Daughter of the God-King

by Anne Cleeland

  “Certainly,” said Bing, and gamely lifted her skirts with both hands.

  Chapter 10

  And so in two days’ time Hattie stood on the deck of the Sophia, holding her hat on her head with one hand with her face turned into the wind, thrilled to feel the ship skimming along the water. The trip across the Channel from Southampton had been her first sea voyage—her first voyage of any kind, truly—and she had enjoyed it immensely. “It is so glorious, Bing—small wonder sailors never want to come home from the sea.”

  Bing, however, was pale of lip. “I believe I must go and lay abed, Hathor.”

  Hattie turned to her usually steady companion with concern. “Are you ill, Bing? Allow me to assist you.”

  But her doughty companion was embarrassed by such a show of weakness and refused all offers of aid. “There is no need, Hathor; it has been my experience that a short nap and a citrus drop will set me to rights.” In dignified retreat, she then made her way down the companionway stairs to their cabin.

  Turning her face back into the breeze, Hattie listened to the hissing of the water as it sloughed off the hull and breathed in lungfuls of sharp, tangy air as she leaned against the ship’s railing. They were headed to open sea and the water became rougher, the ship dipping in the troughs more dramatically as she closed her eyes and licked the salt spray from her lips—glorious, she thought, removing her hat so that she could feel the sun on her face—she definitely did not have her mother’s aversion to the sun. They had laid low, both on the trip to Le Havre and then at the inn, staying indoors and out of sight in the event the British or the Baron or even the mysterious Comte tracked them down, but in the end the ship was away with none the wiser, and Hattie celebrated having the sun once again on her face and the exultation of having outfoxed her pursuers. Indeed, her only regret was that there would be no further opportunities for post-midnight tête-a-têtes with Monsieur Berry, but she consoled herself with the sure knowledge that he would turn up again, if for no other reason than to plague her about the stupid strongbox, which was apparently of great interest to everyone still left alive in all this.

  “Mademoiselle.”

  She would know his voice anywhere, and in utter astonishment she jerked her chin down to behold Monsieur Berry, standing respectfully at a small distance. Rather than gape at him, she pulled herself together and warily waited, the realization that he was one step ahead of her and two steps ahead of the British making her heart sink. I hope I have not been an idiot, she thought; but I suppose if he wished to do me in, he has already had plenty of opportunity to do so. On the other hand, the fact that he was here unannounced could not be described as anything other than ominous, and it was past time she brushed the stardust from her eyes.

  He had not approached, as though aware that she needed time to process this unlooked-for development. “Please do not be angry; you will come to no harm at my hands—my promise on it.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Why do you travel to Cairo?” he countered.

  But she would win this round. “My parents are missing, if you will recall.”

  He took a tentative step closer, watching for her reaction. “You do not understand many things, mademoiselle; and you take a very foolish risk.”

  But this was the wrong thing to say to Hattie, who retorted hotly, “A greater risk than staying in Paris, where I am besieged by men who seek to beguile my supposed secrets?”

  He slowly shook his head in denial. “I cannot speak for Monsieur Tremaine, but I do not attempt to beguile you, mademoiselle.”

  This was so patently untrue that she replied with a full measure of scorn, “I beg to disagree; Robbie has never arranged to meet me in my chamber after midnight.”

  But apparently he disliked being chided every bit as much as she. “Come now; you nurse a grudge because I would not kiss you.”

  Her face flooding with color, Hattie was so shocked she could not even make a furious rejoinder. “You should go,” she managed, holding on to her temper only with an effort.

  “No, I will not.” He stepped close and put a hand on her arm, bending to look into her face. “Look—I am sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “You are no gentleman,” she bit out, wholly embarrassed, which made her all the angrier.

  “Forgive me; I was unkind.”

  Placing her palms over her eyes, she took a deep breath. You need to calm down, she thought, or you are going to cry, and that will not go well at all.

