Daughter of the God-King

by Anne Cleeland

  “Unfair,” he protested, without giving her a straight answer. “As for now, we need to speak to Mademoiselle Bing, to obtain the measurements.”

  “Are you going to the tomb tonight?” She was torn because she wanted to accompany him but she was very much afraid she would have to stop to be sick along the way.

  “No more vodka for you,” he teased, again without answering the question, which gave her leave to believe he was indeed planning such a visit.

  “Will you at least tell me if you find the secret chamber?”

  He leaned in to whisper near her ear, his breath warm against her skin and evoking delightful memories. “Perhaps.”

  “You are beyond exasperating, husband.” She fingered one of his buttons, deeply affected by his masculine nearness and longing to be abed again.

  He laughed again—gratifying, how she had never heard him laugh before today but now he could not seem to stop. “And you are adorable—particularly when you are explaining to the priest that you would rather be my mistress.”

  “I do prefer marriage, thus far.” She dimpled up at him. “And don’t call him a priest—he’s likely to be offended.”

  “My mistake—although I think there is little I can do to redeem myself.”

  She could only agree. “I can’t imagine a bridegroom has ever held him at gunpoint.”

  “No—only angry papas, perhaps.”

  She laughed with him, even though the effort cost her. Although she was unwell, she was determined to stay with him until they were forced to part. Moments like these were precious; she was soon to be packed off to some unknown place—somewhere where there were priests. I am unafraid, she thought; I would follow him anywhere, and after all that I have weathered these past few days, I am ready to rebuild somewhere peaceful—surely there are no more shocks to be sustained.

  “Shall we speak with Mademoiselle Bing?”

  “Yes,” she agreed easily, determined not to cling and complain as he led her toward her companion.

  Chapter 38

  The following day Hattie and Bing made their visit to the foreigner’s cemetery, a bleak enclosure located in the area behind the government compound on the east bank. The cemetery was no larger than the one at the church in Cornwall, only it was many levels more forlorn—consisting of grave sites that were nothing more than gravel and sand; as there were undoubtedly few visitors, there was little point to more than a cursory maintenance. Fortunately, due to its proximity to the Nile, there were several spreading willow trees that provided a measure of welcome shade and made the entire aspect a little less desolate.

  As had been arranged, the two women met Drummond from the British consulate at the gate, and Hattie looked for his associate, hoping to verify the scar across his hand for Dimitry. The other man was not in evidence, however, as Drummond offered his sincere apologies for the consul’s failure to be made aware of the burial. “We believe their deaths were an accident, and those who may have been involved were too frightened or too remorseful to come forward.”

  Frightened, concluded Hattie—the porter at the worker’s village was too frightened to tell her where they were until she did a little frightening of her own. Aloud, she assured him, “It makes little difference, Mr. Drummond—at least the mystery is solved.” And she privately held out cautious hope that no one would ever discover their misdeeds or their infamous bargain to take in an inconvenient child from the wrong side of the blanket. That she was someone lesser than she thought she was still stung, and it was fortunate that Dimitry had provided her with another role altogether to ease the shame of it.

  Footsteps could be heard on the gravel path and the three looked to see another man approaching. With no little surprise, Hattie observed Baron du Pays, the French vice-consul whom she had last seen in her drawing room in Paris. Not a fortuitous turn of events, she decided—that he should reappear at this juncture and in this place. She dipped a graceful curtsey to hide her concern.

  “Mademoiselle Blackhouse.” He greeted her, the pale eyes assessing her behind a cool facade. “We meet again—much to my delight.” He did not relinquish her hand and continued, “I deeply regretted the circumstances which required your immediate departure from Paris.”

  “It was a sudden decision,” she agreed. “You are acquainted with Mr. Drummond?”

  “Of course—we were reacquainted last night,” the Baron said with a show of affability, “—and shared the latest news from the congress over an excellent bottle of port.”

  “What is the latest news?” asked Bing with keen interest. “We have not been able to keep up.”

