This afforded Henry a view of her profile, and for a moment he could see that perhaps Cleopatra was a fitting name for Evelyn. The midnight color of her hair, her dark lashes that framed her dark eyes, and her warm honey complexion. He could almost feel the heat of the Egyptian sun and the hot breeze. What would Evelyn look like in one of those linen dresses with her hair unbound and hanging down her back in small braids like an Egyptian princess?
“Let’s serve up that tea, Mrs. Jones,” Mrs. Tucker said, cutting into the mirage that Henry had fallen into.
There was no sand beneath his feet, no pyramids within a stone’s throw. Suddenly, the delay in his plans to return to Egypt didn’t seem such a bother after all. He might be on a train racing through England’s countryside to who knew where, but he found he didn’t mind so much. Evelyn Cleo Tucker was proving to be a very intriguing person.
Life is quite inane, really, Evelyn thought. Life didn’t really go like this. Being whisked away onto a train, heading to Paris for the first stop of their “grand tour,” where two handsome men burst into their compartment, one of them declaring that Aunt Margaret would be provided for the rest of her life, and now said men taking tea while Aunt Margaret spoke to them of Evelyn’s marriage prospects . . .
Evelyn hadn’t had much opportunity to blush throughout her life, having attended a finishing school for young ladies since the age of ten, but it seemed that she was about to make up for that oversight.
If only she could tell Beatrice what was going on now. Beatrice would absolutely thrill at the idea of a grand tour.
“You must know how relieved I am feeling now,” Margaret said to Mr. Henry Gaiman, the man who’d just risen to hero status in her eyes. “Now we’ll not need to force ourselves upon unsuspecting men on our grand tour in order to secure dear Evelyn a husband.”
Evelyn nearly gasped. Her aunt was so bold and plain speaking. Not exactly what Evelyn learned at finishing school. Men appreciated direct interest, but only on topics that they, too, were fascinated about.
“Now that we have a permanent home, we’ll be able to seek out potential suitors right in London,” Margaret said.
Evelyn took a sip at her tea and barely swallowed it down. She didn’t dare look at either of their guests. Mr. Percy Smith seemed a nice enough fellow, but Mr. Henry Gaiman had gained her full attention. Not because he was an heir, of course; that was too shallow for Evelyn. But because he was an archaeologist. His looks were, well, arresting, but more fascinating was his work.
She scrambled for a way to redirect the conversation from her aunt’s comments about marriage.
“Mr. Smith,” her aunt was saying. “Tell us about yourself and your station in life.”
Evelyn wanted to disappear. The question was quite blatant considering the topic of marriage. When Mr. Smith mentioned that he was the third son and worked for Mr. Gaiman, Margaret’s attention seemed to refocus on Mr. Gaiman—the man with healthier finances.
Evelyn was already having trouble keeping her curious gaze off Henry Gaiman. She didn’t want him to think she was interested in him that way.
Taking a deep breath, Evelyn set her cup down. “Have you done a lot of traveling?” she asked Mr. Gaiman, but included his friend in her question.
Mr. Gaiman’s eyes connected with hers, and Evelyn felt quite intrigued by their dark-green depths.
“Henry would be content to live in a dusty tent the rest of his life,” Mr. Smith jumped in to answer. “He’d still be there now, if it weren’t for the solicitor’s letter, his mother’s letter, and my persuasion to travel with me.”
One side of Mr. Gaiman’s mouth lifted, and Evelyn could see he was amused with his friend’s statement. “Percy’s right,” he said. “We’re in the middle of what might be a major archaeological find, and I would have been quite content to remain in Giza.”
“Do you really live in a tent?” Evelyn asked, unable to contain her interest.
“Of course he doesn’t,” Margaret said. “Young men like to exaggerate their circumstances.”
“I do live in a tent,” Mr. Gaiman said, his gaze holding Evelyn’s. “I have an apartment in Cairo but rarely visit there, since the excavation work requires constant supervision and security.”
“My heavens,” Margaret said, bringing a hand to her chest. “How barbaric.”
Evelyn wanted to say “my heavens,” too, but not for the same reasons. Mr. Gaiman certainly lived a different life—about as different from London as anyone could get.
