“I could never forget even a single word you have said to me,” he said softly. “Even if I wished to.”
“Promise me,” she emphasized, keeping the parcel in her grasp, “promise me that you will reconsider all that I have told you when that day comes.”
“I am dismayed to disappoint you, Miss Alita, but I cannot take your remarks about my great destiny seriously, nor can I make you any promises to do so.”
Alita sighed. Have courage. Believe in your gifts. She had known this would not be easy. “Because you don’t believe I have the ability to see into the future, correct?”
Val raised his eyebrows. “Obviously.”
“I have brought proof beyond any reasonable doubt that I can.”
She released the package.
Slowly Val opened the parcel. Whatever it was, he didn’t care. But he was touched she had wished to give him something to remember her by.
As if anything were needed to serve that end.
“This is exquisite, Miss Alita,” Val whistled with admiration. Inside was an expertly rendered painting, executed entirely in the ancient Egyptian style.
He hoped it wasn’t too dear, but it must surely be. “Who painted it?”
“I did.”
Startled, he returned his gaze to her abruptly.
As if reading his disbelief, she stated, “I am thought to have an exceptional gift both in water colors and oils, but I felt the water colors were able to lend the feel of antiquities more authentically to the work.”
Val felt shockingly moved, seeking to control his feeling. Though his estimation of her abilities to see into the future had not changed, he was considerably impressed with her artistic talent, as well as flattered that she had created this extraordinary painting for him.
He didn’t recall the last time anyone had exerted this much effort on his behalf. “This must have taken months,” he surmised.
“One week,” she replied reservedly.
“Remarkable,” he murmured. “You had to have worked night and day.”
She said nothing, but he glanced up to study her. Though beautiful as always, there was weariness in her facial expression clearly born of fatigue.
So that’s what Alita Stanton has been doing. She was creating a gift for me.
He would have loved the painting even had she been in possession of one-tenth of her obvious talent.
He examined the painting more closely. It was unlike any Egyptian painting he had ever seen before, though it was rendered in the exact style of the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties, the Old Kingdom, 2575-2135 B.C. The accuracy to the rendition was remarkable.
As he studied the painting thoroughly, another arresting feature came into play. He had never before seen this particular scene. Had she made it up? And why? It was not a scene likely to capture a young lady’s imagination, and not one he would conceive of anyone, lady or gentleman, envisioning.
This is astonishing. It was a scene of hundreds of starving workers dragging the pyramid capstone. The human anatomy was consistently and realistically proportional, but the bodies were always drawn frontally while the heads were always in profile. The figures seemed incredibly real despite the impossibility of the poses.
Val stared at Alita, stricken. “Miss Alita, your rendition is amazingly accurate. The artistic style is consistent with the period in question.”
Alita’s countenance displayed the Mona Lisa smile, but she simply replied, “Thank you, Captain Ravensdale.”
Val was surprised at her easy acceptance of her noteworthy creation but even more perplexed at this unusual and peculiar scene she had created, apparently from imagination, as he had never before seen the original. Even allowing for her unquestionable ability, how had she been so well versed in the artistic style of the period, the equivalent of a master painter, only several weeks after having arrived in Egypt?
Could she have brought the painting with her as part of her unfathomable plan he had given up attempting to unravel? But why? It was a strange gift for a prospective lover: a horde of starving slaves moving a stone.
The scene didn’t particularly put one in an amorous mood. Surely a clever girl such as Alita Stanton would have made a different selection. And anyway, if romance was the object, she would have furthered that end by spending time with him rather than locking herself away to create this depressing scene.
As usual, nothing made sense where Alita Stanton was concerned.
For the moment, his curiosity over the content overrode his marvel over her grasp of the artistic style of the time period. “I must know, Miss Alita, whatever possessed you to paint this particular scene? I have never before seen its likeness.”
“You will.”
“Excuse me?” demanded Val, his sense of overwhelm beginning to fray his nerves.
“Just as I said,” repeated Alita. “You will.”
Val’s expression grew stern. “Miss Stanton, I do not know what your game is today, but I demand that you explain yourself.” He did not like being in the dark, and he certainly did not like being without a clue. The intellect was his gift, and Alita Stanton had discombobulated him one too many times.
Alita raised her chin in a haughty manner he could not like. “Of course, your lordship. Have I ever held anything back from you?”
Val wished desperately to respond to that remark but was too bewildered and entranced by the painting to change the direction of the conversation.
Suddenly, his eyes grew wide as they fell on the lower left-hand corner of the painting. Hieroglyphics. He almost dropped the work before he tightened his hold.
Reading the words revealed that the painting paid homage to the workers themselves—the lowest caste.
Why, and in what context? It was not clear.
So, she copied the picture. But whose is it?
This conclusion presented him with more questions than answers. Where is the original? He had never seen it, and he was familiar with all known Egyptian art.
Bewitched. Again. Why could she never meet him on the human plane, with sincerity and honesty?
His eyes shot to the sorceress’ eyes as he utilized every ounce of self-control in his possession.
