She drew back to gaze at him in scornful amazement, her heart still beating in her ears. “You speak nonsense—utter nonsense.”
“It does not matter, Hattie.” He was in agony—she could tell—but she couldn’t find any comfort for him, having none.
“Of course it matters,” she bit out. She then ruined the effect by resting her forehead against his chest and closing her eyes, wishing she could crawl inside him.
She was vaguely aware that Bing was standing in the archway, taking in the strange tableau without comment. “I will take her home,” Berry said in a tone that brooked no argument.
But Bing did not move. “Hathor?” she asked quietly.
“Please go, Bing.” Breathing in Berry’s scent, she didn’t move while he held her tightly. She was a bastard—and not just any bastard, but the bastard of her country’s greatest enemy. And the people everyone assumed were her parents were base traitors; in truth, she was hard-pressed not to howl in despair.
Hattie wasn’t certain how long they stood thus, but eventually her practical nature reasserted itself and with an effort, she stood upright. He immediately tucked her under his arm and led her across the way to a café, not speaking. Clinging to his side, she was content to allow him to navigate across the dusty road and once at the counter, he ordered a brandy and held the glass to her mouth until she drank a healthy swallow, then downed the remainder himself. Gasping, she felt the burning sensation in her midsection and the world came into focus again.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
It was not easy—she was ashamed and had been avoiding his eyes. But she gazed at him for several long moments, and then nodded, to show him she was recovered.
“There’s my girl,” he said quietly.
“I would like to speak to the old man,” she replied.
Chapter 32
“Who is he?” Berry asked as they returned to the visitor’s building, his hand firmly under her elbow.
“He worked here, and remembered I was here as a baby. He—he remembered my nursemaid. Apparently, I resemble her.”
He asked nothing further but stood nearby as she approached the old man again to address him in as level a voice as she could manage. “I am so pleased that you told me of my visit when I was a child. I would like to speak with Halima, if I may—only think how surprised she will be, to meet her charge from so many years ago.”
But the man was regretful and shook his head. “Halima followed her new husband to France—we have not heard from her in many years.”
Hattie regarded him for a moment, her heartbeat returning to normal. “Do you have an address, perhaps? Or the town’s name?”
He shook his head and spread his arthritic hands in regret. “I am sorry.”
As they left, Berry assured her, “If she yet lives I will find her; an Egyptian woman living in France—it will not be a hardship.”
But Hattie had been thinking it through, her brow knit. “I don’t know—if she has a family and has made a new life, it may not be for the best.” She took a long breath, feeling the knot of sick misery lessen a little. “It was just a thought.”
He tucked her hand into his arm and they stood together for a few moments in silence. “What would you like to do? Return to the barge? Sit and rest?”
Lifting her face, she caught view of the enormous ruins of the Hypostyle Hall. “I would like to walk for a while, I think.”
And so she walked with him among the giant columns that bore testament to a once mighty civilization, standing timeless and unchanging amidst the uncertainties of the present. I was never very interested in any of this, she thought. But I should have been—it is my heritage, or at least in part. There is something very comforting in it; the concerns of the temporary inhabitants seem of little importance against the backdrop of millennia—of the countless generations who have lived and breathed and borne life’s heavy blows.
“At least it all makes sense, now.” They had not spoken in some time.
He drew a long breath. “I had hoped to spare you this.”
Absently, she ran a palm along the raised relief on an ancient column. “No, it is for the best—don’t you see? Only think of how wracked you have been, worried that I would speak to someone and find out—it would have eaten at you.” She slanted him a sidelong glance. “There should be no secrets between us, my-friend-who-is-not-named-Daniel.”
Placing his hand over hers on the column, he did not take the opportunity to divulge his secrets to her, and she did not press him. There was now no doubt in her mind that his allegiances—whatever they were—came second to his allegiance to her. “Who knows of this?” she asked, wishing no one did.
“Very few—it was kept very quiet so that his wife would not learn of it; there had been problems caused by other infidelities, and recall that Josephine could not conceive.”
Hattie slowly shook her head. “Such goings on—I thought he was devoted to the empress.”
His mouth curved into a small smile. “You are naïve, perhaps.”
“Another thirsty horse,” she observed in a dry tone, amazed she could see the humor in it.
“It is a common failing—particularly among men of power; often it presents a weakness to be exploited by their enemies.”
Which is why women like Eugenie are so useful, Hattie concluded. I suppose if they are beautiful and there for the taking, there is little hesitation. Immediately, she shied away from the thought—she didn’t like to think that Halima was like Eugenie.
Berry took her arm again as they walked through the southern colonnade, the shadows stretching across the pathways before them and the gravel quietly crunching beneath their feet. “I will contact Captain Clements; he will marry us and see that you are safely delivered to my sister.”
There was an edge of determination to his tone that she sincerely appreciated. With a soft smile, she looked up to him and was relieved that she retained her composure; that her mouth did not tremble. “You must see that I cannot marry.”
“I see no such thing.” His voice was like steel.
Lowering her gaze, she squeezed his arm, gently. “I imagine you have prospects, and a fond family. I will not offer them false coin.”
