Yes, he supposed the fellow was handsome enough. Women seemed to think Oliphant was handsome, and his cousin certainly looked like him. Except for that silly mustache, of course. However, he would not have thought Emily that superficial. A child like Mélisande might carry on about a man’s looks, just as a child could be attracted by a colorful toy. But not Emily. She was better than that.
Was it the novelty? Women liked flattery, he supposed, and that Abdul was certainly flattering her, pouring it on as if she was the most beautiful creature to have ever graced this planet, and she was lapping it up, blushing prettily and looking up at him through those long lashes of hers.
At least he had been the one to lift her from her horse, the one to put his hands around her waist, the one to hold her. Not that there had been anything important about that. It did not signify anything that she had been right there with his hands holding her close to him. Almost touching him.
Emily was pretty, of course. More than pretty. He couldn’t deny it. Why should he? She must know it herself. There were those beautiful eyes, a lovely clear blue that hid nothing. And her hair, soft and shining now that it was no longer hidden under all those draperies, was full of all the shades of honey when the sun struck it. Did she expect him to tell her so?
No. He should not do anything of the sort. A man said things like that to a woman he was courting, not to a friend.
Emily was his friend. They were copains. He was not courting her. The memory seized him again, the memory of that moment on the raft when he had flung himself on her. It had been only to protect her, certainly. But he remembered the feel of her body beneath him, her long leg stretched out beside him, the softness of her under him, her mouth with lips parted just inches—a mere inch—from his own. He could feel the heat pool in his groin.
No. He must not think that way. She was here on a visit only, and soon she would be returning to her life in England. That was her real life. Her family was a family of importance, and she would marry some boring English gentleman and take her place among other families of importance. She was not some vagabond who could go wandering around the world.
He too was here only temporarily. Soon he would be on his way again, on to the next adventure. The ancient Silk Road, he reminded himself. He was going to travel that fabulous route all the way to China, then who knew where after that. There was a world of wonders to explore. Perhaps he could sail to the South Seas. Or he could visit Thailand, Ceylon, or India.
Then again, he could go north, seek the cold instead of the heat. Russia, the land of the tsars, where one could fly over the snow in a troika, wrapped up in furs. Yes, he would have to go to Russia one day.
He had a sudden vision of Emily wrapped in an ermine cloak, laughing as the snow swirled around her. Yes, she would laugh, and he would pull her to him and warm her…
No. He shook his head and blinked it away. That was nonsense. No woman, not even Emily, had any place in his future.
He stepped into the Carnac house and was assailed by the familiar stale scent of dust. Was this place never cleaned? The house where Emily was staying always smelled of flowers. This place smelled of decay. It was high time he left.
Before he could even lay his hat aside, Mélisande came running toward him. “Lucien, you must do something. You must talk to him.”
“What is it? What is the matter?” he asked impatiently. She was crying, half-hysterical, and he really did not want to deal with childish tantrums at the moment.
“He says I am not to go to school, to Paris. He says there is no money for that. I must stay here. You must talk to him. You must make him see.” The words were choked out between sobs.
“Calm yourself, Mélisande,” he said irritably. “You know he says that at least once a month, and then he forgets all about it.”
“But this is different. It is all the fault of those English. They praise his silly bits of clay and now he is convinced that he will be famous. He will do nothing but dig and dig and dig while I shrivel away here with no life, no hope. He cares nothing for me.” She wailed dramatically.
Lucien could feel the headache building behind his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Enough of this, Mélisande. You know your father cares for you.” He tried to sound soothing, but it was difficult. He was not at all sure that Carnac cared two pins for his daughter or anything other than his excavations. If he were honest, he would acknowledge this, but he was not in the mood for temperaments. Certainly not for the temperaments of a demanding, whining child.
“You will talk to him, no? You will tell him that I must go to Paris. He will listen to you. You know he will.” She was hanging on his arm, clutching at him as if he could solve her problems. She was being foolish. She had to know that her father paid no heed to anyone. Besides, it was not as if a year at a school in Paris would make any real difference to her life. She would just come back here at the end of it to keep house for her father.
Why was she doing this? He could not solve her problems. He had never been able to solve anyone’s problems. Why did she expect him to?
Her carrying on must have disturbed her father, because he flung open the door of his office and stepped into the courtyard. “Cease this infernal racket,” he snapped at her. “How can I work with you screeching like a sick cat?” Then he noticed Lucien. “Ah, there you are, Chambertin. Where have you been all day?”
Before Lucien could snap out a rude retort, Carnac continued, “The French consul had one of his lackeys here pestering me. He wants to see you right away. There are letters or some such. You can’t expect me to act as your secretary. You will have to deal with your affairs yourself.”
The office door slammed shut again.
More letters. He had sent his replies from Constantinople. He had replied to Bouchard, at least. Had he not been clear enough? He did not wish to be bothered. Would they never cease badgering him?
Mélisande was tugging at his sleeve. More badgering.
