alicia almost choked on the words. “I’ll be back for luncheon.”
“Very good, miss.”
So much for an entire day at the museum. At this rate, she’d never get any quality work done. She hurried out the front door before anyone else could stop her. Traffic moved heavily up Fifth Avenue, and pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. Drivers shouted, horses neighed, and newsboys called out headlines. The buildings seemed to press in overhead and around her. She kept her chin up, walking briskly, threading her way through slower walkers until she was across the street from the museum.
Looking up at the columns, she studied the facade with an artist’s eye. Everything was balanced and perfect. Except for one aspect that always struck her as wrong. Atop each of the four main pairs of pillars at the entrance, a stack of cut stone blocks perched. Originally, these piles were to be carved into figures representing Sculpture, Painting, Architecture, and Music, but the stock market crash a few years before had meant funds for the museum had suffered a setback. The statues had never been completed, and the pyramids of stone remained in their raw form capping each of the columns.
She crossed the street, mounted the stairs, and entered the cavernous building. Soft light drifted through windows and skylights, bathing and warming the marble interior. She waved to the woman at the ticket counter, tapping her member’s badge clipped to her lapel.
As she made her way to the small gallery housing Egyptian art, she embraced the familiar feeling of peace that came over her. Her foot was on her native heath when she walked these halls.
Soon she had lost herself in her sketching. Humming softly, she added pastel color to her drawing of a section of tomb relief, bringing to life the lotus leaves and the maidens drawing water from the Nile.
She glanced up when footsteps approached. A handful of laborers filed by carrying lumber and tools. They entered a doorway to her left, leaving it propped open. From beyond, sounds of hammering and sawing and men talking began. They had to be working on the new wing that had been the talk of the museum all winter. A grand, new Egyptian exhibit would be opening in a few weeks. The door to the work area stood tantalizingly open.
Alicia frowned and set her pastel stick in her tray and flipped her sketchbook closed. Tucking her chalk case into her pocket, she peeked through the doorway. If they were going to be hammering away in here all day, she’d have to move to another part of the museum to work.
Beyond the doorway, a high, airy gallery opened. Sunlight streamed through a wall of windows two stories high, falling in graceful squares on the pale marble floor. Along the right-hand side, men scaled scaffolding nearly to the ceiling.
And in the center of the room, stood the young man who had occupied her thoughts almost constantly since the previous afternoon.
“I want the bottom of the banner to hang six feet from the floor.” He stood back, arms crossed, looking up, his voice echoing in the open space. “And it must be straight.” His hair hung over his forehead, and he shoved his glasses up on his nose with the side of his index finger.
Alicia slipped her small drawing pad from the capacious pocket of her art coat and took her pencil from behind her ear. With quick strokes she captured his profile, the strong column of his throat, the open neck of his shirt, the way the sunshine hit his hair.
“All right. Let it fall.” He stepped back a couple of paces.
From the top of the scaffold, the men released their hold on a cylindrical bundle. In a flourish, a waterfall of fabric unrolled down the wall.
Alicia gasped. The face of a serene woman with ob
sidian eyes and dusky skin stared out from the banner, twenty feet high. Down the left side were hieroglyphs and THE TREASURES OF A PRINCESS.
“What are you doing in here?”
She turned at the peevish tone. The other man she’d encountered yesterday—the disagreeable, insulting one—approached, his thin mustache drawn down.
“You can’t be in here, miss. I declare, you girls are getting worse every day. Is there no place you won’t try to invade?” He took her elbow and began marching her toward the door.
“I’m not invading anywhere. The door was open. Unhand me, sir.” She tugged, but his grip tightened. Embarrassment heated her cheeks at being involved in an altercation two days in a row.
“Yoakum, release the lady.”
Her captor halted, but he didn’t let go. “Max, this is none of your affair.”
She looked over her shoulder at Max advancing quickly, and her mortification doubled. With her free hand she stuffed her sketchbook into her pocket lest he realize she’d been drawing him.