“Henry is singularly devoted to his profession,” Percy announced, then leaned closer to Margaret. “You’ll probably have the London estate to yourself for decades.”
Margaret found that funny, but Evelyn was still watching Mr. Gaiman. He seemed to take the teasing in stride. She wanted to explain that she didn’t share her aunt’s views on most things, so he shouldn’t think that she agreed with Margaret. But Evelyn doubted she’d get the chance.
She assumed that Mr. Gaiman and his friend would get off at the next stop. As it was, Mr. Gaiman didn’t look like he was used to taking English tea. The teacup looked like a doll’s toy in his hand and biscuits a far cry from a satisfying refreshment. This all made it difficult to ignore his hands and how they were tanned and sturdy.
“Would you mind if we discussed a couple of repairs my dear husband and I had talked about before he died but never got around to doing?” Margaret said.
“Certainly,” Mr. Gaiman said, although his brows had lifted. His attention was fully on Evelyn’s aunt, which gave her another opportunity to notice how his gray suit coat strained at the shoulder seams, which might mean that the coat wasn’t his or that it no longer fit.
The breadth of his shoulders was not to be missed, and Evelyn guessed that he did plenty of labor at his excavation site. And he probably didn’t wear a suit coat when he was beneath the hot sun.
While Margaret droned on about an archway that had started to crumble and how the garden paths needed a new layer of gravel, Evelyn’s mind strayed much farther than it should have.
She imagined herself visiting Giza with Mr. Gaiman as her guide. Living in a tent would just be part of the experience. Perhaps she could help excavate or catalog or something. But then she thought of Beatrice and their pact. If Evelyn were in Egypt, she’d be able to stay only a year. Without even discussing it with her aunt, she knew the answer would be no.
So Evelyn let her fantasy die right there on the spot.
“What about you, Miss Tucker?” Mr. Gaiman suddenly said.
At least Evelyn thought it was sudden because she hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation because of said daydreaming. Her blank look must have given her away.
“What do you think of the British Museum?”
“She’s never been,” her aunt piped in.
“I’ve read about it,” Evelyn admitted. “I would love to see the displays. I read an article about some of the excavations they’ve funded.”
Mr. Gaiman and Mr. Smith both looked at her with surprise.
Her aunt shook her head and said, “Evelyn, you’ve become quite obsessed over your interest in history.”
Evelyn ignored her aunt’s caustic remark and was grateful when Mr. Gaiman said, “I met with the director this past week, and they are considering putting funds into my excavation since I may not have a benefactor any longer.”
“Benefactress,” Mr. Smith cut in. “Mrs. Lillian Worthen had been funding the excavation—but she may be pulling out.”
Mr. Gaiman looked a bit uncomfortable now. “When she found out about my inheritance, she thought I’d been a charlatan.”
“Oh, that’s nonsense,” Mrs. Tucker said. “I could be your witness. James took us all by surprise, that dear, infuriating man.”
“What happens if the British Museum doesn’t support your project?” Evelyn asked, too curious to let the opportunity pass.
“We’ll be packing up when we return to Egypt, that’s what,” Mr. Smith said.
Mr
. Gaiman glanced at his friend. “I’ll be on my own, that’s what. I won’t be able to afford an assistant, and I’ll have to cut the crew in half.”
Mr. Smith shook his head. “If Henry is anything, it’s determined. He could be flat broke, yet he’d still rise each morning and dig in the dirt, hoping to find the eighth wonder of the world.”
Mrs. Tucker laughed. “The two of you are certainly entertaining.”
Evelyn didn’t laugh. Although Mr. Gaiman was smiling along with everyone else, she could see that his passion about his archaeology project was deep seated. She wished she could speak with him about it without so many others chiming in.
Evelyn tried to diffuse the teasing. “The article I read was about Charles Fellows’s expedition in Asia Minor and the tombs of the rulers of ancient Lycia.”
“How extraordinary that you’ve read that article,” Mr. Gaiman said.
A warm thrill ran through Evelyn as Mr. Gaiman’s eyes lit up.
“We didn’t have much entertainment at the boarding house,” Evelyn said, trying to sound nonchalant when inside she was overjoyed to have such a conversation with someone like Mr. Gaiman. “I find excavation work fascinating.”