He disengaged her hands. “You must excuse me. It appears that there is business I must attend to.” At least the consul’s message provided him with an excuse to leave.
*
He had left? Mélisande stared after him openmouthed. He had left when she had asked him for his help? How could he? How dare he? Did he not see her distress? Was he blind, that he did not see her tears?
She stamped her foot in fury. Bien. Very well, then. If he was going to be such a stupid oaf that he could not understand her distress, she would have to confront her father herself.
She hammered on the study door. Her papa ignored her, of course, so she flung the door open and marched in.
A piece of paper fluttered on his desk and he snatched at it, turning to face her, frowning in annoyance. “Stupid girl, what are you doing? You know you are not to interrupt me when I am working.”
“Since you are always working, how can I talk to you if I do not interrupt you?”
“If this is another of your complaints about the servants, I swear I will dismiss them all and you can do the work yourself. I do not care.”
“That you do not care is understood,” she snapped. “Fine. You do not care about me, and I do not care about your stupid work. What I do care about is my return to France.”
Carnac snorted. “Return? What return? You have never been to France. One cannot return to a place where one has never been.”
She ignored his quibbles. “You promised that I should go to Paris, to the school my maman attended when she was young. You said I must wait until I am fourteen and then I shall go. Very well. Now I am fourteen. It is time for me to go.”
He turned back to his desk. “Do not bother me with this nonsense now, you foolish child. Do you not understand how important these new discoveries are? I have uncovered buildings, records, and carvings that no one has seen for more than two thousand years. I shall be the most famous Orientalist in all of Europe.”
He turned his back on her. He always turned his back on her. She would no longer
allow it! Looking around wildly, she saw one of the clay tablets covered with the Assyrians’ bizarre markings. Chicken scratches. She picked it up and smashed it on the ground.
That drew her father’s attention. He spun around and stared at the fragments and then looked at her wildly. “What have you done? Are you mad? Do you have any idea what you have done?”
“I don’t care,” she shouted, quite as wildly. “All you care about is your stupid bits of clay. I am your daughter. You are supposed to care about me.”
He bent over and began to carefully pick up the bits and pieces of the clay tablet, crooning softly. “Yes, yes, it can be saved. It is not so badly broken as all that. It can be saved.”
“But what of me?” She began to sob. “How can I be saved? If I do not go to France, what will become of me? How will I ever be able to find a husband?”
Carnac whirled on his daughter, seizing her by the shoulder and dragging her to the door. “Get out of here. Get out of this room and do not ever come in here again, you viper. Be grateful that you are able to serve the cause of knowledge by taking charge of the house for me.”
She sobbed harder. “But how can I ever marry?”
“Marry? Bon dieu! There are men all over this city. If you want to marry, go find one. Just leave me in peace!” He pushed her out of the room and slammed the door behind her.
Mélisande collapsed on the ground, sobbing. How could she ever find a husband if she was condemned to stay here in Mesopotamia? Did her father think she could marry an Arab? A Turk? No Frenchmen even came to Mosul. The only one she had ever seen was Lucien.
Of course. Her sobs faded. She sat up and began to think. Lucien. He was not planning to stay here forever. If she married him, he could take her to France. He would have to return there sooner or later, after all. He had family in France. Those letters the consul had sent the message about—no doubt they were from his relatives in France seeking his return.
That was the answer to all her problems. Why had she not realized it earlier?
She would marry Lucien.
*
Some hours later, Lucien sat in a coffeehouse near the bazaar. It was late, and sensible, respectable citizens were safe at home, their doors and windows barred against the sort of riff-raff who gathered here. Although for riff-raff they were remarkably sedate. One group in the far corner grew excited from time to time over some gambling game, but most of the customers sipped their coffee and shared their hookahs in drowsy indifference.
At least they left him alone to stare at the letters. Three of them. They sat there on the low table beside the coffee. As if coffee could suffice to deal with such letters. He needed a bottle of wine. Several bottles of good, rich burgundy. The wine of La Boulaye. He could almost taste it still, spicy and earthy, strong enough to enable a man to deal with these letters.
At least they were not bordered in black. The old man still lived.
The one from his grandmother was no different from all the others she had sent, full of whining reproaches for his failure to return and do his grandfather’s bidding. How could he turn his back on a dying old man? As if nothing on earth mattered except grandpère’s wishes. Since “the last wishes of a dying old man” had been the excuse for the old man’s tyranny since Lucien’s childhood, he had no difficulty discounting her letter.
The one from his uncle was only slightly different. It too was filled with whining reproaches, only in this case the reproaches were for his failure to return and restrain his grandfather. Presumably, old age had addled grandpère’s brain still further, and he was failing to support his family in adequate fashion. Uncle Pierre could do nothing, in small part because he was not an uncle at all, merely the husband of a cousin, but in large part because he was a fool and always had been.
