The age difference was, of course, something that didn’t appeal to Henry, but the way she watched him had begun to raise his hackles. And it didn’t help that there were some distasteful rumors surrounding the deaths of her husbands. She was referred to as the “black widow” by other university students.
Henry had kept his distance, but it seemed that Percy was curious.
“I hope you’re not seriously considering pursuing Mrs. Worthen,” Henry told Percy after another sip of the lemonade. “Money would never be worth risking your life.”
It was Percy’s turn to scoff now. “You can’t honestly believe she had anything to do with either of her husbands’ deaths.”
“I don’t give credit to rumors, but she’s very . . . intimidating,” Henry said. Not to mention she had been too aggressive for his taste.
“I think she’s just lonely,” Percy said.
Henry couldn’t stop the groan coming from his lips.
“Look,” Percy said, his voice tight. “The women don’t fall at my feet like they do yours. I’ve got to consider an older woman—one who might be widowed. At least I don’t have to raise another man’s children with Lillian.”
Henry raised his brows. “All right, now I’m calling you shallow.” He drained the last of the lemonade and grimaced. It was beyond tart at the bottom. “I might have an easier time talking to women than you do, but no woman wants a husband who is dependent on grants and benefactors, or a benefactress in my case, in order to provide a living.” He waved at their bleak surroundings that included miles and miles of sand, dozens of sweaty Egyptian laborers digging in the dirt, a group of makeshift tents that flapped in the constant wind . . . and that was just the beginning. There were the flies, mosquitoes, and scorpions to be considered.
“Women are romantics,” Percy declared. “And you . . . you might be poor, but you’re charismatic around the ladies. Only I know that you’re flirting; the women take it quite seriously.”
If Henry had been still drinking his lemonade, he would have spit it out. “Flirting? Huh. As if that’s a talent to be valued in the sweltering heat.” Just then, a fly decided to land on Henry’s neck. He swatted at it.
Percy waved away another fly. “Perhaps you’re right about my interest in our benefactress,” he said. “I’ve had too much sun, making even Lillian Worthen look appealing. The Egyptian desert isn’t teeming with English ladies, that’s for sure. Have you thought about returning home with me for my sister’s wedding? You might enjoy the break. There will be several women of marriageable age who still have stars in their eyes.”
“One of us has to be here,” Henry said, although it was nice to have an invitation. He had spent a few holidays at the Smith estate just outside of London. Percy came from a rather large family, and as the third son, was down the line of inheritance.
Strange that Henry envied his friend’s family life. Henry’s own mother was alive and well, and still a busybody if anything was to be deduced from her many letters to him. Her frequent correspondence made no qualms about admonishing him to come home to take up a respectable teaching position, settle down and marry, then produce a handful of grandchildren that his mother could spoil the remainder of her days.
Somehow, Henry could never envision him taking after his father—living in a stuffy townhome, content to tutor university students in a library surrounded by books of history, geography, and science. From a young age, Henry had always wanted to go to the places he’d read about. Feel the air, touch the soil, breathe in the scents.
He hadn’t exactly expected the temperatures to be boiling, the soil to be so dry, and the scents quite so feral. Ah well, it was part of the adventure. And despite the physical inconveniences, the thrill of the unknown treasures that were unearthed on a daily basis held his heart.
So here he was, living all that he’d dreamed of. His home country seemed a distant memory, even though he’d been gone only a year. The longer he remained abroad, the less he missed England. There was just so much space here. So much unexplored. So much potential for making the discovery of a lifetime.
Perhaps Henry was the romantic.
“Speaking of the she-devil herself,” Percy said, nudging Henry.
His heart almost stopped at Percy’s words. Henry turned away from the dig and looked past the billowing tents. A convoy of horses was approaching, and Mrs. Lillian Worthen sat atop the lead horse. Her white dress flowed about her, and she wore a wide-brimmed hat, which, in a miraculous feat, stayed on her head. Sand curled about the horses’ hooves as the group approached the excavation site.