“Perhaps you found yourself a new assistant, Henry,” Mr. Smith piped in with a chuckle.
Before Evelyn could respond, her aunt said, “No woman would put up with that much sand. Our delicate sensibilities need regular beds and carpets beneath our feet.”
Evelyn didn’t know if she was blushing because Mr. Smith had guessed her thoughts or because her aunt was once again overriding her every opinion.
“Do you mind sand and broiling hot temperatures, Miss Tucker?” Mr. Smith asked with a chortle.
Evelyn gave a small smile when she looked at Mr. Gaiman, who was decidedly watching her. “I suppose an Englishwoman might be able to enjoy Egypt as much as an Egyptian woman.”
Mr. Smith laughed. But best of all, Mr. Gaiman was smiling—directly at Evelyn.
“Enough of that,” her aunt said. “Visiting Egypt will be enough of an adventure for me. What do you recommend we see while we’re there, Mr. Gaiman?”
“You’re going to Egypt too?” he asked, his eyes alighting on Evelyn once again before returning to her aunt.
“Oh yes,” her aunt said. “Although I’m not too keen to travel for a full year now that we have our future secured and a home to live in when we return.” She flashed a wide smile. “Thanks to you, dear Mr. Gaiman.”
He tilted his head. “Perhaps when you come to Egypt, we can give you a tour.”
“Are you sure you’ll be able to pull yourself away from the expedition?” Mr. Smith said.
“For Mrs. Tucker and Miss Tucker, I’ll make sure of it,” Mr. Gaiman said.
Tea was over all too soon, and Mr. Gaiman and Mr. Smith left the compartment. They would be getting off at the very next stop and heading back to London so that they could retrieve their belongings, secure a follow-up meeting with the British Museum committee, and say goodbye to their families.
Evelyn’s aunt wasted no time on commenting when the compartment door shut between them.
“What fine young men,” she said, patting Evelyn’s hand. “Either of them would make a good match, but I’d prefer Mr. Henry Gaiman over Mr. Smith, wouldn’t you?”
“I hardly know them,” Evelyn said, wondering if she’d been too forward or if her aunt had been off-putting. She’d seen the interest in Mr. Gaiman’s eyes when they’d discussed his profession, but she knew that interest didn’t extend to her personally.
Mrs. Jones cleared away the tea things, and Mr. Jones wheeled the tray out of the compartment. It was time to look forward to whatever adventures lay before her and not dwell on the impossible.
Three weeks later
“She’s coming,” Percy said as Henry finished up his meal.
They’d been expecting Mrs. Lillian Worthen for the past couple of days, after sending a letter that they were back on the dig in Giza. He didn’t blame her for the delay. The pyramids at Giza were a beautiful thing to behold in the early dawn hours or during the sunsets that splashed palettes of color across the sky. But the rest of the hours in the day, the pyramids were a dirty brown, the wind sharp and hot, and the sand a constant irritant. Still, Henry loved it all.
He gazed across the expanse of desert to see that, indeed, a party was making its way toward the excavation. There looked to be about six riders.
Since their return to Giza, only about one-third of the crew could be rounded up and rehired. Now, the crew was on a short break to eat, and then they’d return to work for a couple more hours before the sun completely set and stole all the light.
Henry and Percy had been doing just as much labor in the sweltering heat as the crew and then staying up well into the night working by light of oil lamps to clean and identify the artifacts they’d been pulling out of the main tomb.
They’d been fortunate that no one had overtaken the excavation site while they were in England and that the two security guards they’d hired had done their job well.
Now it was a question of whether this excavation could continue until completion—which might take years—or if he’d be forced to wrap up in a few months. Even with the recent inheritance, he wouldn’t be able to finance such a project long-term. His disposable income would increase, yes, but not enough to support the excavation properly. The only other option would be to sell the London property, but he refused to as long as Mrs. Tucker was alive.
He’d made a promise, and he intended to keep it. The fact that Evelyn was dependent upon her aunt, at least until she married, had only solidified his decision. He couldn’t very well turn out a widow and her niece. And even though Evelyn wasn’t technically related to him, he felt responsible for her too. Besides, if Percy’s glowing praise about Evelyn was any indication, Henry was sure the woman wouldn’t be on the marriage market for long.
