Smartly saluting Stephen, he said, “Commodore, a crate arrived on the Guerrière for Mrs. Delaplane. Shall I unload it?”
“Aye,” Stephen said.
“The Guerrière,” I mused. “Stephen, wasn’t she on Mediterranean duty?”
“She was,” he replied.
The sailor lugged the large crate up on the porch steps.
“No need to track that mud in the house,” said the practical Mrs. Yarby. “We’ll open it out here.”
Atop the crate was an official seal with the Arabic words: His servant, Mohammed Ali.
Memories of another world flooded through me. The Pasha, his eyes alert, handing me a drab silver and carnelian ring. Lullah Zuleika with her great, generous heart and sandalwood perfume. Ahmed, whose grave passions could be only for his country. The Syrian kadines and the rest of the harem, women possessed of great sweetness and soft, high voices. Uisha, who had given her life for me. And David, always David, his silky yellow hair under a fez as he hurried forth to ride on Almanack.
“It’s from the Pasha,” I said breathily, adding for Mrs. Yarby’s benefit, “He must have sent it to us as a wedding gift.”
We had kept my first marriage from everyone, not fearing the shame of divorce but respecting the Pasha’s wish to have a veil over his personal life.
Before the wagon had struggled away in the mud, Stephen began to open the slats, using the edge of an ax. Inside the crate, a square object was bundled with coarse hemp. On heavy paper a scribe had written: Found within a teak box inside the tomb of Thutmose.
I translated aloud.
Mrs. Yarby’s brown eyes sparkled with curiosity.
“The Pasha’s treasure,” she exclaimed. This was how everyone had referred to the find. Objects were being brought forth one at a time, and I guessed that the Pasha, shrewdly, unveiled them that way to keep the West endlessly fascinated.
As Stephen unwound the heavy fabric, we saw a large cube swathed in finest white cotton.
“Must be something precious,” said Mrs. Yarby.
Carefully Stephen removed the cotton covering.
We regarded a magnificent small gold chest maybe eighteen inches long and the same height, embossed with brilliant ceramic and calcite pictures.
With a small cry I sank to my knees and began examining the pictured scenes.
On the lid, Nefer stood amid a gray circle of connected monoliths. On the front panel she was in chains aboard a ship. Though the sailors were small in proportion to her size, they were clad in Egyptian loincloths.
On the sides and on the back she knelt to offer the Pharaoh a goblet, she stood with her arm around him and finally was seated next to him.
My sight blurred.
“Liberty,” said my godmother, who had knelt near me. “These stones. See how they’re placed to form an arched circle? If they were larger, they would be like that ruin in England.”
I couldn’t speak.
Stephen replied for me. “Early Egyptian artists always showed royalty as larger than their surroundings. I’ve been on Salisbury Plain, Mrs. Yarby, and that’s a reasonably good replica of Stonehenge.”
“Then I’d say whoever that woman is, she’s leaving England and going to Egypt.”
“Exactly,” Stephen said.
“How peculiar, Commodore, that the Pasha should have chosen this exact piece for your wedding gift. What a coincidence that he picked it.” Her square face broke into a fond smile. “Liberty, child, this proves your dear father’s theory, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said in a thin voice.
“How delighted the captain would be,” Mrs. Yarby said, her tone crisp as if her husband were in the next room—it was how she always spoke of him. “Now everybody will admit Professor Moore was right. And know that Amos Thornton was a huge, wrong-thinking pachyderm.”
Years ago it had seemed as urgent to destroy Amos Thornton’s reputation as to restore Father’s scholarly name, but now my corrosive hatred seemed foolish. Amos Thornton was a destroyed man. His pride, never letting him acknowledge the shame of that foggy Paris morning, had doomed him to exile.
My godmother bustled inside to get a broom to sweep up the slivers from the crate.
Stephen helped me to my feet. “Liberty, Mrs. Yarby is right. This is the proof you’ve been searching for ever since I met you.”
I stared down at the exquisite ancient workmanship. “It only mattered,” I said slowly, “because I loved Father.”
He drew my head tenderly to his shoulder. I inhaled the clean smell of the sea, felt the comfort of his strong body and rested my cheek on the gold epaulet of his dress uniform.
After a minute he said huskily, “Love is all that matters, sweetheart, either in the past or in the future.”
The Pharaoh Thutmose was at long last happy. After aeons of waiting, the Emerald Embrace had been returned to him and he had come to this eternal land where he and Nefer were forever joined in the full noontime glory of their love.
About the Author
Jacqueline Briskin (1927–2014) was the New York Times–bestselling author of fourteen historical novels that reflect the tumultuous changes in American society that she witnessed over her lifetime. Complete with dynamic storylines, vibrant characters, and passionate romantic relationships, her novels have sold more than twenty million copies worldwide and have been translated into twenty-six languages.
Briskin was born in London, England, the granddaughter of the chief rabbi of Dublin, Ireland. Her family moved to Beverly Hills, California, to escape Adolf Hitler and religious orthodoxy. A few years later, she married her best friend and the love of her life, Bert, whose family was deeply embedded in Hollywood and the movie business. When Briskin’s three children were little more than toddlers, she attended a class at UCLA entitled “The Craft of Fiction.” To her surprise, it was a class about writing fiction rather than reading fiction. And so her career began.
Over the next forty years, many of Briskin’s books topped the New York Times bestseller list. Her adoptive home of Los Angeles and her husband’s old stomping ground of Hollywood often play a prominent role in her meticulously researched books.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1980 by Diane du Pont
Cover design by Mimi Bark
ISBN: 978-1-4532-9382-9
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Briskin, Jacqueline;, The Emerald Embrace
The Emerald Embrace Page 32
