Ken read it, the line between his brows deepening. He lowered the letter slowly. “You . . . you already intended to stay?”
“If you’d asked, I would have remained with or without Signore Fiorelli’s offer.” She examined his face, willing him to understand. “I just needed to know you wanted me,” she finished in a soft voice.
A smile pulled at the corners of Ken’s mouth. He cupped her cheeks, his face inches from hers. “There is nothing I want more. Nothing. Not Pompeii or Caesar’s Temple or any of it. I want you, Eleanor Doyle. And I’d gladly have taken the position at Oxford without a second thought.”
“I know, but . . .”
His hands slipped down to her shoulders. “But what, my darling?”
“But this is where we belong. This is where I fell in love with you and—”
Ken’s mouth closed over hers, stopping her words and leaving no doubt that he wholeheartedly agreed.
Ken stepped carefully along the edge of the mosaic floor as he led Bodkin through the newly excavated structure. He was pleased his friend had joined him and Eleanor on the return journey to Italy after attending the Blakely sisters’ double wedding. “The latest work is taking place in this section of the city,” he said.
“Fascinating.” Bodkin slowed in the courtyard, admiring the detailed carving of the fountain. “Everywhere I turn, mosaics, perfectly preserved frescoes, intricate sculpture. Pompeii is truly a marvel.”
“It is,” Ken said, feeling an immense surge of pride at the work being done. “Signore Fiorelli has made vast improvements to the excavation procedures. He’s arranged the site into grids, keeping detailed records of where objects, human remains, and artwork are found. He’s also opted to keep works of art in their original locations instead of removing them to the museum, but in order to do so, engineers must make certain the walls are structurally sound.” Ken spoke as they walked up a flight of stairs and crossed a house’s upper story.
They reached the group of workers, and Bodkin leaned closer to watch as ash was carefully brushed from a wall beside a recently unearthed entrance. The portico above the doorway was supported by Doric columns, Ken noticed. The style would help in dating the building.
“What have you found, Piero?” he asked, studying the foreman’s ledger. He was pleased to see columns were noted and categorized correctly.
“The outer wall is nearly clear, Professor. And we discovered more graffiti.”
“Graffiti?” Bodkin asked. “Like in Nero’s palace?”
The workers smiled, sharing looks. Once they were translated, the messages had been a source of entertainment for the personnel.
“The site is covered in it,” Ken told his friend. “The citizens of Pompeii loved writing notes on walls. Some are simply greetings or names, but we’ve found others to be more . . . ah . . . well, let’s just say our translator blushes often.”
Bodkin laughed. “People haven’t changed so very much in two thousand years, have they?” He followed Piero’s direction and peered at the writing scratched on the wall beside the doorway. “Well? What does it say?”
Ken looked at it for a moment. The lettering was uneven, and most likely words were spelled incorrectly. He knew better than to even attempt to decipher it. “We should send for the expert.”
“I will fetch Signora Kendrick,” Piero said.
“She is working at the amphitheater, I think,” Ken told him.
The foreman nodded, hurrying away. A few moments later, he returned with Eleanor. She wore a practical dress, the skirts covered in dust, and heavy boots for climbing over rocks. Tendrils of hair had come loose, hanging in wisps around her face, and in spite of her wide-brimmed hat, her nose was freckled from the sun. She was beautiful. Even though they encountered one another often during the day, Ken’s heart still skipped when he saw her.
“More graffiti?” she asked, slipping her hand into Ken’s.
Piero pointed to the wall.
“I do hope it’s scandalous,” Bodkin teased.
Eleanor bent closer. She squinted, her lips pursed in concentration. Ken thought she looked adorable when she was working.
“Oh, well, look at this,” she muttered. “It’s a love note.”
“Excellent,” Bodkin said, rubbing his hands together.
She studied it a moment longer, then pointed at the words as she read: “Secundus says hello to Prima, wherever she is.” Eleanor said. “Then below, ‘I ask, my lady, that you love me.’” She looked up. “It is so tender.”
Ken slid his arm around her waist, pulling her close beneath his shoulder. “I suppose Secundus just wants what every man wants.”