She was a striking young lady, with intelligence to impress even the most avid scholar—all things that Percy had commented on more than once. This made Henry question Percy’s former interest in Mrs. Lillian Worthen. It seemed his friend was quick to fall in love with an idea more than an actual woman.
After leaving Mrs. Tucker and Miss Tucker at the next train stop, he and Percy had returned to London. The second meeting with the British Museum had gone well, but the curator had requested a few of the artifacts to be sent back so he could decide if they were willing to help fund the project. All of this would take several weeks.
“She’s almost here,” Percy said, bringing Henry back to the present.
Henry rose to his feet, brushed off his hands, and stepped out of the open-sided tent to join Percy as he watched the arriving entourage. As usual, Mrs. Worthen rode at the front of the group, her white dress blowing in the wind, her wide-brimmed hat secured firmly on her head.
“Welcome back!” she said as she approached. “I see you’ve resurrected the excavation.”
For an older woman, and for one whom Henry wasn’t attracted to in the least, she looked quite queenly.
Henry grasped the reins of her horse to steady the beast as she climbed down. “We’ve done our best with a smaller crew.”
“Ah, of course,” Mrs. Worthen said, pulling off her riding gloves. “Is there someplace we can talk privately?” Her gaze flickered to Percy, then to the other men she’d ridden with.
“We have a small sitting area in our tent,” Henry said, motioning toward the sleeping tent he shared with Percy. They had a couple of wooden chairs that weren’t much in the way of comfort, but they were serviceable.
Mrs. Worthen wrinkled her nose. “Some place less . . . confined.”
“We can walk over to the dig site,” Henry said. “The crew does not speak English anyway.”
Mrs. Worthen nodded. “Very well. Lead the way.”
Henry tried to lead the way, but in fact, Mrs. Worthen linked her arm through his. Henry didn’t mind entirely since the ground was quite uneven wit
h all the blowing sand. But he hoped she wasn’t taking it as encouragement.
They’d walked several paces from where Percy was offering the other riders to share in their meal, when Mrs. Worthen said, “I don’t have time to wait upon convention. I’m in need of a husband, Henry. And I’ve decided you’ll fit the position.”
Henry’s mind went completely blank, and he hoped he hadn’t heard her correctly.
“Apparently, some of the details of my estate have been called into question by a distant relative,” she continued, moving a tad closer to him. “Having just undergone an inheritance issue yourself, I’m sure you understand.”
“I . . .” Henry understood nothing.
“To be quite frank, I need an heir,” Mrs. Worthen said. “I’ve been to the European physician in Cairo, and he assured me that a woman of my age can still conceive. He said that there’s no reason I cannot have a healthy son.”
“A son?” Henry finally stopped, pulled away from her, and looked her in the eyes.
Her thin lips curled into a bare semblance of a smile. “Yes. A son. I need a son to inherit. Before that happens, I need to a marry a virile man.”
Henry’s throat felt as if he’d swallowed a bucket full of sand.
“You’re a healthy man,” she said, resting her hand atop his folded arms. “There’s a small Christian church in Cairo, and I’ve already spoken to the reverend. We would then need to return to England as husband and wife, for only a year or so. Produce our heir, and after a few years, I’ll send the child to a boarding school. You could return to Egypt and continue your projects while our son is educated with other English boys. I’ll keep my money, and you’ll keep your excavations.”
She watched him expectantly, as if she thought he’d embrace her in joy.
Why me? Why not Percy? Henry wanted to blurt out. Yet, despite Percy’s earlier insinuation about Mrs. Worthen, Henry wouldn’t offer up his friend as the sacrifice.
His mind spun. Mrs. Worthen had buried two husbands, but that wasn’t the only reason Henry wanted to refuse. And it wasn’t because he had the misconception that he’d find the love of his life someday and marry her instead. It was because he couldn’t picture himself with this woman in the way that she was implying. Returning to England for a year? The very thought made his heart sink. And then what? Return to Egypt and share the narrow cot in his tent?
A Grand Tour (Timeless Victorian Collection Book 2) Page 18