“I’m afraid it is my business. You’ve been quite rude to this young lady twice now. She is here as my guest, and I must ask you once again to unhand her.” He reached over and plucked Yoakum’s hand from Alicia’s arm, flicking it away as if it were a dead fish.
“Your guest?” Disbelief twisted Yoakum’s brow and his voice.
“That’s correct. I’ve been looking forward to showing her through the galleries once we finished hanging the banner. Now, I’ve a rather tight timetable today, so if you will be sure to secure the door on your way out, I’d be most appreciative. After all, we don’t want just anyone wandering in.” He sent a quick, meaningful look Alicia’s way, so full of humor she almost giggled.
The slender man’s mouth flattened, and his eyes went cold. Without a word, he turned on his heel and marched away, slamming the wooden door behind him.
Alicia let out her breath. “Who is that man?”
“Clarence Yoakum, one of the museum directors.”
“I hope he’s not your boss.” She tucked her pencil into her hair then realized what she’d done and yanked it down. He’d think her completely uncouth. A curl slid onto her shoulder.
“He’d like to think he is. In fact, it’s galling him that he isn’t.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Max, and you are?”
“Ally.” For some reason her father’s pet name for her slipped out. And yet, it seemed right. Her museum self was Ally. “Thank you for rescuing me.” She put her hand in his. A jolt of awareness shot up her arm straight to her chest. His eyes were even bluer than she’d realized behind his glasses.
“Excuse me, sir. If you’re done with the banner, they’re ready to move the chariot whenever you say so.” A workman stood to the side.
“I’ll be right there.” He let her hand go and drew a sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolding it with a concentrated frown. “May I borrow your pencil?”
She handed it to him, and he carefully drew a line through one of the items. “Hang banner. Done.”
“That’s some list.”
“You have no idea.” He stuffed the paper back in his pocket and her pencil along with it. “Would you like to see a Nineteenth Dynasty chariot?”
She took his offered arm, bemused. “I’d love to.”
He led her to a small side gallery. “This is where we’re installing the chariot. Have a seat right here.” He led her to a small bench set along the wall. “I have to see to the uncrating.”
Ally watched, fascinated. A large crate, bearing markings in English and Arabic, sat beside a raised platform. Overhead, strong electric lights shone down, spotlighting a platform. Max took a crowbar from one of the workmen and applied it to the lid on the crate. With creaking groans, the nails and wood parted. The waiting workmen lifted the lid away, and Max went on to remove one side of the crate as well. A solid wall of what appeared to be cotton batting appeared.
“Gently, this chariot is three thousand years old.” Max and the workers began removing bats of cotton. Within moments, Ally caught a glint of gold. Spokes and a rim. Then what appeared to be woven wicker or reeds, but gilded like the wheel.
Her breath caught as they drew the chariot out into the room. It appeared heavier than its structure, and she assumed it must be all the gold. Every inch was gilded. Light raced along the curves as they moved it into place on the platform. From another crate, Max drew out the long staff that was the tongue to which a pair of horses would be hitched. He placed it in a special bracket in the display prepared for it, so it appeared ready for a team of spirited animals to whisk it across the desert sands.
Dusting his hands, he hopped down. “Get the ropes up now. I wish it were behind glass, but it’s just too big. Maybe someday. At least the ropes might keep the public from touching it. We’ll have a security guard posted in this room at all times.”
Ally stood and approached the platform. “It’s beautiful. Somehow I expected it to be more… substantial?”
“Of course, war chariots weren’t gilded like this one. Those were light and fast, in order not to get bogged down in the sand. Each chariot carried two men, a driver and an archer. The driver would race the chariot toward the front lines of the opposing army then turn sharply so the archer could get a good broadside look at his target.” Max pantomimed shooting an arrow. “This invention changed ancient warfare and made Egypt a great power.”
“Where did this one come from? And how do you know it’s three thousand years old?”