“You are a Blackhouse, Hattie. Nothing less.”
Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “After their treachery is revealed, I imagine that will be of little comfort.”
He was silent a moment and she took her courage in both hands and lifted her face to his. “We can be together, nevertheless.”
He did not change his pace or the tempo of his words but she was aware he was very unhappy with her. “You will never say such a thing again. Do you understand?”
“Be reasonable,” she gently pointed out. “I cannot marry anyone, even if the secret is kept. It would be—it would be dishonorable. And it is you that I love. I would not change anything—anything at all—if it meant I would not have met you.”
“You will speak no more nonsense,” was all he said, and she allowed the subject to drop. It was only a matter of time—he was a thirsty horse, himself.
She turned the subject to something more productive than the dashing of all her dreams. “I examined the disk, and I have an idea—if you can find me a stick I can show you.”
They sat on a stone bench and she bent down to draw in the dirt. “I think the disk does indeed contain a clue—we were distracted by the cipher on the one side, but I think the true meaning is in the figure of Hathor.” She duplicated the stick-like figure of the engraving.
“Her arms and legs,” he agreed. “I see.”
She continued to scratch in the dirt. “A compass, perhaps? And there are three stars on her crown; it is the only adornment in the engraving so it must mean something.”
“Yes. Do you recall this motif anywhere in the chamber?”
“I wasn’t paying much attention,” she confessed. “But Mr. Hafez was referencing the ceiling as the Book of Heavens, so perhaps there are stars on
the ceiling.”
“Very good—you should be in my business,” he said with approval.
She dropped the stick and sat back with a shake of her head. “No thank you—there are too many hazards for my taste, and no one says what they mean.”
“It brought me to you,” he pointed out. Taking her hands in his, he looked into her face; the brown eyes—usually so shuttered—alight with tenderness. “I knew you belonged to me the moment I saw you.”
But she could only chuckle. “That is an out-and-out falsehood, my friend; you were horrified that you were attracted to me.”
“No—you mistake. I was boulversé, not horrified. I am not one to allow my desires to lead me, and it took me some time to be reconciled.”
She lifted his hand to kiss it. “I was bouleversé, myself.”
“So I understood.”
She laughed, and felt much better. He had tested her, that first night, by calling her the god-king’s daughter, to see if she knew—but how could she? She had been sequestered in the wilds of Cornwall and cut off from civilization—apparently by design. There is that, she acknowledged—I inspired my real father to place me with famous parents, ones that he believed would grant me an exceptional life—so at least the attempt was made. I imagine the largesse I have received over the years came from a different source altogether—it is such a shame that he is a bloodthirsty tyrant, and if I ever met him I would feel obligated to shoot him through the heart. “We should probably return,” she noted, relieved that her sense of perspective continued intact. “I have kept you from your listening duties.”
“I have already heard enough,” he admitted.
She eyed him as they hailed a transportation cart but he offered nothing more. “If it is possible,” he suggested as he handed her in, “see to it that Mademoiselle Bing does not accompany Monsieur Hafez in his travels tomorrow.”
This seemed significant, and Hattie paused in alarm. “Is she in danger?”
“No—but I imagine he will seek to disappear and it will aid him in this endeavor if he is unattached.”
“It is he who is in danger,” Hattie concluded, remembering the deaths of his two allies, and his uneasiness this day, after the visit from the loathsome Monsieur Chauvelin.
“I should not be surprised,” was the only answer she was given, which was answer enough.
Back on board the Priapus, Hattie separated from Berry so it would not be as obvious that they had been alone together, and made her way to the cabin. The French visitors were not in evidence, and neither was Robbie. It was rather quiet, as the other passengers were presumably preparing for dinner.
Bing was sitting on her berth, ramrod straight and hiding her agitation with only moderate success. Hattie took the woman’s hands in hers and said immediately, “I am so sorry, Bing. What must you think of me?”
Bing’s sharp eyes searched her face. “Is he married, Hathor?”
“No. He is an honorable man.” Hattie struggled with an explanation for her behavior, but nothing came readily.
“Is it your parents?”
Hattie gave up the attempt, and said only, “I am afraid I cannot speak of it, Bing.”
Bing nodded. “We shall say no more, then. If I am needed to perform a service, Hathor, you have only to ask.”
“You are beyond marvelous, Bing.” Hattie’s voice quavered with emotion; truly, it had been a tumultuous, miserable day.
Her companion responded to this accolade by indicating Hattie should sit while she took up a brush. “Your hair should be redone before dinner, I believe.”
It was exactly what was needed; Bing rhythmically drew the hairbrush through Hattie’s long, black locks while she closed her eyes and thought of nothing at all. Eventually, she opened her eyes and noted, “Monsieur Berry has the impression that Mr. Smithson is smitten.”
The brush paused. “Does he indeed?”
“Perhaps you would condescend to spend some time with the poor man,” Hattie teased. “Unless you believe Mr. Hafez would come to cuffs with him.”
“I am not here to entertain gentlemen,” Bing said with some severity, and resumed her task.