  His voice continued next to her ear, the timbre quiet and sincere. “Hattie, these are dangerous people—allow me to keep you safe.” His use of her name did get her attention—his accent resulted in an emphasis on the second syllable that she found very pleasing, despite everything. She lifted her gaze to his, and saw that he was very serious, his eyes searching hers.

  “Please don’t be angry—it is for the best, believe me.” He did not retreat behind his usual formality; for once his manner seemed genuine, and she found it more disarming than if he had made a dozen pretty speeches. “Allow me to help you.”

  Hattie fixed her gaze on his cravat, and even as she was aware that she shouldn’t trust him an inch, she couldn’t seem to help herself, and so complained in a tone that unfortunately sounded rather childish, “I would ask that you were more honest with me; I am heartily sick of mysteries.”

  “I cannot be honest with you. But I can protect you.”

  Surprised, she lifted her gaze to his and digested his comment, both parts equally alarming. “I thought you said I was not in danger.”

  “That was before I knew you were leaving for Cairo on your own.”

  “No longer—we have been commandeered,” she riposted with some heat.

  “What was I to do? You would not tell me of your plans.”

  There was a hint of accusation in his voice that told her he was rather hurt by this, and hearing it, she took pity on him. “It is nothing personal, you understand; I don’t know who to trust.”

  “You can trust me,” he assured her without hesitation.

  She arched a dark brow in skepticism. “Can I? Who is it you work for, truly?”

  There was the barest pause. “I cannot say,” he replied. “Because I will honor your request that I be more honest with you.”

  “Oh—I see.” This was surprising, and seemed to indicate a softening of his attitude. “Have you lied to me before?”

  “Yes,” he admitted in the same even tone.

  Assimilating this admission without taking offense, she confessed, “I would like to have a turn at being mysterious—but I have no secrets whatsoever.”

  “It is a burden, sometimes.” He met her eyes and she had the impression he was referring to their rendezvous in her chamber—when he infamously would not kiss her—with a hint of apology, which was very much appreciated.

  She sighed. “I wish I knew more about all of this.”

  “It is best that you do not, Mademoiselle Blackhouse.”

  Quirking her mouth, she observed with regret, “I was ‘Hattie’ for a moment, but now I am demoted to ‘Mademoiselle Blackhouse’ once again.”

  He smiled, the wind blowing his hair about his forehead—she had to clench the railing to refrain from smoothing it down for him. “C’est cela; I do not wish to offend again—you are fearsome when you are angry.”

  “Then keep that to mind, and do not cross me,” she teased.

  Still smiling, he seemed disinclined to bring their conversation to a close and leaned against the railing beside her. “You enjoy the sea.”

  “Very much—although this is my first real voyage.” Equally disinclined to move away, she cast about for something to say in return. “Where in France do you hail from, monsieur?”

  He shook his head with regret, and glanced down to her. “I cannot say.”

  She stared at him in surprise. “Because it would be a lie?”

  He gave an ironic little nod. “De vrai.”

  Knitting her
brow, she met his gaze with amused exasperation. “Heavens; making an effort at honesty is rather complicated, apparently.”

  He glanced out over the sea, the smile still playing around his mouth. “I have never made the effort before, so we shall see.”

  So mesmerized was she that she didn’t notice the approach of the ship’s captain until he cleared his throat, standing beside her. “Miss Blackhouse.” Captain Clements was a bear of a man, whose ginger hair was grizzled with gray and whose manner was that of a lifelong seaman; unrepentantly bold and brash of manner. The shrewd gaze behind the spectacles shifted for a moment between Hattie and Berry, and she found herself blushing and hoping everyone aboard had not been an interested spectator to their quarrel.

  “I trust you find the accommodations to your liking.”

  Shading her eyes, she assured him, “Very comfortable, Captain. Thank you for taking us on such short notice.”

  The captain leaned on the railing to her other side, which forced her to turn her back upon Berry; she noted the men did not speak and wondered if perhaps they were at odds. He continued, “I must confess I have followed your parents’ work with great interest and so I was very pleased to find your name on the manifest, Miss Blackhouse; do you make the trip to visit them often?”

