Daughter of the God-King

by Anne Cleeland

  “They were very fond of you,” he replied gently, neatly avoiding an answer. Ashamed of her lapse, she didn’t press the subject, but instead felt very young as she turned her gaze again to the hands folded in her lap.

  “Hathor; an unusual name.”

  She sensed he was trying to ease her embarrassment and so she rewarded him by pulling herself together and rendering her best dimpled smile. “My friends call me Hattie.”

  The gambit was not successful as Berry’s expression became distant and he asked with austere formality, “Would you know where your parents kept any important items, mademoiselle—items they were reluctant to part with? Perhaps a safe on the premises, either here or in England?”

  She did not respond immediately, thinking that it was almost amusing—he was setting up a mighty resistance to the attraction that leapt between them, the intense awareness that made him lose his train of thought while the breath caught in her throat. “I imagine you know the answer better than I—I hope you locked the door behind you in Cornwall.”

  An appreciative gleam of amusement appeared in his eyes—they were such a pleasing shade of brown, light with golden highlights. Recalled to the fact that she had just received bad news, she tried to temper her thoughts.

  There was a small silence as thunder could be heard in the distance. “Mademoiselle Bing approaches,” he noted, and rose to his feet.

  Hattie turned to behold the welcome sight of Bing bearing a woolen shawl—Hattie had been trying not to shiver and thereby spoil this promising tête-à-tête. “Thank you, Bing. Monsieur Berry acts as my parents’ agent in Cairo; in light of the unsettling news, he has come for a visit.”

  Bing cast a skeptical eye at the gathering clouds but made no comment, depositing the wrap across Hattie’s shoulders. “Then you will have much to discuss. I shall ring for tea and leave you to it.”

  Amused, Hattie made a mental note that Bing had apparently determined Berry was more friend than enemy, although Bing was not aware this guest had his own shortcomings—burglary being among them. “I think not, Bing—it looks to rain.”

  But Berry was not to be hinted indoors where there was a danger of being overheard. Instead, he addressed Bing in a deferential manner. “Mademoiselle, my inventory of the Blackhouse effects listed some items which unfortunately I cannot lay hands upon. It would be useful to know if these items actually exist—I would not like to think an unscrupulous person could take advantage of the current situation. I understand your brother was Monsieur Edward Bing.”

  “Indeed,” Bing verified with a nod.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” the Frenchman offered in all sincerity, but there was a slight undercurrent to the words that Hattie could not quite like. “Did he ever send you anything from the site?”

  “Oh, no,” Bing disclaimed immediately. “Edward was not one to keep anything for himself; he strongly believed the artifacts belonged to the world and the appropriate place for them was in a museum—although many others disagreed, and sold them privately.”

  “A dedicated man,” agreed Berry in a respectful tone. “Would that there were more like him.”

  Bing admitted, “That—and it was important not to displease the local authorities by smuggling away the treasures; after all, the site could be shut down.”

  “But I thought the British controlled the sites,” said Hattie in surprise. “My parents certainly seemed to go wherever they wished.”

  “No—not the British; at least not as yet,” Bing explained to her. “A viceroy named Muhammad Ali has taken the lead on regional matters since Napoleon’s forces left—but you are correct in that it is only a matter of time before the British reestablish authority in the area. Unfortunately, it is a difficult situation in Egypt—there are treasures to be seized and the French, the British, and the locals are all vying for power over the excavations.”

  “You are well informed, mademoiselle,” observed Berry with open approval.

  Bing’s lean cheeks turned pink with pleasure. “I followed my brother’s doings quite closely, monsieur.”

  Hattie added, “It was Edward who found the Shefrh Lelmelwek—the Glory of Kings. Did you hear of it in Cairo? It was hidden inside an ordinary unguent jar.”

  “A very significant find,” Berry agreed. “Word of the discovery spread very quickly.”