“I don’t know, Bing—best strike whilst the iron is hot.” Inspired, she added, “I may not be a charge upon you for much longer.”
“I must say I am not surprised, Hathor.” Bing was pleased; Hattie could hear it in her voice. Hattie hoped that Berry lived far enough away so that the truth of her position as a mistress and not a wife would never be revealed. Although she imagined Bing would not be shocked—she seemed impervious to shock. Which reminds me, thought Hattie; I must speak to Eugenie.
By the time the dinner bell rang, Hattie had recovered enough to present her normal face to her fellow diners although she could feel Berry’s concerned scrutiny. How wonderful it is to be loved, she thought—it requires one to be brave for the sake of the other. Subtle as a serpent, Hattie announced her intent to visit the Necropolis on the west bank the following morning, then noted to Smithson that she had heard there was an impressive Coptic chapel located quite near the ruins, if he would like to join in the excursion. Having obtained the vicar’s assent to this plan, she felt she’d done a good night’s work—if Hafez wished to extract himself from their group he would have no impediment.
After the meal, the men reviewed a map of the area while Hattie took the opportunity to invite Eugenie to take a stroll on deck. “I must ask a favor from you, if you do not mind.”
“What is it you wish?” Eugenie’s rosy mouth was sulking as they paused at the railing to look out over the darkened Nile. “I have been warned by someone that I am not to tease you.”
Hattie said with all sincerity, “I do not mind when you tease me, Eugenie—truly. But I am in need of some advice.”
Eugenie eyed her with suspicion. “What sort of advice?”
Now that the moment was here, Hattie found it more difficult than she had anticipated. “Well—I suppose you could say—advice about men.”
With some amusement, the other sought clarification. “Men, or what men do in bed?”
“What men do in bed,” Hattie admitted, her cheeks reddened.
“Bien sûr. After all, you need no advice about men.” A hint of resentment could be discerned in the other’s tone.
Hattie confessed, “I have no one to ask—about what is pleasing, I suppose.”
The other woman chuckled, and replied with some cynicism, “One need only be female and be present to be pleasing.”
Thinking that this was not going well, Hattie nodded and decided not to press the issue, turning to view the river instead.
Watching her, Eugenie relented. “Do you know how it all comes about, at least?”
“Yes,” said Hattie. “That is, I believe so,” she qualified.
And so Eugenie patiently explained the finer points of lovemaking while Hattie listened, equal parts shocked and fascinated. At one point she interrupted, “But, how can one make such an overture—wouldn’t he find it very strange?”
“There will be no protests made, believe me. And you must talk—praise, inquire, praise even more—although some men do not wish to talk,” she amended. “They are the least pleasing.”
“It all seems rather awkward,” Hattie admitted, grateful for the breeze on her cheeks.
But the other disagreed, shaking her curls. “When your heart is involved, it is simple—there is no awkward.” With a raised shoulder, she added, “Now go away, if you please. You make me feel très ancien.”
Chapter 33
The next morning dawned clear and hot as Hattie, Robbie, Bing, and Smithson prepared to cross the Nile so as to explore the Necropolis of ancient Thebes. Hafez was not in evidence and despite keeping a sharp eye, Hattie had yet to catch a glimpse of Berry this morning. In truth, she was rather surprised that Robbie had volunteered to come along; he was not one to be interested in ruins and she imagined that he would have his own mysterious errands to complete elsewhere—he also seemed ra
ther preoccupied, now that the French visitors had made their appearance.
“The Ramesseum, or the Temple of Medinet?” asked Bing, referencing her guidebook as they strolled to the river bank. “Where should we like to start once we are across?”
“I must defer—I am afraid one ruin is very like another to me,” Smithson admitted with a small smile.
“The Ramesseum,” Robbie decided. “I mentioned to some friends we may make a tour this morning.”
“You have acquaintances among the locals?” Hattie regarded him with an amused arch to her brow, well aware that this was a fish tale—she could read him like a book. Hopefully, whatever scheme he was hatching didn’t involve yet another suitor for Bing—it was already hard enough to keep track.
“Friends who are with the British consul’s office,” he explained in a casual manner. “I met them when I was last here.”
“With your bride,” added Hattie, ruthlessly needling him.
Robbie met her gaze, a playful light in his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I did meet my bride at the British consul’s office.”
“Such high romance,” she remarked, and quirked her mouth.
“Indeed.” He then grinned in a way not at all in keeping with a bereft bridegroom.
Shaking her head in amused disapproval, Hattie resolved to get the full story from him before the outing was over—she had been distracted by other matters, otherwise she would have done so before now. How extraordinary that Robbie’s strange betrothal had slipped so much in significance, the other matters being much more compelling—to the good and otherwise.
“Are you betrothed, Mr. Tremaine? My congratulations.” The vicar offered his hand as they waited for the ferry.
Taking it, Robbie explained with a rueful smile, “I’m afraid the engagement was short-lived.” There was a pause, and Hattie had to bite her lip.
“Hard luck,” said the other. “Better luck next time.” Smithson’s gaze rested for the briefest moment on Hattie.
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