  The Frenchman shook his head in consternation. “Prussia seeks Saxony; Austria insists on Italian territory and Tallyrand—who was the Emperor’s man—now represents the new order and happily pits each participant against the other like the puppet-master he is. Almost, one cannot blame him—the situation is ripe for exploitation.”

  “If they are not careful, the former emperor will be emboldened,” warned Drummond as he nodded in agreement. “There is far too much uncertainty.”

  Bing displayed mild alarm at the tenor of the conversation. “Surely no one believes Napoleon will escape his captivity? Why, I understand both French and English ships guard the harbor.”

  “Never underestimate the audacity of the man,” cautioned Drummond with a grave expression. “It cannot be an easy thing to be demoted from Emperor of Europe to Emperor of Elba.”

  Her color high, Hattie changed the subject and made a gesture toward the cemetery, hoping to hint that the others should take their leave. “We have discovered my parents’ graves, Monsieur le Baron, and I have come to pay my final respects.”

  To her chagrin, the Frenchman only used this announcement as an excuse to take her hand again. “I have heard the sad news; my sincerest condolences, Mademoiselle Blackhouse—a deplorable attack. I hope you will allow me to advise you in this difficult time?”

  “Thank you.” She did not mention she was just as likely to take advice from the Elban prisoner himself.

  The Baron continued, “And recall we had made plans to tour the sights in Paris which—regrettably—had to be canceled. Now that your sad charge is completed, perhaps I may be allowed to raise your spirits by taking a tour of Thebes. To this end, you and Mademoiselle Bing”—here he bowed toward Bing—“may be more comfortable at my consulate’s guest quarters. I can send servants to transfer your belonging this very afternoon, if that is agreeable.”

  “Mr. Tremaine,” murmured Bing behind Hattie.

  Hattie demurred prettily, bringing her dimples to the fore. “I will discuss this idea with Mr. Tremaine, but I must warn that it is unlikely he would agree to such a plan—he has stood as my escort and advisor on the journey and I imagine he would like to keep me close to hand. I do thank you for the invitation, however.”

  Taking the refusal in good part, the Frenchman bent his head in acquiescence but persisted, “In any event, please assure me you will dine with me this evening—along with Monsieur Tremaine, if he will join us; I assure you my chef does not disappoint.”

  “With pleasure,” Hattie agreed, feeling she had no other polite option. To rid herself of him, she decided stronger tactics were needed. “If you gentlemen do not mind, I feel I should reflect and pray by my parents’ graves for a time.”

  Bowing, the two men took their leave but invited the women to tea at the British consulate after their visit. After making an equivocal response, Hattie reached to push open the wrought iron gate with some impatience. “God in heaven, Bing—he makes my skin crawl. Think of a plausible excuse to forgo dinner, if you please.”

  “Perhaps you should make him aware that your feelings are otherwise engaged,” Bing suggested as they entered the cemetery.

  “I don’t think that it would much matter to him.” And there was something else, she thought with a small frown; I wasn’t paying attention and he said something important—now, what was it?

  She paused bef
ore they headed toward the far corner of the cemetery and turned to Bing. “You will not be insulted if I send you away, Bing; I’m afraid there may be equal parts praying and cursing and I’d rather not have a witness.”

  “Small blame to you,” was her companion’s only brisk reply. “I shall take a tour of the Temple of Karnak while I have the chance.” Bing indicated the nearest set of ruins, which, to Hattie, looked very much like any other set of tedious ruins. To each his own, she thought as she made her way over to the two unmarked mounds, the cemetery quiet and the occasional stirring of the willow branches in the breeze the only movement. Dry-eyed, she contemplated the raw, graveled graves for a moment, unable to muster up much grief. You have gotten off lightly, the both of you, she thought with some bitterness. No one will know of your perfidy, and as for me—I will have to bear this terrible burden you have placed upon me, this secret that makes me ashamed to show my face and ashamed for the honorable man I married—

  “Miss Blackhouse.”