“What do the words say, Miss Stanton?”
“I do not know.” She shook her head.
“You do not know.” Harshly he demanded, “How did you recreate the hieroglyphics, Miss Stanton?” He felt his teeth grinding as he sought to maintain the countenance of a gentleman.
“They are merely shapes and pictures to me, Lord Ravensdale.”
“Obviously they were copied. Painstakingly, I might add. There are few errors, but where did you copy them? I have never before seen this exact text.”
Alita’s eyes shot back at him. “Since you know everything about it, my lord, why do you ask me?”
“I will not be toyed with in this fashion, Miss Stanton.” Val growled through barred teeth.
“It appears you will.”
Bloody Hell! None of this makes sense. The answer to one question provided a greater mystery with an even-more perplexing question.
Am I destined to continually be in a state of disbelief in this woman’s presence? As if none of the proven laws of science and logic apply to anything within her realm of existence?
She held her chin high. “I don’t exactly know the meaning, but I did comprehend the shapes. It is all form for me. I am glad to know that it is accurate.”
“Not entirely. But enough so that I can actually read it.” He shook his head. “Remarkable.”
Alita pointed to the painting, flippantly ignoring his justifiable outburst. “I want you to consider all that I have said when you see this picture again, Valerius.”
“So you admit you copied it?”
“I did not…not in the sense you mean. I have never seen this picture in the physical world.”
“Damnation!” he muttered. “But I will see this painting? The original?”
“You will.”
�
�How? And when?”
“That I cannot tell you. The relevant point is you will know in that moment what I have spoken comes from insight and true knowledge. If you engage your mental facilities in the slightest, you will learn to trust my words.”
“Miss Stanton,” stated Val, his anger growing. This was not how he wished this meeting to go. But Alita Stanton must always infuse drama into every encounter. “I demand to know where you have seen this representation. I find it impossible to believe you imagined it. The very subject matter of starving Egyptians and the method with which they are dragging the capstone, believable yet ingenious in its approach, all combined with the extreme accuracy to the period’s artistic style…This is a combination you would not be capable of contriving.”
“I am capable of very little according to you, my lord. It is consistent with your treatment of me that you discount this talent as well.”
Val leaned toward her. “Miss Stanton, I have not seen this depiction, so how is it that you have seen it?”
“That is the relevant question, is it not, Lord Ravensdale?”
“And what is the answer?” he demanded, his eyes glued to hers.
“As I said, you will see it. There will be a fall. I don’t know the exact mechanism.”
“A fall?” repeated Val, making no attempt to hide his impatience.
“Yes. Someone will fall. I don’t know how this will instigate the discovery of this scene, but it will.”
“Discovery? Stop toying with me, Miss Alita. I am speaking of this painting.”
“As am I,” she replied calmly.
Why, why must she always be playing games? Why couldn’t they, for once, have a genuine conversation? What was this illness of the mind requiring her to lie?
It pained him to see her, to love her, and to continually be reminded they could not be together.
Oh my God, I do wish to be with her. It is her deception which prevents it.
And she would no doubt say ‘no’ if I asked, whatever she may pretend here. And thereafter begin these games with another unlucky sot, stomping on my heart in the process. Alita Stanton craved the drama. Real life was not enough for her.
“I see,” articulated Val slowly, seething. But he didn’t see. He didn’t understand any of this. Why is she doing this? Why does she do anything?
“And where will this ‘fall’ occur?”
“South of the Great Sphinx.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Is that specific enough for you, my lord? Or perhaps a lucky guess on my part? Shall I give you the exact number of paces? I am dreadfully sorry, but I do not know.”
“Miss Stanton, I find your antics un-amusing to the extreme.” Val was fuming now.
“I was not sent to amuse you, Lord Ravensdale,” Alita replied evenly, her anger matching his.
He ground his teeth, even as he closed his eyes momentarily.
“I have heard you speak of women’s equality, and yet it does not occur to you to take me seriously.” She smiled with a certain unbecoming arrogance. “However, as long as I have come this far, I might as well tell you the whole.”
“By all means, tell me everything. As long as you are this close, needs must go in for the kill.” This interview was not going in the direction he had hoped, but he would not let her out of this room until he knew the entirety of this outrageous ploy.
“Since I know you to be a quantitative person, I will let you know that some forty-eight hours later—after the fall, that is—there will be a pair of eyes.”
“A pair of eyes,” Val repeated, controlling his voice with effort. “Do tell.”
“Why is it I must be perfect and omniscient, while men may traipse along at a remarkable inefficiency and lack of comprehension?” Alita sighed in an exasperated fashion. “I am sorry. I can tell you no more on that score.”
“Quite enough. Indeed more than enough. But your story fascinates me, Miss Alita, and I require to hear the whole,” retorted Val, his gaze intense as he studied her.
“Very well,” acquiesced Alita in deliberate tones. “I bow to your wishes as always,” she emphasized, appearing more than a bit impatient. Behaving quite rudely actually, and certainly not in a lady-like fashion.
