Emily was immediately contrite and made apologetic noises.
Julia ignored her and continued. “You have no idea what it is like to always feel uncertain, to always be afraid that you don’t know the right thing to do or the right thing to wear. It’s dreadful and humiliating.”
“Surely you do not still feel that way.”
Julia picked up the blouse and resumed her sewing. “I am not sure one ever stops feeling that uncertainty.”
And that, thought Emily, is why you are always so careful to be proper. But she did not speak her thought aloud. Instead she turned and looked out over the rooftops going down toward the river. People had come out to sit on some of them, and, on a few, women had made a small cooking fire to prepare the evening meal. The smoke drifted past, the smell mingled with the odor of roasting coffee beans. A pleasant smell, but foreign. Nothing like London. If I found myself living here, I would feel that same uncertainty. I would always wonder if I was doing the right thing.
“I do not know precisely what my difficulty is with Mélisande,” Emily said. “She wants to know how to behave, but it is difficult to know what to tell her. She dreams of balls, but is she ever likely to attend one, even if she goes to France? We could teach her how to curtsy when presented at court, but I doubt that is likely to occur. Should we be telling her how to run a household of a hundred servants? Or how to manage with a single maid of all work?”
Julia laughed. “And does either of us know how to do that?”
“No,” said Emily, shaking her head ruefully. “But you know what I mean.”
“Yes, but perhaps the person to ask is Lucien. He knows the family better than we do.” Julia snuck a quick glance at her friend.
Emily was frowning. “It is difficult to ask him anything when he never comes near us.” And that was, she knew, the reason for her unsettled mood. She stood up and walked over to the other side, where she could see the hills rising to mountains to the north. She stared at the scene for a few minutes while she considered her feelings. She didn’t want to think about Lucien, so she concentrated on Mélisande. Then she turned back to Julia. “There is something about Mélisande that I do not like. I think it is that she does not like us. She simply wants to drain us of information that will be useful for her.”
“You may be right. She is not a particularly likeable child. Still, I cannot help but feel sorry for her. She has no parents, no family to look out for her and her future. If she is selfish, she has cause. She must fend for herself.” Julia smiled sadly. “That could easily have been my fate.”
Emily shook her head. “No, it could not. You have a kind and generous heart. She—I do not think she cares two pins for anyone else.”
Ten
Marshes edged the east bank of the river, giving way to the inevitable palm trees and, beyond that, a grassy plain, dotted with some sort of yellow daisy, and groves of almond and mulberry trees that were in full bloom. Once the party heading for Kouyunjik had ridden away from the river and the cries of the boatmen, the occasional chirpings and buzzings of insects were the only sounds around them. The path was wide enough for them to ride two or three abreast. Conversation would have been easy, but the novelty of the scenery kept them silent.
Lucien was their guide today, but Irmak insisted on riding in front, with two of his men bringing up the rear, even though the scene seemed utterly peaceful. Emily was unable to decide if he was extremely conscientious or if the consequences would be so dire were anything to happen to Lord Penworth. He and his men wore those brimless red flowerpot hats. They seemed rather impractical. Her father, David, and Lucien all wore low-crowned tan hats with broad brims, which seemed to offer much better protection against the sun. She, her mother, and Julia wore similar hats, though in more attractive colors, and with colorful ribbons for decoration.
Lucien seemed to be clothed in no color at all. Now that they had left the grassy plain behind and were nearing the hill that he said was Kouyunjik, the hill that had once been Nineveh, he seemed to blend right into the landscape. His hat, his jacket, his trousers, even his horse were all a pale yellowish tan almost indistinguishable from the sands of the desert around them. It was so striking Emily felt obliged to comment on it. And she could comment on it, since today he was accompanying her instead of her mother.
He grinned at her. Sometimes she thought he considered everything deserving of a grin.
“I do not doubt it. I am sure that both my horse and I have been covered with sand and dust so many times that we have decided it is best to surrender. And there are times when it is as well to be able to be inconspicuous.” He waved a hand at her. “You too are beginning to fade from sight.”
She looked down to discover that her lovely green habit was indeed turning dun-colored. Brushing at it succeeded only in raising a small cloud of dust which promptly settled on her once more, but not before making her sneeze.
When she recovered, she said, “Should anyone planning a trip here ask me for advice, I will be sure to recommend a wardrobe in tawny shades.”
Lucien continued to look amused. That look was as much a part of him as the clothes that made him fade into the background. Not that he was always dressed in sand-colored garments, but—now that she thought about it—he was almost always dressed in a way that made him inconspicuous. An amused observer of the scene, rather than a participant. A member of the audience, not an actor on the stage.
She suspected that she had just noticed something important about Lucien. Something important, and a bit disturbing. Why would he choose to do that? There was more to him than she had realized.
They rode along in silence. It was a companionable silence, but then it always had been. At least, she thought it had been. She had been comfortable with him all through the weeks of their journey through the mountains. He had seemed comfortable with her as well. After all, he was the one who said they were copains. Had he changed? Had he withdrawn since the incident on the raft?