Mrs. Worthen wasn’t supposed to visit the dig for at least another fortnight, and Henry had been enjoying the reprieve. The awkwardness of their last encounter was still fresh in his mind. She’d approached him in the evening, following the dinner hour. After talking about the newest finding of an ancient oil lamp, she’d grasped his arm and leaned toward him.
Her lips had been merely an inch away before he stupidly clued in to what was happening. Lillian was remarkably tall—nearly the same height as Henry. This, he convinced himself, was why he didn’t understand her intentions.
When he realized she was about to kiss him, he’d leaned away.
She’d dropped her hand and huffed. “You’re playing games, Henry,” she’d said. “And I don’t take kindly to that.”
He had been too astounded to answer right away, and by the time he thought he might be able to come up with a reply, she’d walked away.
Her convoy had left at dawn the following morning, before Henry had a chance to speak to her and find out what she meant about him playing games.
Perhaps Percy was right. Perhaps the charisma he’d been gifted, or condemned with, however one might look at it, had been misconstrued as flirting in Mrs. Worthen’s eyes. He would have to set her straight—apologize first—then set her straight.
And that occasion would be happening sooner than later, he quickly realized, as Mrs. Worthen dismounted her horse and began striding straight toward him.
Percy stepped away from Henry, as if he had no problem letting Henry take the brunt of whatever had Mrs. Worthen so stirred up.
“Mr. Gaiman,” she said, her tone brisk. She was back to calling him Mr. Gaiman, which Henry was grateful for.
In her hand, she held a letter which she now extended to him. “It has come to my attention that you are heir to a London estate.” Her blue eyes felt like hot daggers against his already-perspiring skin. “You’ve deceived me, and I won’t stand for it.” She waved the letter. “Go on, take the thing. And don’t pretend that you’re some poor university graduate in need of money to fund your projects. According to this letter, you can fund them yourself.”
Henry took the letter, having no idea what the woman was talking about. Seeing that the seal was broken and the letter clearly read at least once, he said, “You opened it?” No matter who she was, she didn’t have the right to read his personal correspondence.
“The letter was marked Urgent,” she replied, no remorse in her voice as she folded her arms. “I needed to make sure it wasn’t about your mother’s demise or some other such emergency.”
Henry didn’t like any of this, not one bit. He tugged the letter out of the envelope, finding that the collection of papers was actually more than one letter. One was from his mother. He recognized her scrawled cursive immediately. He skipped over it for now.
The second letter was from a solicitor informing him that he had inherited the London estate of Mr. James Tucker.
“Who’s James Tucker?” Percy asked, reading over Henry’s shoulder.
Is nothing private in Lower Egypt?
“He’s . . .” Henry had to search his memory. “He’s my father’s cousin, second cousin actually. Maybe once removed. I’m not entirely sure.” His mother had prided herself in her family genealogy charts. When his father had died five years previously, she’d explained the chart in great detail so that he’d have a reference at his father’s funeral.
Now it seemed that James Tucker had had a funeral of his own—way back in December. It being June now, and Henry having been at this dig site for over a year, he was quite out of touch with events back home. He was surprised his mother hadn’t written of it. Or perhaps she had.
He now turned to his mother’s letter. Ah. There it was. He skimmed his mother’s gushing prose about the inheritance and how he must return to London immediately. She also repeated some of the details found in the solicitor’s letter: that his father’s second cousin, James Tucker, had left his London estate to Henry. There was a tidy sum that had been left to care for Tucker’s widow. She also inherited any furniture that had been purchased during their marriage. But all the original estate furniture would remain the property of the estate and transfer to the heir.
By the time Henry finished reading the entirety of his mother’s letter, his head was swimming, and a distinct ache had started in his forehead.
“You are . . . you are a wealthy man,” Percy said in a tone of amazement, clapping Henry enthusiastically on the back.
Henry nearly stumbled.
“Condolences for your father’s cousin, though,” Percy continued. “Were you close?”