  With a mental sigh, Hattie girded her loins for yet another discussion about the tedious princess. “No, sir; this is my first visit to Egypt.”

  “Is that so?” The captain met her eyes in surprise.

  “I did visit their exhibition at the British Museum once, in London.” She didn’t want him to think she knew nothing about her parents’ work—although it did seem that Bing was much better informed and Hattie wished for a moment she was still present, so as to feed her a few lines.

  With a faraway gaze, the captain considered the vast ocean stretching away before the ship. “Yes—it was a unmitigated triumph; why, I can recall when they electrified the world when they discovered the Temple of Amon-Re at Abu Simbel—I can think of no other find that garnered such attention.”

  Pleased that she knew at least one fact, Hattie disclaimed, “I was not yet born, I’m afraid.”

  “And this latest—the unknown daughter, lying in state in a place reserved only for pharaohs. An amazing mystery.”

  “Indeed.” And then, because Berry was listening, she managed to dredge up yet another fact so as to sound semi-informed. “A mystery which hopefully will be solved—I believe there is cautious optimism that the hieroglyphic language on the tomb can be translated, now that the key has been discovered.”

  “The Rosetta Stone,” agreed the captain with a nod. “Napoleon had his uses, I suppose.”

  Fearing that they were going to stray into yet another tedious conversation about the deposed Emperor and his place in history, Hattie hastily noted, “I should check on Bing—she is unwell, I’m afraid.”

  The captain doffed his hat with good humor. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Blackhouse; I hope you will join me for dinner this evening.”

  Hattie smiled her acceptance. “Thank you—on behalf of myself and Miss Bing.” If the captain thought she’d dine with him unchaperoned she would disabuse him of this notion. With a nod to Berry, the other man strode away with a well-pleased air, and Hattie knew a moment’s qualm that she would be simultaneously fending off flirtations from the captain whilst trying to encourage them from Berry, which would make for a trip as complicated as Berry’s resolve to be more honest with her.

  Berry sketched a bow. “Au revoir, mademoiselle.”

  “Au revoir, monsieur.” While she regretted the captain’s interruption of their conversation, she consoled herself with the fact there would be plenty of opportunities to speak with Berry—hopefully at length—during the course of the journey. With this happy thought in mind, she made her way to their cabin to find Bing asleep in the upper berth. Moving quietly so as not to wake her, Hattie settled in on the edge of her narrow berth and took a moment to review the conversation on deck. Berry had resolved to be honest with her—it seemed that their passionate argument had resulted in a shift in their relationship; an understanding of sorts. Nevertheless, she vowed that she would never again appear to be inviting his advances—she had learned a very humiliating lesson.

  Bing stirred in her sickbed. “Do you remain well, Hathor?”

  Standing to address her suffering companion, Hattie took a thin hand in her own. “I’m afraid I do. I am almost ashamed.”

  “Nonsense. Once I am over the initial discomfort I shall recover, never fear.”

  “Is there anything you need? Or do you long for me to leave you alone?” It had occurred to Hattie that a sickening chaperone was not necessarily an unadulterated evil.

  “I am only concerned that I fail in my duties to you—there are rough seamen aboard and your presence may evoke a reaction.”

  “Now it is my turn to say ‘nonsense’ to you, Bing; I had a pleasant conversation with the captain up on deck and am perfectly comfortable.” Best not to mention that the captain had the look of a man embarking on a flirtation. “He would like us to join him for dinner.”

  “Excellent,” Bing intoned weakly.

  Eyeing her doubtfully, Hattie offered, “If you’d rather, Bing, I will cry off and tell him we will accept his invitation tomorrow.”

  “I shall be recovered,” her companion insisted. “It is merely mind over matter.”

  “The spirit may be willing, but the flesh is green around the gills,” Hattie pointed out gently. “I’ll not contribute to your demise; the tiresome god-king’s daughter has already inspired an alarming mortality rate.”