  Hattie looked up in surprise at hearing the whispered voice, and beheld Drummond’s associate, standing against the willow tree at a small distance, his hat in his hand—she had not heard him approach but this was not surprising, as he was some sort of hackney driver cum spy. Before she could fashion a response he continued in a low tone, “I must apologize for this intrusion but I must take the opportunity—I have been commissioned by a certain gentleman to speak to you.”

  Wondering for a startled moment if he referred to Dimitry, she decided this seemed unlikely. “Which gentleman is that, sir?”

  “The eighth of August.”

  Hattie stared at him. The date was her birthday. The gooseflesh rose on her arms and the nape of her neck, and she bowed her head to contemplate the graves, her mind racing—this must be the reason Dimitry didn’t trust the British consul; apparently it was infested with Napoleon’s supporters.

  The man’s voice continued, “The gentleman sends his sincere desire that you depart from this area with all speed and return to your home in England—it is not safe here. I have been commissioned to make immediate arrangements.”

  “I see.” It was an echo of the comte’s warning—only at that time she hadn’t realized her true heritage; hadn’t realized that she was regarded as some sort of perverse princess by those who sought to destroy England even as they urged her to return there, to a corner in Cornwall that was well away from the anticipated destruction. Furious with her parents—all of them—Hattie could hear her heartbeat in her ears and had to caution herself to keep her composure, not to let this man know that she would not fall in with their despicable scheme. Instead, she should find out what she could and tell Dimitry, although he almost certainly already knew who this man was; it must be the reason he had shown such an interest in him.

  The man bowed. “That is all. I am sorry to have disturbed you at this difficult time.”

  “Wait.” Hattie turned to him, trying to think of something she could ask that would assist Dimitry.

  Shaking his head with regret, the associate cautioned, “I can answer no questions.”

  This seemed evident; she was not going to discover anything of interest because this man was probably as maddening as Dimitry when it came to withholding information. In fact, he and Dimitry were probably sworn enemies, which meant she had one more worry to add to all the others as she was forced to leave the arena—

  Suddenly, Hattie was struck with the realization that—all in all—she held the whip hand in this situation and there was no reason she shouldn’t put her miserable heritage to good use. Lifting her chin, she commanded, “I will return a message to the gentleman.”

  Surprised, the man considered this for a moment as he met her gaze. “Say it, then.”

  Returning her gaze to the graves she continued in a level tone. “I travel with a man—Monsieur Daniel Berry. I have married him in secret.”

  She could sense his surprise, although she did not look at him. “You have married the Count Leczinska?”

  The Count? Dimitry was a Count? Was there no end to the irony? In her best imitation of a countess, Hattie continued smoothly, “Yes—Dimitry; I wasn’t certain you were aware of his true name. As I said, he is now my husband.” If nothing else, she could keep him safe; based on the strange respect they all afforded her it was unlikely they’d murder her husband. And besides, she thought a bit grimly; it was past time to call in a favor from at least one of her miserable parents.

  But the associate was plainly confused. “Surely you do not request that he be allowed to leave with you? The work he does for the gentleman cannot be duplicated by any other.” His tone was respectful but held an underlying thread of scorn, the scorn that warriors reserve for fearful women.

  Hattie stood very still for a moment, then by sheer force of will overcame the paralysis that had settled within her breast. With some steel she said quietly, “I only ask that the message be relayed; I do not ask for your opinion.”

  “Your pardon; I shall do so.” He hesitated for a moment, then pointed out, “The desire is that you return to the English countryside—it would be best to avoid Poland at this time.”

  “I shall consider your advice,” she replied through stiff lips. “You may go.”