His brows lifted. “This is from the tomb of Princess Meryat-Kai, one of the many daughters of Pharaoh Ramesses II. Her tomb was discovered last winter in the Valley of the Queens near Thebes. The treasures of the tomb will go on display here at the museum in just a few weeks. Yoakum’s got brochures at the front desk, and the advertising has begun in the newspapers.”
“I always bypass the front desk. I’ll have to stop and pick up a brochure. Do you mind if I sketch the chariot?” She took out her sketch pad and box of pastels.
He frowned. “As long as you don’t make it public until after the exhibit opens. The museum is choosing a few select pieces for the advertising, but the bulk of the exhibit will remain under wraps until the grand opening.”
She nodded her understanding, and with soft strokes sketched in the basic shape of the chariot. Slipping a tortillon from her pocket, she blended and smoothed the lines and shading, giving the illusion of curve and sheen.
“You’re very good.” He watched over her shoulder. “Where did you receive your training? Or are you still in school?”
She shrugged. “I never went to art school.” She’d had private tutors, but her mother had been appalled when Ally had suggested attending something as pedestrian as an art college. Mother was of the opinion that women in general and Van Baark women in particular might go to a finishing school, say in Paris or Geneva, but college was out of the question.
The workmen strung thick, velvet ropes, and Max stood back to survey the exhibit. “Good job, men. Take an early lunch break then finish the painting in galleries 123 and 124. Barker, check with Yoakum about the benches and potted palms for the East Gallery. They’re supposed to be arriving today.”
They hustled away, and Max began gathering the packing material and tossing it into the open-sided crate.
Ally put her art supplies away, wondering what to say, if she should go. He’d been gracious, but she didn’t want to overstay her welcome. She stood and wiped her palms on her coat.
Max glanced up. “I’ve been here since five and could use a little fresh air. Would you care to walk in the park with me?”
Her heart lifted. He wanted to spend more time with her. “I’d like that.”
Max took her elbow on the concrete steps and when they reached the sidewalk, turned right to enter Central Park through the Niners’ Gate. To their left lay The Ramble, and ahead and to the right rose the imposing walls of the Croton Reservoir Pools. Matrons strolled by pushing prams. Children ran. Up t
he walkway a cart sold peanuts and candy. The trees, fully leafed now in late spring, swayed in a gentle breeze.
The delicate floral scent of perfume drifted up to Max, and Ally’s skirts made a soft, rustling sound as she walked. He wasn’t sure what to call the garment she was wearing, but he supposed it had something to do with protecting her dress. Buff colored, long sleeves, with huge, apron-like pockets on the front. Most utilitarian and sensible.
Her dark eyes took in everything, alight with curiosity and life. So many young ladies her age affected boredom—a haughty, brittle exterior that did little to hide the shallowness of their lives; but this girl was different.
What was he doing, wasting time like this? He had so much to do, and yet here he was, acting like a besotted idiot. Max let go of her elbow and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Trying to justify being absent from his work. He did need some air, after all. He’d been cooped up inside for hours. Surely a short walk wouldn’t hurt. His feet followed a familiar track around to the west side of the museum.
He should think of something intelligent to say.
“I like to get outside when I can, but I can’t resist the lure of Egypt, even on a walk through the park. When my schedule and the demands of the museum get to be too much for me, I head out here to contemplate the obelisk.” He took off his glasses and pointed with them to the sculpture known as Cleopatra’s Needle. “What a ridiculous name, though. This is dated from long before Cleopatra’s time. It’s a monument praising the accomplishments of Thutmose III and later Ramesses II. It says so right up there.”
“You can read the hieroglyphs? Can you read some for me?” She turned those eager, dark eyes on him, and his heart rate kicked up a notch.
Trying not to sound smug and fearing he failed, he looked up.
“The crowned Horus,
Tall with the southern crown,
Loving Ra,
The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons Page 41
