“Since yer a gent who can sport the blunt and ’re only here for jawjammin’”—waving his gun toward the seat, Snipes wiped his mouth with the back of the hand holding the gun—“’Ows about we be all sociable-like?”
“Since we are being so frank, Mr. Snipes, might I point out that your conversation is even less skilled than your card playing. I suggest we call it a night and end on a friendly note.” Despite his politely worded suggestion, Val’s voice held an ominous tone.
“Never you mind me skill, m’lord. I’d liefer win the blunt, but I’ll take it either way.” Snipes growled. Muttering under his breath, he added, “Damn Quality what never quits jabberin’ when they’s in their cups!” He spit on the floor in a gesture of irritation, his present expression evidencing a deeply felt resentment that there were men who didn’t need the funds but merely played for sport, men who could afford such intangibles as honor and friendship.
Snipes motioned begrudgingly to Val to have another drink from the bottle Val himself had paid for.
“Most generous of you,” Val mumbled, shaking his head as the bottle was thrust toward him. He had had enough to drink, acting as if it were his last night on earth. He frowned, hoping his celebratory behavior wasn’t a premonition—or a warning. Despite the drink, he had beaten almost everyone he had played and was only a trifle disguised, further adding to the sense that the pendulum must no doubt swing the other way.
“No more stallin’. I said to put me coin on the table, m’lord.” Snipes’ voice grew louder.
“I am a reasonable man,” Val replied slowly as he placed his earnings back on the table and moved his chair closer to his companion’s, deliberately walking clumsily toward it.
The ancient mirror revealed clouded gray eyes flashing from beneath arched black eyebrows, promising that which the earl already knew: he was indeed closer to his sword-wielding ancestors than to the effete gentlemen of the London clubs he had frequented.
“Somehow I thought so.” Snipes eyed the coins greedily, his mouth watering. He took his free hand and wiped his mouth again. In the split second he let his eyes wander to the leather pouch, as fast as lightning Val knocked the gun from Snipes’ hand.
Val had spent numerous hours under the tutelage of one of London’s best boxing instructors, Mr. P. Argyll Dunlevy. The aforementioned Mr. Dunlevy would have had a tear of contentment come to his eye had he been able to witness his pupil’s step forward and right uppercut burying itself in Snipes’ ribs.
Val grabbed Snipes’ arm and pulled it behind his back, swiftly pulling Snipes’ knife out of his belt pocket and holding it to his gargantuan neck.
“Don’t ever,” Val growled through barred teeth, “pull that on an officer of the Queen again.” The rage controlled to this point now burned through his body. Blood began to trickle down Mr. Snipes’ neck as a prelude to what was to come.
“No! No! Course not, m’lord! I didn’t mean it! I was just jokin’ wif ye.”
“I suggest you keep a check on your sense of humor. Joke again and you’ll hang as a deserter, you bastard.” As Val felt his hand tighten on the knife, the terror crossing Snipes face was evident even in the cloudy mirror, confirming the giant’s conviction he would be stabbed right then and there, a course Val was seriously considering. “And you’ll be grateful to die by hanging instead of at my hands.”
“I will! I will!”
“Are you laughing now, you sorry son of a bitch?” Val boomed.
A few interested players glanced their way, but no one moved toward them, and most did not even look up from their hands or their whiskey glasses. Apparently a murder in their vicinity was not noteworthy, Val mused.
“Yes! Yes! I mean no! No! M’lord,” Snipes begged. “Please don’ kill me. I ’ave a wife.”
“So you found a woman without a sense of smell? How fortuitous,” Val muttered, distracting his captive with idle banter. Suddenly, with no warning, Val executed a left to his opponent’s nose, snapping the man’s head back, followed by a right cross to the point of his chin, which rolled the gorilla’s eyes back up into his head.
“I commend you, sir, for your tireless efforts in what must have been an arduous and lengthy search.”
Once again, only the diffused reflection in the rusting gilded mirror bore witness to the momentary flame in the young officer’s eye which bespoke the desire to finish his opponent.