“Oh no, not again.” Bodkin groaned good-naturedly.
Ken ignored his friend and leaned close to her ear. “I ask, my lady, that you love me.”
“I will, always,” Eleanor whispered.
Click on the covers to visit Jennifer’s Amazon author page:
Jennifer Moore is a passionate reader and writer of all things romance due to the need to balance the rest of her world that includes a perpetually traveling husband and four active sons, who create heaps of laundry that is anything but romantic. She suffers from an unhealthy addiction to 18th- and 19th- century military history and literature. Jennifer has a B.A. in linguistics from the University of Utah and is a Guitar Hero champion. She lives in northern Utah with her family, but most of the time wishes she was on board a frigate during the Age of Sail.
You can learn more about her at http://www.authorjmoore.com
England, 1855
Evelyn Cleopatra Tucker knew her last day at Mrs. Paddock’s Finishing School for Young Ladies would be the worst day of her life. Therefore, when that day arrived, Evelyn refused to get out of bed. At least, for all of five minutes past the breakfast bell, since Evelyn’s best friend Beatrice came to fetch her.
“Evelyn,” Beatrice said the moment she opened the bedroom door and discovered Evelyn buried beneath her covers. Never mind that Evelyn’s trunks had been packed for two days and her certificate of completion had been framed by Mrs. Paddock. It now sat atop the smallest of Evelyn’s trunks.
“I’m not here,” Evelyn said, her voice muffled through the blankets. She was grateful for her best friend, but Beatrice never missed a thing—which in this case meant that she’d noticed Evelyn’s absence at breakfast.
The edge of her bed creaked as Beatrice sat next to Evelyn.
“You’ve got to remember our plan, all right?” Beatrice continued as if they were standing out in the open and Evelyn weren’t buried beneath a mound of bedding. “We’re to get married to London men so we might live in the same city. We’ll raise our babies as best friends, meet at the park on Saturdays, and go out for ice cream on Sundays.”
“What about Mondays through Fridays?” Evelyn mumbled.
Beatrice laughed. Her laugh was bright and cheerful and always warmed Evelyn’s heart. Everything about Beatrice was bright, from her blonde hair, to her fair skin, to her sea-blue eyes. Evelyn was the complete opposite. In fact, when she told Beatrice that her middle name was Cleo, Beatrice insisted that she looked like Cleopatra—the seventh—because apparently there were quite a few, and Cleopatra VII was the Cleopatra.
Thus, Evelyn took it upon herself to give her middle name a bit of an embellishment, and she became Evelyn Cleopatra. She signed all her essays and artwork this way. Mrs. Paddock had not found this amusing.
Fortunately, Evelyn would not have to worry about Mrs. Paddock’s disapprovals or approvals any longer. Unfortunately, Evelyn would be forced to say goodbye to her best friend, and really, only friend, this afternoon when Evelyn’s aunt came to fetch her.
This thought caused Evelyn to sigh deep in her chest.
“There you are!” Beatrice pronounced, whipping the blankets off Evelyn in a sudden movement.
The change in air temperature startled Evelyn, and she gasped.
Beatrice laughed. “You look like you’ve just risen from a sarcophagus.”
“Really?” Evelyn sat up, touching the mess that her dark hair had become. Her friend knew Evelyn couldn’t resist comparisons to the ancient Egyptians. Ever since Beatrice had pronounced the name of Cleopatra upon Evelyn, she’d become very interested in Egyptian history. Beatrice teased that it had become an obsession, but Evelyn had full control over how much she read, wrote, and pondered about the Egyptian dynasties.
Besides, she was about to relegate herself to a lifetime of living in her aunt’s dusty house.
“Now, get ready before Mrs. Paddock comes in here herself.” Beatrice grasped Evelyn’s hand and tugged her to the edge of the bed.
Evelyn shuddered at the thought. Mrs. Paddock’s tiny beady eyes missed nothing, and she could smell any scent miles and miles away. If she came into Evelyn’s room, Mrs. Paddock would be able to detect the incense that Evelyn had burned last night while she practiced her hieroglyphics.