“No,” Henry mumbled. “We weren’t close. I don’t understand how this happened.”
“Well, your uncle died, that’s how it happened,” Mrs. Worthen cut in. “In December.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll have my man of business tally up all the expenses starting from the time of your uncle’s death . . .” She snatched the papers from Henry. “Since December fifteenth.”
Henry let her hold the blasted papers as he strode away from the nosy group. He couldn’t return to England now. Inside the supply tent were two long tables filled with artifacts pulled from the tomb. Oil lamps, pottery pieces, gold statues of Isis . . .
Egypt was in his blood. He couldn’t leave the dig site now, not when Percy was leaving for his sister’s wedding.
“Darling,” Margaret Tucker said as Evelyn entered the lobby.
Evelyn nearly missed her step. Her aunt had never used any term of endearment toward her. Aunt Margaret was dressed in her finest, as usual. Her light-brown hair was swept in an elegant twist that contradicted her full figure. Her dress was a bright purple with silver-trimmed buttons going all the way from her neckline to her waist. The bustle that extended behind the dress only made Margaret look larger than life. Yet there wasn’t a trace of the hysterical woman that Evelyn had last seen at her uncle’s funeral.
This woman was composed and . . . smiling. At Evelyn.
“Aunt Margaret,” Evelyn managed to say, her voice sounding a bit breathless—astonished really. “How kind of you to come pick me up.”
Margaret’s smile widened. “What a polite young woman you are. I approve wholeheartedly of Mrs. Paddock’s work.” She rifled through a small satchel she held in her hands. “In fact, I have brought a small token of appreciation for your headmistress.”
“My goodness,” Mrs. Paddock said, bustling in as if she’d been eavesdropping in the corridor. “You are too generous.” In moments, Mrs. Paddock had taken the bills and kissed Margaret on both cheeks.
“Evelyn was a dear,” Mrs. Paddock gushed. “She will be missed by everyone.” She turned to Evelyn and embraced her.
Evelyn was so shocked she didn’t react for a moment, then she reached to embrace Mrs. Paddock, but the woman had already moved away.
“Come along, then,” Margaret said. “Jones has already loaded your trunks.”
“Jones?” Evelyn asked, trailing after her aunt. Who was Jones?
A man who looked to be in his forties stood at the ready in front a sleek black carriage Evelyn hadn’t seen before. Jones wore a long navy coat and a black top hat. Not only were Evelyn’s trunks loaded on the back of the carriage, but three others as well. Evelyn didn’t have time to question her aunt about the extra trunks before Jones opened the carriage door and motioned for them to climb inside. Evelyn followed Margaret as she was handed up into the carriage.
“This is nice,” Evelyn said, running her hands along the velvet-covered cushions when she was seated.
“It’s new,” Margaret said with a sweet smile. “Well, new since January. Jones is new too. I hired him in January as well.”
There was something Evelyn wasn’t quite sure of behind that smile. Sitting this close to her aunt showed that Margaret’s remarkable affability had an edge to it.
“How are you feeling, dear?” Margaret asked.
Again with the term of endearment. “I am well,” Evelyn said.
“I am so pleased,” Margaret continued, reaching over and patting Evelyn’s knee. “Your health is very important to me.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn said, because she had to say something and this was the strangest conversation she’d ever had with her aunt. She wondered if Margaret had fallen and injured her head.
Margaret was frowning now. “Is that your traveling dress?”
Evelyn looked down at her pale-gray dress with dingy white cuffs on the sleeves. It was about a year old, but she’d kept it in good condition. “I don’t have a dress specified for traveling.”
Margaret’s brows arched. “I suppose that’s my fault. I let my James make all the decisions for me, even in regards to you. Well, things are different now. What else is in your trunks?”
“Only the clothing that you and Uncle gave me,” she said.
“The clothing that was altered from my sister?” Margaret’s voice went up an octave.
“I believe so,” Evelyn said.
“Do you not have gloves?” Margaret asked.