But self-mastery had been developed to an art in the soldier and gentleman, and, sweeping up his winnings, he headed toward the door without a backward glance.
You’re too soft, Ravensdale. You’re no soldier, he muttered to himself with disgust even as he set his course. The sound of snores coming from the fallen giant interrupted Val’s resolve as he reached the door. He admonished himself for not turning in Snipes as a deserter weeks ago, but the man would have hung, and plenty of English would die in the quest for territory for the Crown. One more man here or there really didn’t make any difference to the cause.
He frowned. The fellow was a worthless bastard.
Still, he was merely a petty thief. He doubted that Snipes had ever killed anyone, on or off the battlefield. The sleeping giant was a waste of human flesh, but he had done nothing to warrant hanging.
Val forced himself to glance back. If Snipes was going to threaten British soldiers, it was his responsibility as an officer to remove the loose cannon from the vicinity, one way or another. He resolved to turn him in the next morning, giving the misfit a few hours to exit Cairo without the aid of the hangman’s noose.
Leaving one hell hole, Val entered another one, the back streets of Cairo in the dark of night. The heat was oppressive despite the late hour, exaggerating the smell of the open drains running down the middle of the streets.
“Merhaba!” Val motioned to a torchbearer to light his way as there were no street lights. The middle-aged native man hurrying toward him wore a simple calf-length tunic over bare legs, from which worn sandals were visible. Extending from the turban on his head was a hanging fold which provided the dual advantage of disguise and diffusing the noxious vapors.
Val wished he had just such a veil. The smell of the open drains mixed with the smell of smoke and burnt cooking oil, not to mention the fragrant body odor of the torchbearer himself, threatened to compromise his focus on his surroundings.
He needed to keep his wits about him. The back alleys of Cairo were dangerous places to be at night. Footpads and thieves would kill for nothing more than the clothes one wore.
Val remembered his glistening boots and cursed his ignorance, not for the first time. He wished he could jump on his horse and ride to his quarters, but he hadn’t dared bring the stallion, who would not have been safe. If his boots were a temptation, the horse was his ticket to hell.
Oh, I forget. I am already there.
And yet, one man’s heaven was another man’s hell, so the reverse must be true. Even in the stinking back streets in Cairo in the dead of night, he relished the experience. Despite all that had occurred, he was filled with the wonder and excitement of discovering a foreign land.
Val and the torchbearer walked along narrow streets more closely resembling crooked alleys until they reached Val’s destination without incident. It had only been necessary to wave his gun at lurkers in the shadows two or three times.
“Ma’assalama.” The torchbearer gladly took Val’s offered coin, scurrying off with a wide grin on his face, the coin clutched in his fist.
Val returned to his quarters, never intending to seek other diversions as he had indicated. Instead, he gingerly removed an old book from underneath his bed and inspected the hieroglyphic scribblings with interest. He took out his notebook and calligraphic pen, opened both books to the spot where he had last worked, and began to write.
Pausing from his work for a moment, Val thought of his soldiering companions and wondered which of them he would never see again after the morrow.
Being an officer, he knew the plan of attack. They woul
d start out tomorrow morning toward Tel-el-Kebir, followed by a brief rest before they initiated their attack in the middle of the night on sleeping Egyptians.
It was unquestionably to be a bloody and terrifying battle. The Egyptians were fighting for control of their home and their country. They were like cornered animals, and they were proud and brave men, nationalists, who viewed death as favorable to the loss of freedom.
After Val had pictured his fellow soldiers and officers, he pondered his own existence and wondered if this was the last evening he would ever spend on this earth. No one would read or care about his last scholarly treatises.
Educated at Cambridge to be cannon fodder. Simply another pawn in Britain’s quest for new territory. His tombstone would read, Valerius Gregory Christopher Huntington, Captain of the Princess Royals 7th Dragoon Guards, 5th Earl of Ravensdale, January 11, 1854—August 25, 1882, died in the line of duty, serving the Crown at Tel-el-Kebir, Egypt. Val shook his head. Was the campaign worth the loss of human life, the contributions these young men on both sides might have made had they lived?