  I must be paranoid, and seeing a mystery behind every bush, thought Hattie as she eyed him narrowly; but it seems to me there is a certain constraint in his voice when he speaks of the mythical sword, and when he speaks of poor Edward, also. But before she could quiz him on the topic, Berry asked, “By chance, did Monsieur Bing refer to an engraved golden disk—perhaps not very large?” He indicated the small size with his fingers. “It is one of the missing artifacts.”

  Bing shook her head with regret, obviously sorry to disappoint her new admirer. “Minor gold items are vulnerable to theft—Edward often decried the work of the tomb raiders.”

  “There is also an item that is described as a ‘senet board,’ but I am not certain what is meant.”

  Bing was more than willing to enlighten him, being an authority on all things entombed. “It refers to a game board, rather similar to a chessboard, which would be played in the afterlife.”

  “You know of no such item?”

  Bing shook her head again. “I fear one can only assume the worst if an inventoried item is missing—the black market is thriving, unfortunately.”

  Conceding, the Frenchman spread his hands. “It is fortunate most of the artifacts are accounted for, then.” He turned his head, listening. “Someone is at the door.”

  Bing rose to investigate and Hattie immediately pounced on him. “What do you know of Edward’s death?”

  “Leave the door to your chamber unlocked, tonight,” he directed.

  A bit taken aback, she stared at him for a moment until Bing claimed her attention from the terrace, calling out, “Hathor, Baron du Pays has come to call. Shall I bring him out?”

  It wants only this, Hattie thought in annoyance as she stood to address Bing—for two pins she would send the wretched vice-consul to Elba to keep company with Napoleon. “The rain approaches—it would be best to reconvene in the parlor, I think.” Turning to relay the invitation to Berry, she discovered that he had disappeared. A quick glance around the small yard revealed no clue—he was gone. It seems he wishes to entertain the wretched baron as little as I do, she thought with resignation, and headed indoors.

  Chapter 7

  As the rain came down outside, Hattie was compelled to endure the prescribed half-hour visit with their distinguished guest, her only consolation being Bing’s small nod in answer to her look of inquiry that indicated that her companion had indeed booked passage away from this god-forsaken city. The baron was all solicitous attention—polite and charming in an old-world way—but Hattie found him off-putting with no explanation for her reaction.“You are too kind,” she said for the second time, responding to his offer to drive out to Versailles. She meant it literally, but she could see that he interpreted the comment as a young girl’s proper sentiment in reaction to his generosity, and was well pleased. Fortunately, the gentleman wasn’t to know that by this time tomorrow she would be away from this place, and from everyone’s opportunings.

  With a proprietary air, the Frenchman continued, “I understand you have seen little of the world and I will be delighted to change this unfortunate circumstance—the Sun-King’s palace is one of its wonders.”

  “Ah, yes—the Sun-King,” nodded Hattie, at sea.

  “Louis XIV,” interpolated the ever-helpful Bing. “An extraordinary ruler.”

  “Similar to the god-king, Seti,” Hattie offered so as not to seem completely ignorant.

  The vice-consul was so taken with this comparison that Hattie feared for a moment he would embrace her on the spot. “Exactly,” he smiled, his pale eyes gleaming. “My dear mademoiselle—you are very discerning.”

  “That I am,” she agre
ed, and wished she could discern him taking his leave.

  But it was not yet to be, and her visitor continued to regard her with an expression of warm approval. “History records the great men—men who leave a blazing legacy in their wake, chère mademoiselle; they are few and far between and we are indeed fortunate if we are given the opportunity to serve such men.”

  From all reports, it did not seem he referred to France’s recently restored Bourbon king and she entertained a suspicion that he spoke of the now-deposed emperor, who was England’s greatest enemy. This seemed in bad taste, and so she steered clear of the subject by offering in a neutral tone, “I suppose it must be exciting to feel one is participating in historic events.”

  “We live in extraordinary times, mademoiselle; and history has not yet closed its books.”

  This said with an air of suppressed exultation that Hattie found incongruous, and so she tentatively agreed, “Yes—the congress has yet to come to a conclusion and I suppose France’s future is a bit uncertain.”