What in Hades does she have to be impatient about? Alita was the one who was always concocting some fantastic scheme to set his world on end when they had merely to be happy and enjoy each other’s company.
But, no, that would be too straightforward for her.
“The last piece ties in with your life.” Alita frowned before continuing. “There will be a message in it for you, a personal message. A message which relates to your storytelling and its importance.”
“Excuse me?” asked Val. “I don’t see how that concept fits in with this picture.” He pointed to her painting.
“You will.”
“I will,” he repeated, beginning to get irritated with the phrase.
“Remember what I have said. I have said it now, in advance, at a time when I could not possibly know it.”
Val tapped on the armrest of the couch. It appeared he had to humor her in order to obtain any information. He was damned tired of this woman always having the upper hand with him. He had controlled whole battalions of men, but where Miss Alita Stanton was concerned, there was nothing to be done but to allow her to roll the dice.
Val knew well that, in some instances, the only way to win was to bow to another’s will and to pretend defeat.
“So, Miss Alita, we have this painting, a fall, forty-eight hours, a pair of eyes, and a message which pertains to my storytelling. Is that it?”
“Is that not enough?” she asked, flabbergasted. “It seems to me to be quite enough for even the stupidest and most unaware of persons, and you are neither.” She appeared to reconsider. “Well, at least you are not stupid.” She twisted her lips in thought. “Not entirely.”
“I have heard a great deal of nonsense from you in the short time I have known you, but this surpasses even my vast expectations. You never cease to amaze me, Miss Stanton.”
“Thank you.” Alita rose from her chair, her expression immediately sad. Her bright-green eyes glistened against opaque ivory skin. “Good-bye, Valerius.”
He rose with her. His heart fell in his chest as he comprehended she was leaving. Suddenly his anger evaporated.
“And shall we kiss before you go?” He knew she might slap him, but he put his strong arms around her waist.
Her lips trembled. She seemed to struggle with herself.
Before she could answer, he pressed her close to his chest. She pulled away but her heart was not in it. He looked into her eyes. Slowly, his lips met hers, each second one of anticipation. He savored each moment before their lips should touch.
Gently, he parted her lips and moved his lips along hers. Time was stopped for him. He alternated with soft kisses and deep kisses. “Alita, dearest,” he whispered.
He picked her up and moved her to the couch in one sweep, placing her in his lap. Gingerly, slowly, he planted soft kisses on her shoulders, her neck, and across her bodice.
He watched intently as her breathing increased. She placed both hands on his head and brought his lips to hers.
“Oh, Val,” she murmured.
He ran his hand along her cheek as if to memorize the contours of her face.
“Oh how have I let this happen again?” she whispered, struggling to sit up. “It happened so quickly.”
“Stay.” His voice sounded heavy even to himself. He ran his hands down her slim arms. “Don’t tell me you don’t see us together at this moment.”
“I want more than anything in the world for us to be together. If I could have willed it, I would have done so.” Her eyes fell. “We will never be together. You don’t wish it.”
“Funny,” he replied. “I had a different impression of my wishes.”
“You have no intention of marrying me, Val,” her voice was calm and sure. “And what’s more, you never will.”
He allow
ed her to stand up and wished he hadn’t. She moved towards the door, and his heart fell.
Before she could reach the door, he took her arm and pulled her against him. “I have nothing to commend myself to you. I cannot believe this is more than a passing attraction on your part.”
“It is not.” She would not face him, which he found singularly annoying. “In point of fact, you will recover from my absence much more easily than I shall recover from yours.”
“Tell me, Alita, just to satisfy my curiosity.” Slowly he released her, wanting to keep her in his arms forever. “Would you be happy being leg-shackled to a man whose family wants nothing to do with him? A scholar with no taste for the gaieties of social life?”
“Happy?” she asked, her eyes darting to his. Her dismay turned to a genuine expression of surety, her green eyes clear and deep, as if she had realized her own heart for the first time. “I would be deliriously happy.”
She turned and walked out of Val’s life. He had the sinking feeling she would never return to Egypt again.
40
The Journey’s End
“It’s time to go back to London, Grandmamma,” Alita pronounced faintly, lowering her embroidery momentarily. Why she had picked it up, she did not know. In fifteen minutes she had executed one stitch.
One very crooked stitch.
“Thank the heavens! I’ve never been so happy to leave a place in my life.” Marvella smiled smugly to herself. “But your young man? What of Captain Ravensdale? Are you keeping something from me, Alita?”
“With all my heart, I wish there were something to tell, Grandmamma. Certainly if there were you would be the first to know.” Alita’s eyes rested on a painting of a snake charmer and his dancing serpent, flanked by candle sconces, strangely perfect in this ornate room decorated in gold, blue, and crimson. In the evening the lights would flicker on the wall, making it appear as if the snake were truly moving inside the picture.
Alita wondered if the twisting reptile enjoyed executing its graceful, artistic movement. Or if it hated captivity but felt compelled to perform.
The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic (Daughters of the Empire Book 1) Page 33