Evelyn could hear Mrs. Paddock’s censure now: “No young lady of mine will study the incestuous horrors of the Egyptians.”
After today, Evelyn would never have to fear Mrs. Paddock’s preachments.
“What are you smiling about?” Beatrice asked, nudging her.
Evelyn looked over at her friend. “I was just thinking that I’ll never have to worry about Mrs. Paddock again. If you want, I can hide you in one of my trunks and get you out of here too.”
“Oh, Evelyn,” Beatrice gushed, throwing her arms about Evelyn’s neck and pulling her into a fierce embrace. “I’m going to miss you so much. I don’t know how I’ll survive my final year without you. You must write to me every day!”
Evelyn hugged her friend back, and tears pricked her eyes. “I’ll write you twice a day.”
Beatrice laughed, and Evelyn laughed too, although the ache in her heart had doubled its strength.
“Remember,” Beatrice continued, “don’t let your aunt buy you any more gray dresses. Your best colors are burgundy red and emerald green.”
“I’ll try.” Evelyn gave Beatrice a final squeeze before letting her go.
The next hours sped by, and Evelyn found that she couldn’t concentrate at all in music class. She’d already received her passing marks, yet the only other option was to take on an extra round of kitchen chores. So Evelyn sat through music instruction and kept stealing glances at Beatrice, knowing it could be a full year before she saw her friend again.
Mrs. Paddock believed in turning out well-rounded Young Ladies. They were taught English grammar, needlework, writing and arithmetic, geography, history, botany, French, drawing, and music. History had been Evelyn’s favorite, whereas Beatrice favored music.
All too soon, the afternoon passed, and as tea finished up, Mrs. Paddock bustled into the dining room. Every girl hushed at the headmistress’s appearance. They all knew it was for one reason.
Her shoes clacked against the stone floor that had never given off an ounce of warmth. “Miss Tucker,” Mrs. Paddock said as she came to stand at the end of the long table. Her tone was stiff and formal, complementing her straight back and lifted chin. “Your aunt’s carriage has arrived.”
Every pair of eyes turned to Evelyn. “Thank you,” she said. Then she looked at Beatrice, who sat on her left. The girl was already tearing up.
“I’ll help you take your things down,” Beatrice said.
“Your things have already been brought down to the front foyer,” Mrs. Paddock announced.
Evelyn could only nod because she didn’t trust her own voice. She rose and cleared her tea things, setting the dish and cup and saucer on the dumbwaiter at the far side of the room. Mrs. Paddock watched Evelyn’s every movement.
This was all happening too fast—way too fast.
“Thank you,” Evelyn managed to say, even though her throat felt swollen. Several girls rushed forward to give her goodbye hugs.
Beatrice stayed stoically by her side, but Evelyn didn’t look at her. Seeing her friend cry would only make Evelyn lose her composure.
It wasn’t that she loved the boarding school, but Beatrice was dear to her, and the alternative—living with her aunt until Evelyn could marry and have her own household—was not something she was looking forward to.
The last time Evelyn had seen her aunt Margaret was at her uncle’s funeral several months ago. Uncle James Tucker had passed away right before Christmastide. The day of the funeral had been gloomy and full of rain. Her aunt had been in complete hysterics during most of the visit. Evelyn had returned to the boarding school feeling even more dismal about her future. She hadn’t even gone back to her relatives’ place for the Christmas holiday.
Although Evelyn and Beatrice had plotted and planned, in truth Evelyn had no idea what her future would look like. While Aunt Margaret wore the latest fashions, Evelyn was treated as the poor relation—which of course she was. Everything that Aunt Margaret had suggested to purchase for Evelyn, Uncle James had immediately dismissed.
Evelyn’s parents had both died in a train wreck when she was ten years old. Evelyn had been left home with her tutor when her parents had taken a trip on a new railway line—thus her life had been spared. As a result, she’d been left completely alone, and living on another’s charity had always made her feel a nuisance. It wasn’t until her friendship with Beatrice started that Evelyn found love and hope in her life.