Incident. What a ridiculous word for it. The word might be used for the shooting, which probably could be considered an incident. She could just imagine a world-weary traveler at a dinner party saying, “An interesting incident occurred on our trip down the Tigris…” She laughed—just slightly, but enough to make him look at her. She shook her head to assure him that it had been nothing of significance.
But what had happened on the boat had most definitely been of significance to her. Not the Kurds shooting at them—that had been over so quickly that she hadn’t even had time to be frightened. It had not even been the fact that he had thrown himself over her to protect her, that he had risked his life to protect her. No, what mattered, what she was still struggling to understand, was the reaction of her body to the sensation of his body lying over her, pressed against her. That extraordinary nearness had made her aware of him in a whole new way, aware of his—she still did not know how to put it—his maleness, perhaps. And her own femaleness? Is that what she ought to call it?
Whatever it was, her reaction to the experience was unlike anything she had known before. That was disconcerting enough. What was even more confusing was the undeniable fact that she longed to repeat that experience—and the growing conviction that it was only the beginning, that there was far more for her to discover.
She had to stop thinking this way. She was Lady Emily Tremaine, and she had no business thinking this way about a French adventurer, someone she had met purely by chance because he happened to be in Constantinople when they arrived there.
Was it fate?
No. This was ridiculous. She could not let an encounter that had lasted no more than a few seconds, or possibly minutes, disrupt her feelings this way.
Still, she could not keep from wondering if that encounter had affected him in the same way. She thought perhaps it had. And if not precisely in the same way, she was certain it had been of significance to him. Reasonably certain, at any rate. That would explain the way he had been keeping his distance of late, annoyin
g though that was.
There had been a change in the way he looked at her, a certain uncertainty. She shook her head to clear it. All this uncertainty was fogging her mind. But that protective shell around him, that way he had of using good humor to keep his distance—was that new, or had it always been there?
It had always been there, she decided. She had simply failed to notice it. She had been too willing to accept him at face value. She thought that grin and the frequent smiles meant only good humor. She had not thought of them as a mask.
She could pretend she did not realize it was a mask, of course. That would be the easiest thing to do. It would also be cowardly. There would be no risk, but she thought it was quite possible that there might be a great deal to gain if she was willing to take the risk and probe beneath the surface. More to gain than she had ever realized.
Life had become complicated.
By now they were nearing the hill. It was really more of a mound, she thought, a flat-topped mound all alone on the plain. At the base was a well with a few palm trees providing grossly inadequate shade. The road leading to the top was really a ramp, quite straight and wide, and long enough to rise gently.
“It had to be built this way to make it possible to transport the large sculptures,” said Lucien.
“That makes sense,” she said, ignoring the fact that he seemed to have read her mind. At the moment she wanted to ignore him, period. She needed to think, but she could not think now, not with him right beside her. Nor could she avoid him, not without having everyone—her mother—wondering what was the matter.
What she needed to do was concentrate on what she was here to see. That should not be difficult. After all, they had come thousands of miles to see this place, the ruins of Nineveh. The least she could do was give it her undivided attention.
Unfortunately, when she looked around, the site was not promising. It looked no different from the plain they had just ridden through. There were rocks everywhere, a few sheds built of mud bricks, heaps of things covered with tarpaulins, and another ramp, this one leading down, but what it led to was also covered with tarpaulins. A dozen or so Arabs stood about in scattered groups, their white robes dingy with dust.
It looked arid, barren, and hot.
They dismounted, and she could not see that the other members of their party looked any more enthusiastic than she felt.
Irmak and his men remained mounted. He made a brief circuit of the site, peering disdainfully at the workmen. Then he raised his hand to signal to his men and led them back down the ramp to wait.
At the edge of one shed was an awning providing some shade, and cushions had been arranged on some rocks to provide seats. Mlle. Carnac had been waiting there and rose to greet them. Before she could say more than “Bonjour,” one of the groups of Arabs parted to reveal M. Carnac, who hurried to them, beaming proudly and almost bouncing with delight.
Lady Penworth watched him coming and murmured to her husband, “He seems to have misplaced his churlishness.”
“Ah, my lord, you will not believe what it is I have to show to you.” Carnac opened his arms in welcome. “You will, all of you, be struck with amazement. Even you, Lucien,” he added, looking over at the young Frenchman. “We began to uncover this while you were in Constantinople, so you have not seen it. Come, come, all of you.”
Taking hold of Lord Penworth’s arm to lead him along, Carnac said, “You must understand, I did not speak of this when I dined with you because I was not yet certain. I hoped, of course I hoped, but I could not be certain, and I did not wish to speak too soon. Ça va sans dire. That goes without saying, does it not? But you will see, you will see.”
The rest of the party followed, all of them looking both surprised and confused by this display of enthusiasm. Emily looked at Lucien in inquiry, but he only shrugged.
“I do not know,” he said. “I have not been here since my return.”