  From her prone position, Bing sighed, one hand resting on her forehead. “Even if we do not discover your parents’ fate, we shall see their affairs settled—there is that.”

  “Yes. And speaking of which, I will now astonish you and inform you that Monsieur Berry is aboard.”

  “Is he?” Bing contemplated the cabin’s ceiling for a moment. “That is indeed astonishing.”

  “Not a coincidence, I imagine. Keep your pistol about you, if you please.”

  But Bing drew a breath, and turned her head toward Hattie. “I can’t imagine he means to do you harm, Hathor.”

  “So he says; but we would do well to be very wary, Bing; at least until we understand what is afoot.” Mainly, Hattie was trying to remind herself of this, as she was half inclined to return to the deck forthwith and search him out again.

  “I will be wary, Hathor, but I must admit that it will be useful to have a gentleman at hand.”

  Agreed, thought Hattie, who was nothing if not honest.

  Chapter 11

  Hattie and Bing made their appearance at the captain’s table as planned, Bing having righted herself by sheer force of will.

  “You must give me a signal at dinner if you feel too unwell to continue,” Hattie instructed in a low voice as they approached the captain’s quarters in the stern. “I will make an excuse.”

  “That is kind of you, Hathor, but will not be necessary,” Bing replied with a show of vigor as she wrapped her black Norwich shawl more tightly around her angular shoulders. “I daresay I am much improved.”

  Dubious, Hattie put hand firmly under Bing’s elbow. “Use the word ‘prodigious’ and I will know it is time to depart.”

  “Very well,” said Bing, testing it out. “I hope the captain does not serve sausage, for fear I will make a prodigiously quick exit.”

  The captain’s quarters were relatively spacious compared to the other cabins, and featured a row of small-paned windows across the stern. Hattie was envious; she couldn’t be comfortable enclosed in a small, windowless space, which is why she was determined to find whatever excuse she could to avoid spending time in her cabin. Featured at the cabin’s center was a dining table complete with a candelabrum that was secured to the table by pegs; a servant was in the process of lighting the candles and nodded to them as they entered. Dressed in a formal suit of clothes, the captain gr
eeted both ladies and gallantly complimented Hattie on her good looks. “You must stay hidden away from the crew or you will incite a riot—it is not often the Sophia carries such fetching cargo.” He bent to bestow a lingering kiss on her hand.

  “Is the ship named after your wife, perhaps?” Hattie asked in an innocent tone, teasing him.

  Laughing in appreciation, he steered her to the table. “Minx. The Sophia’s the only wife I have. At present,” he amended gallantly.

  Hattie accepted the proffered glass of Madeira from the servant. “And like to be the only one; a sea captain is a poor candidate for a husband, one would think.”

  “Never say so,” he disclaimed as he saw Bing seated. “And I have half a mind to marry post-haste, for no other reason than to prove you wrong.”

  She laughed, enjoying herself as they began their repast. “I shouldn’t criticize; I would not blame you for sailing whenever the opportunity arises, Captain—I enjoy it very much. My poor Bing, on the other hand, finds the sea disagreeable.”

  “Not the sea,” Bing corrected her with a faint smile. “Only its movement.”

  “I am sorry for it,” the captain said to her with ready sympathy. “My cook concocts an excellent remedy—I shall call for it.” He turned and gave a brief instruction to the servant.

  Sensing that Bing was embarrassed by the fuss, Hattie reclaimed his attention. “How long have you captained the Sophia, sir?”

  “Not so very long, actually; after the Armistice I traded in my seventy-four for a frigate; I find that the route to Cairo is particularly lucrative.”

  Hattie nodded, well aware that England was mad about all things Egyptian ever since the end of the last century, when Napoleon had first explored the area. Indeed, it was one of the reasons her parents could afford their expensive passion—there was an avid interest and therefore an unending supply of wealthy backers willing to fund the Blackhouse efforts.