  Hattie stood silently for some time, staring at her erstwhile parents’ graves without truly seeing them. Why is it, she thought, that just when I am coming to grips with the latest crisis, another one presents itself? Although to be honest, she couldn’t be overly surprised; Dimitry had been willing to marry her, after all, and in the back of her mind she had wondered—and more than once. He pretended to be French, and hid his true nationality. He had searched the British consul’s office, and inveigled a safe passage document from them—only the one, as though he wished to assure his own escape, should it be necessary. He worked closely with her parents who were themselves working for the enemy, and knew of the missing disk and the senet board when everyone else thought it was a strongbox. And then, most damningly, he had summoned the hackney driver that first night in Paris—the hackney driver who was a double agent for Napoleon, posing as an Englishman. Too many things didn’t add up, and she had been foolish to turn a blind eye. Small matter to him that she was illegitimate—she was the daughter of the emperor, god-like to his followers. And Poland had been Napoleon’s ally in the war. With some bitterness she acknowledged that she had been a bit dazzled and—truth to tell—starved for affection in pretending that all of this was not as ominous as it actually was. Love was truly blind—or at least it was overly optimistic and now she had yet another competing allegiance to sort out, because she loved Dimitry, and he was her husband.

  After taking a steadying breath, she left the graves without a backward glance and went to find Bing.

  Chapter 39

  Hattie walked out the gate and toward the ruins where Bing was seated, watching for her. The movement helped—with each step Hattie felt less frozen with horror and more inclined to turn over various options in her mind. When she arrived to stand before her companion, she had decided on what she hoped was the best course. “If you don’t mind, Bing, I would like to visit the Coptic chapel across the river; I would like to arrange for prayers to be said.”

  “Very well, Hathor.” If Bing thought it strange that Hattie sought prayers from a foreign church, she made no comment. Perhaps she believes I am hedging my bets, she thought—I only wish I could.

  As her companion rose to her feet, Hattie added in a low tone, “I am concerned that we may be followed. Keep a sharp eye out, if you please.”

  Bing paused for only a moment, then took Hattie’s arm as they headed to the river, giving her charge a quick, assessing look. “For whom do we watch?”

  “Anyone who in turn appears to be watching us—I am afraid I do not know more.” They walked in a leisurely fashion to the quay and boarded a felucca while Hattie remained silent, her mind busy, thinking. She finally emerged from her reverie to remark, “It is so difficult, Bin
g, when you cannot go back, nor around, and your only choice is straight forward.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” agreed her companion with a nod. “One is called upon to marshal one’s courage, whether one wishes to or not.”

  Hattie watched the waterman maneuver their vessel across the Nile and thought, I am heartily tired of being buffeted by shocking news, and I wish so much weren’t at stake. But I do trust Dimitry—against all reason, even if he serves the enemy. Besides, she thought fiercely, if he wishes to do me harm, I may as well let him—life would hardly be worth living. “On the way to the chapel we will make a stop so that I may leave a message for—for Monsieur Berry.”

  And so it came to pass that Hattie stood before the innkeeper at the Osiris Inn, who gazed at her from behind his desk with no sign of recognition. “Hallo again; I must speak to—to Dimitry, and as soon as possible. I am not certain where he is or how to send for him.” Her eyes strayed for a moment to the icon on the wall. “I shall return in an hour.”

  If Bing thought the entire situation strange, she made no comment and asked no questions, instead accompanying Hattie to the chapel in supportive silence. That is the difference between Bing and me, thought Hattie, hiding a smile; I’d be demanding answers and throwing things. Forced to possess her soul in patience, Hattie spent the greater part of an hour sitting in the Coptic chapel beside Bing, contemplating the gilded altarpiece. “Do you think we were followed, Bing?”

  “I do not believe so, Hathor—although many of the children look alike.”

  “No,” said Hattie. “It would have been a man. Or more than one.”

  “Who is Dimitry?” asked Bing deferentially.

  “Monsieur Berry is Dimitry,” Hattie replied absently. “Has it been an hour?”

  But before her companion could consult her watch, Dimitry himself slid into the pew beside Hattie. With a glance that did not conceal his concern, he assessed her quickly and she felt a pang that she had alarmed him, then caught herself—he deserved every moment of anxiety visited upon him, the wretched, wretched Pole.