What Carnac led them to was a large pit, more or less rectangular, with tarpaulins covering three sides of it. The uncovered side was what looked like a heap of stones, but when Carnac ran down them easily, they revealed themselves to be arranged into a crude staircase.
Mélisande, displaying far less enthusiasm than her father, sighed. “I will wait for you in the shade and will have some tea prepared. You will find it all very dusty.”
The rest of them began the descent a bit more cautiously than Carnac. Lord Penworth, as always, helped his lady carefully over the rocks, and David insisted on lifting Julia over the more difficult places as if she were too fragile to manage by herself.
Lucien glanced over at Emily a few times but seemed to assume that she was capable of walking on her own two feet. She was not sure if she felt insulted or pleased. Pleased, she decided, since she had no difficulty negotiating the descent and even leaped down at the end to land beside him. Quite gracefully, she thought. However, all that won for her was a friendly grin, as usual. What else did she expect?
Carnac fussed about, getting them to stand in just the right places, with Lord and Lady Penworth at the front of the group at one corner of the pit. The Arab workmen were lined up above them, smiling and looking almost as excited as M. Carnac. At his signal they pulled up the tarpaulin, revealing an entire wall of carvings. And then they uncovered the second wall and the third.
Emily was not sure how to react, since she did not know what she was looking at. Lucien, however, gasped in amazement. “Mon Dieu.” He stepped closer to the wall, moving very slowly, as if he could not believe what he was seeing. “Mais, c’est incroyable! This is incredible!” He turned to Carnac momentarily with a look of awe before returning to look at the carvings.
“We are standing in a room of the palace of Ashurbanipal, King of Assyria, known to the Greeks as Sardanapalus,” declaimed Carnac, “a palace that has been hidden for more than two thousand years. These bas-reliefs celebrate, with incredible artistry, the prowess of the king in a lion hunt.” He waved an arm with a flourish. “Come, look, see what no one has seen for all these centuries.”
He was a bit theatrical, but no one could fail to be impressed. Her parents stepped closer to the wall, leaning in to see, as if afraid to touch. Emily and the others followed suit, looking in silence. Now that she had some idea what it was, she could see the figures, warriors with spears, and lions running. The lions were quite nice, she thought. They really looked as if they were leaping along.
Lady Penworth turned around and looked at M. Carnac with startled respect. “This is indeed remarkable. I have seen the bas-reliefs from Nimrod that Mr. Layard brought back to England and, of course, the enormous winged lions, but these are very different. Far more natural, created with far more artistry. Quite extraordinary.”
“Quite impressive.” Lord Penworth nodded. “Could you explain a bit more about them?”
“But of course.” Carnac seemed to expand under their admiration. “These bas-reliefs, they tell a story. It begins here, where the lions are released from their cages. You can see how they leap at the chance for freedom. And here, the people climb the hill to watch as their king kills the lions.”
As her parents followed Carnac, listening and looking intently, Emily remained at Lucien’s side. He was engrossed in his examination of the carvings. The way he studied them, intent on every detail, impressed her. He had immediately seen that these carvings were something special. She had assumed that he was helping M. Carnac simply for the fun of it, as an adventure, but apparently she had been mistaken. There was more intellectual seriousness to Lucien than she had realized. He was something of a scholar himself, though he hid it for some reason.
She kept finding herself surprised by him. She was obviously less perceptive than she had thought. Or perhaps it was that people were always more complicated than they appeared at first. The more you saw of them, the more layers were uncovered.
Since she hesitated to interrupt him, she studied the carvings herself. The figures were stiff, rather like the Egyptian things
she had seen, and the warriors in rows were all identical to each other. The king himself—she assumed he was the king, since he rode in a chariot and didn’t look like the other figures—had a conical hat and an enormous beard. His stiff clothes were all decorated, with embroidery presumably.
“It’s odd that the lions look more alive than the people,” she said. “Do you think the artist’s sympathies were with the lions?”
Lucien looked up at her and flashed a smile. “It is possible. After all, the artist was no doubt at the king’s mercy just as the lions were.”
“Oh! The poor lion!” The exclamation burst out when she spotted a panel in which a lion, pierced with arrows, writhed in agony. “Why do they always have to be so cruel?”
“Do you not think the people would prefer that the king kill the lion instead of having the lion kill them?”
“But why must killing and destruction be what they celebrate? Why not something pleasant?”
He shrugged. “In an age of violence, better to have a strong, powerful king who can protect you either from lions or from armies. If the king is weak, the people will be conquered, and that is far worse for them, I think.”
He stopped to examine a panel showing the king triumphant in his chariot and shook his head. “A strong king, but trapped even so. Look at him. Those embroidered garments, they might as well be chains. The people think the king is all-powerful, but what power does he have, after all? The chains of duty and obligation drag him down. The people think he is free because he rules them, but there is no freedom for him, only the responsibility. He must fulfill his role. He must always go out and kill the lion to protect them, whether he wishes to or not. He is trapped, just as surely as the lowest slave is trapped.”
She shook her head, seeing his point but wanting to object.
Lady Emily's Exotic Journey Page 10