Val snorted. Contributions? What did he have to offer? He was twenty-eight years old and had never produced anything of any interest to anyone. No one cared to see his translation of ancient Egyptian text. No one was interested in the five ancient languages he read. The four living languages he read and spoke fluently were of some interest if he could but learn to apply them for imperialism and material gain.
Unless it can be converted into gold for Britain’s coffers, there is no value to my existence on the planet.
Val shook his head in disgust at his own philosophizing. It is my duty, and I have to fight. My family’s honor depends upon it.
I was born twenty years too late. Being a scholar and possessed of a classical education was now quite outmoded and unfashionable. Best to do away with him and make room for someone who had something to contribute to this industrial machine. Involuntarily, he somberly recollected the many balls and soirées during which he had bored gushing young ladies to death.
If the truth be known, he bored everyone to death. The thought pained him, though he was, by now, well acquainted with his social status. He was a linguist, a soldier, and an earl, and the only interest anyone had in him were the latter two roles. It was quite true, Britain had the right of it. His main value was in being someone who could die for the Crown.
Though he might be dead tomorrow, there wasn’t anything he would rather be doing, so he went back to work. Born twenty years too late and dead thirty years too early. Always his timing was off.
Val had a bad feeling about the morrow. Victory for the British, a swift demise for the 5th Earl of Ravensdale and for all his future descendants who would never see the sun rise over their family estate.
2
Another Realm
Slowly the rectangular plot was covered with fresh earth. Their eyes were fixated on the ground, as if there was great meaning in the dirt.
The older miss placed her hand on top of the child’s hand and held it momentarily, a personal ritual of sorts. As she did so, she closed her eyes briefly. Her entire body revealed the slightest tremble for an instant.
A small, reddish-blonde head bent very close, as if she hoped to see beneath the earth’s surface. The child then laid her tiny ear to the ground, looking up with a question written across her face.
“Nothing is happening, Lita,” the child whispered in obvious dismay, her large blue eyes troubled. “Didn’t we do it right?”
Alita Stanton bent down to kiss her sister’s forehead. “You performed your task perfectly, Julianne.”
The child’s eyes were fixated downward, her disappointment evident. “But when will it grow, Lita?”
“In the summer. Just wait, love. You’ll see what magic will happen.”
“Magic? What kind of magic?”
A thrill of anticipation rippled through Alita as she motioned to the pond. “There will be white lilies framing the pond. Heavenly scents of jasmine and honeysuckle. The clover now caressing our feet will be framed by everlasting pea and Sweet William. All one ever need do is to plant the seed and life…happens…”
“And will there be froggies, like last year?” Julianne asked excitedly.
“Most definitely. Frogs will jump from lily pad to lily pad.”
“Why do the froggies jump?” Julianne’s naturally large blue eyes grew even wider with wonder.
“Why indeed?” Alita felt a smile tugging at her mouth. She tapped her lavender ruffled parasol on the ground. “I suspect to cast a spell, but I don’t know for a fact. Why do you think they jump, Jules?”
“Are they dancing a ballet? A froggie ballet?”
“A froggie ballet!” Before Alita could respond, a guttural laughter burst through their subdued whispers. “You girls talk such nonsense,” snorted Harvey.
“Why do they jump, then, Mr. Knows Everything?” demanded Julianne of her older brother.
“They jump to get somewhere of course!” Just as explosively as he had burst through their confidences, pink frocks, and blonde curls, reminding Alita of a deafening combustion she had once experienced in her father’s laboratory, Harvey turned back to his easel, dabbing color onto his painting with energetic strokes. He clearly had vastly more important things to do than converse with females, at the same time feeling it was his duty to guide them.