Finally, with all the goodbyes said and hugs given, Evelyn walked out of the dining hall, Beatrice clinging to her arm. Or was it the other way around? Whatever the case, Evelyn had a flash of clarity as she passed through the portrait hall for what she knew would be the last time. And it would be the last time she passed the headmistress’s office, where she’d spent her share of time listening to reprimands and accepting discipline. Regardless, Evelyn somehow felt like she was walking to her doom.
Was this how the French aristocrats felt when they were being led to the guillotine?
Evelyn raised her chin a notch as her eyes burned with tears. It wasn’t like she was going to die, exactly, just consign herself to the unknown.
Just before they reached the entrance to the front foyer, Beatrice pulled her to a stop.
“I will say my goodbyes here,” she whispered.
Evelyn could barely swallow over the swollen lump in her throat. She tried to memorize everything about her friend, from her blonde curls, to her blue eyes, to the rose tinge on her cheeks.
“We’ll be together before you know it,” Beatrice said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Don’t go having too much fun without me. And for heaven’s sake, do not fall in love and get married. Promise me! We must attend parties and balls together and make sure the men are from London. I can’t bear it if I’m stuck in here for another year while you’re out there enjoying yourself too much.”
“I promise,” Evelyn said. She felt like laughing at Beatrice’s oh-so-serious theatrics, but she wanted to cry as well. And she suspected that she hadn’t yet felt the full impact of the pain of separation from her best friend. “I’ll write to you about everything in such detail you’ll feel like you are with me, in my room, staring out at the clouds while I count down the days.”
Beatrice shook her head, her smile amused. “You, Evelyn Cleopatra Tucker, are not a daydreamer. That’s my department.”
Then Evelyn hugged her friend. Quickly and fiercely. Anything more would have brought her to tears. It was time to go. Delaying would only make her more upset.
After a deep breath and a nod to Beatrice, Evelyn turned and strode toward the door.
The Egyptian sun had baked Henry Gaiman’s shirt right onto his back. He’d need a chisel to scrape the blasted linen off.
“Care for a warm lemonade, sir?” Percy Smith said, coming to stand by Henry as he surveyed the archaeological dig on the outskirts of Giza. Percy held two glasses in his hands, full of what they both knew was tepid refreshment.
Henry scoffed, but he took the glass anyway. “Is anything cold in Egypt?”
“Mrs. Lillian Worthen is cold,
” Percy said.
Henry took a long swallow of the tart, warm drink. The lemonade didn’t feel refreshing, but he knew he had to keep drinking. He supposed he’d have to wait until they returned to Cairo and try their luck there for a cold drink. “Lillian Worthen is a forty-year-old woman—much too old for you, my friend.”
Percy sighed, then took a sip of his own warm drink. “Age doesn’t matter when the heart is involved.”
Henry turned to look at his friend. They’d been best friends for five years, having first met at university while involved in the archaeology program. Henry’s dream project of excavating in Giza near the pyramids had been funded by benefactress Lillian Worthen soon after his graduation. A year later, Henry had brought in Percy as an assistant when the site near Giza had turned up a tomb dating back to the Nineteenth Dynasty.
Percy’s dark, thick hair blew in the wind, and his skin had tanned over the past six months until he looked like a native. Henry knew he appeared much the same—his skin was nearly as tanned as Percy’s, although his hair had become blonder with the constant exposure to sun. “If Lillian Worthen wasn’t a wealthy widow and our benefactress, would you still be interested?”
“You wound me.” Percy placed one hand over his heart. “How can you accuse me of being a fortune hunter?”
Henry laughed. Percy always made him laugh. Mrs. Worthen was not a woman to be trifled with. Having gone through two husbands already, both of whom had died and left their fortunes to her, Mrs. Worthen had more money than any single person Henry had ever been acquainted with.
Mrs. Worthen was a woman who might be beautiful, but there was something calculating about her, something off-putting. She reminded Henry of a cat—watching her prey, ready to pounce at any moment. Pounce on what, exactly, he didn’t know. But he didn’t have the heart to tell Percy that the woman had been making him uncomfortable lately. In fact, she’d tried to kiss him.
It was quite disconcerting.
A Grand Tour (Timeless Victorian Collection Book 2) Page 15