  At this remark, he lowered his gaze and a small smile touched his lips. “Pour la gloire, mademoiselle.”

  It occurred to her that he hadn’t mentioned the one subject that—one would think—should be foremost in his mind, and so she ventured, “As the vice-consul in Egypt, I imagine you are aware that my parents are missing.”

  Immediately he raised his eyes to hers, his expression apologetic. “I did not mention it, mademoiselle, because I was not certain you knew of this and I felt it was not my place. Please accept my sincere assurances that everything possible is being done to find them.”

  “Yes; I spoke with their agent, and it was he who told me the unfortunate news.” Hattie watched to see if this man was aware of the other, but he easily acknowledged, “Yes, Monsieur Berry; a very capable man, and well known to me. He is dévasté, of course, but he holds out hope.”

  Now, that is doing it a bit too brown, thought Hattie, who then realized that—in truth—no one seemed very dévasté; instead everyone seemed much more interested in the elusive strongbox. “They also have a solicitor in Cairo, I understand. Would he be of use?”

  The baron pressed his lips together in subtle disapproval. “He is a native man, with a tendency to be belligerent, as is in keeping. We can expect little cooperation from such a one; instead he will be looking to feather his own nest.”

  “That is indeed a shame,” offered Hattie with barely concealed impatience. “One would think everyone involved would be eager to cooperate, instead of working at cross purposes.”

  Her ironic tone, however, was apparently lost on the man who seemed to suddenly remember his initial purpose as he leaned in again to touch her hand. “You are without protectors, at present, Mademoiselle Blackhouse. Allow me the honor of standing in, as the occasion arises.”

  “You are too kind,” Hattie reiterated. “I shall indeed count on your support, as well as that of Mr. Tremaine, from the British embassy. You may not know that we are long-time acquaintances.” This last to remind him she was not exactly friendless.

  This time, the baron smiled a genuine smile that reached his eyes. “Ah, yes; Monsieur Tremaine and his unexpected bride.”

  His tone was slightly derisive, and Hattie could feel her color rise until she remembered that this gentleman and Madame Auguste seemed to have a rancorous relationship, based upon the barbed conversation at the embassy soirée. Seeking to turn the conversation, she observed only, “Mr. Tremaine was always full of surprises.”

  The older man nodded, the gleam still in his eye. “Eh bien; I believe he sees himself in the guise of a shining knight—the widow having been so recently bereft.”

  “Was she?” Hattie knew she shouldn’t be gossiping about Robbie but was unable to help herself. “Monsieur Auguste having passed away recently?”

  “Murdered by footpads in Cairo,” the vice-consul replied, smoothing a sleeve. “Most unfortunate; it left your parents in an awkward situation.”

  Hattie blinked. “Was Monsieur Auguste involved with my parents?”

  Her visitor lifted his cup to sip his tea. “D’accord; he was their liaison with the Ministry of Antiquities.”

  There was a small, rather shocked silence as Hattie and Bing assimilated this unexpected connection. “Do you think…” ventured Bing.

  Disclaiming, he set his cup down and shook his head. “No, no—there appears to be no connection to the Blackhouses’ disappearance; a random crime, only—there are violent elements in Cairo as there are in any other large city, and your parents were in Thebes at the time. Nonetheless, the deplorable act has made it all the more difficult to mount a search for your parents.” He reached across to touch Hattie’s hand again. “Rest assured, it is my only priority, and no resource will be spared, mademoiselle; I stand at your service.”

  “Thank you.” Hattie forgot to tell him he was too kind, as instead her mind was occupied by this news of yet another unexplained death—assuming her parents were dead—and everyone’s extreme determination to bedevil her. Perhaps there was something to this curse business, after all.

  As if on cue, the distinguished Frenchman asked in a serious manner, “Are you aware where your parents kept their strongbox? Perhaps it would contain information helpful to the search.”

  “I haven’t a clue,” confessed Hattie. Thinking to forestall him, she added, “And I do not know if they had any other properties.”