The girls could not help but join in their brother’s regalement, adding giggles to his hearty laughter. Alita rose from the ground and removed her gardener’s apron, uncovering a summer gingham dress bordered with wide stripes of creamy white, pink, lavender, and dark brown. She twirled her parasol mischievously while anticipating some further instruction from her brother.
“Alita, you mustn’t encourage Julianne in untruths,” Harvey advised, meeting her expectation without delay. He might be eleven years of age and Alita sixteen, but there could be no doubt he believed himself to have far more sense than his older sister and was yet again finding it necessary to point that out to her.
“You don’t believe that frogs can dance, Harvey?”
“You are hopeless, Alita! You’re such a…a…girl.”
“Ma-ma is a girl, Harvey,” Alita replied calmly, feeling no insult. Her eyes did not waver from her brother’s, who put his paintbrush down and placed his hands firmly on his waist, his legs far apart. He had not long graduated from knee trousers to the long pants he now wore in a blue tweed cheviot, which were held on his slim frame by suspenders.
“But Ma-ma talks sense, Alita! Why can’t you talk sense? Especially for Julianne’s sake? You are good at everything, but you care about nothing.”
“I care about nothing?” she repeated with emphasis. “This is astonishing news.”
“You don’t care about anything important,” he mumbled, stubbing his toe into the ground. “You’re the smartest girl I know, even better at mathematics than me—without trying. All you and your girlfriends talk about is Belgian lace ad nauseam and your coming out on the marriage mart, when you will each find your husbands and live happily ever after.”
“You listened to our private conversation?” Alita exclaimed with pretend indignation. “A gentleman would never do such a thing. I am gravely disappointed in you, Harvey Trenton Stanton!”
“Well, no, Lita. I was just walking by, right where I was supposed to be, and you females are so loud…” He blushed, embarrassed, but Alita did not relent, feeling no shame in pressing her advantage.
“If I should discuss horses, boxing, or swordplay with my friends, then might I earn your approval, dear brother? Is that as important as mathematics?”
“Well, yes. I mean…no. Dash it, Alita!” Staring at her for a long while and then beginning to sputter and giggle, Harvey’s lips formed a broad grin. “That’s what I mean! You have the brains of a scientist and—”
“And she looks like an angel!” Julianne interjected.
“Certainly not! I am the angel’s sister!” she exclaim
ed, twirling Julianne, almost dislodging a small cap on the child’s strawberry-blonde hair, a gift from her auburn-haired mother and blonde grandmother much envied by her older sister.
“Quite so! Brains, beauty—and what do you talk about, Alita? Froggie ballets?”
“What’s wrong with ballet?” Julianne demanded as she regained her balance and stuck her tongue out, clearly affronted by the unfounded insults to her sister and her favorite art form. The little girl felt behind herself in a most unladylike manner, her toes almost touching, to see if the small bustle pad support which created ruffles down the back of her pink cotton dress was still in place.
Alita glanced at her idyllic surroundings. She had to admit it was one of the prettiest gardens in London, though she herself had designed and supervised its creation over the past three years. The landscape was comprised of bold flashes of color only slightly louder than the surrounding sweet fragrances. Bleeding hearts, Canterbury bells, and lilac bushes outlined the garden filled with heirloom roses, hollyhocks, sweet peas, morning glories, and lilies. Climbing antique roses in yellow and lavender embraced a wrought-iron arbor granting entry to the garden.
A small pond was in the center of this outdoor oasis, home to each a black and white swan. A bench was situated along a stone walkway leading to a gazebo, which would soon be drenched in the delicate scent of honeysuckle. Peering out from English ivy was a white-marble birdbath, a sundial, and statues of cherubs and angels.
So enchanting was her garden that she could hear a harpsichord playing a Bach fugue in the background as clearly as if it were there. And yet, according to her brother, she should be doing something of much greater importance.
He is his mother’s son she thought with a slight pang of remorse. Every daughter wished to please her mother.
“Do not distress yourself so, Harvey. You take on too great a burden. Enjoy your sisters instead of attempting to enlighten them.”
The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic (Daughters of the Empire Book 1) Page 2