Lucien had been receiving—and ignoring—such letters for years now. They had all said much the same thing: he was an insolent and disobedient boy and should return at once to live under his grandfather’s roof and his grandfather’s commands. He was twenty-seven years of age and still they called him a boy, just as his father had been called a boy till the day of his death. All because his grandfather possessed the title of Comte de la Boulaye. Since Lucien never replied, his relatives could tell themselves that he never received the letters. That was surely less insulting than the replies he would send, were he to reply.
The third letter, however, was more of a problem. M. Bouchard, the notaire who handled all his legal business, had rarely written before. He had usually been perfectly capable of handling both grandpère and the estate on his own. Unfortunately, there was now a new problem. It seems that the old man had somehow discovered the school in the village of Varennes, and the plans for the hospital, and was in a fury. He was insisting that if there was money from the estate of Varennes, it should go to La Boulaye. His son’s marriage had made Varennes part of the La Boulaye estate.
The comte was insisting that the rents from Varennes, the profits from the vineyards, should go to him and, Bouchard warned, the bankers in Autun were weak. They were intimidated by the comte. Possibly intimidated enough to give him what he wanted.
That was nonsense. It had all happened before. Any obligation was all in grandpère’s head. Lucien had inherited Varennes from his mother. Bouchard wrote that he had, of course, told the bankers that the grandfather had no legal or even moral claim on the grandson’s income, since the grandfather was hardly penniless himself. Logic made no impact, however. Lucien could have told him that.
It was worse this time though. Grandpère was dropping hints that Lucien was dead. It was preposterous, of course, but grandpère was threatening to go to court. He would doubtless be able to bully some poor attorney into handling the case. The problem was that Lucien might have to return to testify on his own behalf.
Why did he have to be the sacrifice? Surely Bouchard could find some way out of this mess. He was a canny lawyer. The notaire must be able to find a way for Lucien to escape the chains of La Boulaye.
Thirteen
Julia sat on the side of the fountain, watching the ripples caused as the water from the upper basin trickled down into the lower pool. Letting her fingers float just on the surface of the water, she could feel the movement, barely disturbing it. The rhythmic sound of the constant splash was soothing, not quite obliterating the sounds of the servants moving about at their tasks, but softening them.
The marble of the fountain was cool, even through her petticoats, and the leaves of the orange tree filtered the sun. A fragment of poetry drifted into her head—“Annihilating all that’s made / To a green thought in a green shade.”
She drifted too, not into but away from thought. Sounds, sensations, sights—she allowed them to make thought fade away. So much so that when David appeared beside her she was startled enough to create a small splash.
He quirked a smile at her. “Did you not expect me?” he asked.
She could not speak for a moment. He was dressed very formally, in a black frock coat, gray trousers, and a subdued vest—the perfect clothing for the perfect gentleman. The perfectly handsome gentleman. Not just handsome. Beautiful. She could not imagine greater perfection in a man. If only she could look at him forever.
He almost looked assured, but she could see that he clutched the brim of his top hat so tightly that he was crushing it. That gave her courage.
“Please sit down.” She waved him to the cushions strewn on the bench against the wall of the courtyard.
He ignored her gesture. “Lady Julia, I…”
“No,” she interrupted. “Before you say any more, there is something I must tell you.”
He staggered back as if she had struck him. She could see the color drain from his face. “My family—you—” He could barely speak.
Horrified, she lifted her hand. “No. You misunderstand. Your family is admirable. You love and honor them, and they are entirely worthy of that respect. Any woman—anyone—would be honored to be asked to be part of such a fa
mily.”
He was beside her in a moment, raising her hands to his face. “Julia—”
She pulled her hands away and turned her face. “No, please, you must let me speak.” After a moment, he stepped back, and she could feel the loss of the warmth his nearness had given.
She took a deep breath, then another. “Do you know anything of my family?”
He seemed startled. “I know that your father is dead, and the current Earl of Doncaster is your brother. I know that he is married to Lord Penworth’s oldest daughter. I realize that my birth is far below yours…”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “Then you know nothing of the Degraded de Vaux. My brother, my sister, and I share a mother, of that much we can be certain. But who fathered us? Not even our mother will—or can—say. It seems she was not simply unfaithful to her husband, she was unfaithful to her lovers as well.” She looked at him then. “You have told me that your parents live in Cairo, that they have always lived in this part of the world.”
He was looking more than a bit taken aback, but still managed to nod. “Except when I was at Oxford. They visited me there once, that must be ten years ago.”
“Then you are not my brother. Do you realize how unusual it is for me to be able to say that?”
“Julia!” He stared at her, appalled. “My dear, sweet girl. Have you had to think about such dreadful things?”
“Everyone I have ever known is well aware of such things. It is my cowardice that has kept me from telling you about my family.”
He took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet, his expression ineffably tender. “Well, you may stop worrying about them, now and for all time. I can assure you I care nothing about your family.”
“You should. Were you to marry me, you would forever be encountering people who do know my family or who know about my family. English society is full of people who cast knowing looks in my direction, and it is full of men who think I am bound to follow in my mother’s footsteps.”
Lady Emily's Exotic Journey Page 12