  “A pity.” He raised his head to smile indulgently, although the expression in the pale eyes remained unreadable. “Nevertheless, I shall see that you are well taken care of.” To her dismay, his gaze rested discreetly on her breasts for the barest moment.

  “You relieve me no end,” Hattie assured him in a brittle tone, and wondered if it would provoke an international incident if she pushed the old lecher out the door. She refrained from putting it to the test, however, and at long last she stood with Bing at the window to watch his elaborate carriage draw away. “Behold my new beau, Bing.”

  Bing crossed her arms. “One of several, it seems.”

  Hattie gave her companion an arch look. “Come now, Bing; if you refer to Monsieur Berry, I believe he is more your beau than mine.”

  Bing made a wry mouth and turned from the window. “I can see what’s before me.”

  Secretly pleased with this insight, Hattie merely replied, “Then see to it we have no more visitors, if you please; I am beginning to believe there is something to this curse, after all.”

  “Nonsense,” said Bing. “Merely an unfortunate sequence of events—save one.”

  Smiling at the addendum, Hattie turned to mount the stairs, unwilling to confess to Bing that she was expecting yet another visit from the same.

  Chapter 8

  Hattie dithered on the horns of a dilemma—what did one wear if one were expecting a gentleman to make a clandestine visit to one’s bedchamber? Under normal circumstances, of course, the answer would be obvious but these were not normal circumstances as the gentleman in question did not seem bent on seduction. Hattie allowed her gaze to rest on her bed, and wondered what her reaction would be if such an attempt were made. I don’t know if I would mount much of a resistance, she admitted to herself—this was exactly why girls should be chaperoned within an inch of their lives.

  Unthinkable to entertain him en dishabille—although her nightdress was very pretty and she would very much like to show it to him—she finally decided she would wear her day dress, and hope Bing did not make a visit to her chamber or that the upstairs maid would not think it strange she had asked for no assistance this evening. Affecting a causal air, she announced that she would read in her room after dinner and bade Bing good night, sitting up with a candle while the house gradually settled into silence. I hope I haven’t long to wait, she thought, as she re-arranged her skirts yet again; I’ve had a tiring day, between all the dire warnings and various attempts to pry information from me.

  Sometime after midnight, when the candle had burned low and Hat
tie had left the book open on her lap to rest her eyes, she awoke with a start to behold Berry standing before her.

  “Oh,” she said, and sat up straight, feeling at a disadvantage. She wondered how long he had been there.

  “Be easy, mademoiselle,” he whispered as he crouched down before her. “I must speak with you.”

  “So you keep saying,” she whispered in return, a bit crossly. “Speak, then.” She noted that he wore a dark workman’s coat. His skulking uniform, she thought—he excels at it.

  “What did Monsieur le Baron have to say?”

  She considered this for a moment. “I expect an offer at any time.”

  He looked up into her face, the angles of his own accentuated in the illumination of the single candle. “I must be serious, I’m afraid.”

  But Hattie quirked her mouth. “I am serious—it is the most annoying turn of events, I assure you.”

  This surprised him, she could see, and he lowered his gaze, thinking.

  “Am I an heiress?” This had occurred to her as a likely explanation for this sudden interest—hers was a name that was venerated in certain circles and if her parents were indeed no longer alive, there were those who would leap at the chance to marry into the Blackhouse legacy. Indeed, the Prussian Ambassador would probably be the next to haunt her doorstep.

  “I know not,” her visitor admitted. “But I imagine you would be the executrix of your parents’ estate—I was unable to obtain exact information from their solicitor in Cairo.”

  “You spoke to him?” she asked, suddenly alert. “The Baron spoke to him also, but does not seem overly fond of him.”

  The gentleman made a small sound of annoyance in his throat. “A most unhelpful man.”

  “I imagine,” Hattie ventured, “that he is not supposed to give out information, given the circumstances.”

  Berry refrained from comment, and thus reminded, Hattie ventured further, “I understand that Madame Auguste’s late husband was connected with my parents’ work in some way—through the Egyptian government.”