“My last pair have quite worn through.”
“Oh laws, you can’t wear that sort of clothing where we’re going.” Margaret tapped on the ceiling of the carriage.
“Where are we going?”
Margaret didn’t answer her but merely pursed her lips as the carriage slowed. Moments later, Jones opened the door.
“Take us to Janene’s Millinery first.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jones said, then snapped the carriage door shut.
“Where are we going?” Evelyn asked again.
Margaret straightened her gloves. “You’ll see soon enough. I feel like I have a lot of apologizing I need to do. Being a widow has shown me the error of many of my ways.”
The “soon enough” turned out to be the train station.
Evelyn stared out the carriage window as they came to a stop near the ticket office. Her heart nearly stopped when she realized that her aunt planned to travel by train somewhere. That’s why she’d brought along trunks, and that’s why she’d insisted that Evelyn purchase new gloves, a parasol, two hats, and two shawls. She’d never been witness to so much money being spent at once.
Evelyn was still staring out the window when Margaret tapped her arm. “Come along, dear; don’t dally. We’ve got a train to catch.”
Slowly, Evelyn turned to look at her aunt. “A . . . train to catch?”
“Have they turned you into a parrot at the finishing school?” Margaret asked. “We’ve no time to waste.” She swept out of the carriage, then turned back, looking expectantly at Evelyn.
Margaret was like a stranger. Changed from the uppity, formal aunt who abided by every strict rule of her husband’s to a woman who was ordering everyone about, spending money on Evelyn like she was her own daughter, and using terms of endearment.
“My parents died on a train,” she said in a trembling voice. “I haven’t even . . . been to a train station.”
“Many people die each day,” Margaret pronounced. “Some on trains, some in carriages, others catch pneumonia from swimming. You can’t live your life confined to a boarding house.”
Evelyn’s eyes burned with tears, and she tried to stop them before they fell. It proved impossible.
Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “Now, now, none of that. I’ll explain everything on the train.” She turned t
o look toward the back of the carriage where Jones was unloading the trunks. “Jones, please help Evelyn down from the carriage. She’s having a bit of trouble.”
“I’ll manage,” Evelyn said, sniffling and trying not to let the tears multiply. Dozens of people were at the station, and once she stepped out, she was sure that everyone would stare at her.
Evelyn took a deep breath and exited the carriage. The sound of a train whistle chose that moment to pierce the air. Evelyn snapped her head to look in the direction of the noise. The train engine sounded and felt like an approaching thunderstorm.
Evelyn couldn’t move for a moment as she stared. People hurried to the platform, carrying baggage, ushering children, and calling out to one another. As the commotion buzzed around her, Evelyn tried to focus on calming her racing pulse.
“This is Mrs. Jones,” Margaret said, grasping Evelyn’s arm.
Evelyn pulled her gaze away from the steam engine and found herself looking at a stout woman with a tuft of white hair at her forehead, blending with a head full of black-as-night hair. Evelyn guessed her to be about forty.
“Pleased to meet you, miss,” Mrs. Jones said with a brief curtsy. “When my husband said we were hired to accompany you on your grand tour, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven, I did.”
Evelyn blinked. Grand tour? A man in the crowd jostled against her, nearly knocking her down.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said, then was quickly distracted by the two young boys tugging on his hands.
Evelyn looked to her aunt for an explanation, but she was ordering Mr. Jones about as he unloaded the trunks. A train porter was also in the mix, apparently commissioned to load their trunks onto the train.
“Where does this train go?” Evelyn asked.
She wasn’t entirely sure she’d spoken aloud until Mrs. Jones said, “Why, we’re taking the train all the way to—”
“Evelyn,” her aunt cut in. “We must secure our compartment now. The train is booked solid, and I don’t want anyone thinking they can share our compartment.” Her arm linked through Evelyn’s, and with quite a bit of force, Margaret propelled her toward the train platform.
A Grand Tour (Timeless Victorian Collection Book 2) Page 16