by D B Nielsen
I gave him a soothing pat, sitting on the floor beside him. It was perhaps a good thing I was going to Paris next week as I could no longer delay my investigations into the origin and purpose of the artefact.
Indy placed his head on my lap, fitfully dosing as I absent-mindedly stroked his ears. The visions were coming more frequently now, with an urgency I couldn’t fail to understand. I didn’t know how much longer I could ignore the warning signs that my life might be in danger or how much longer I could keep the truth from those I loved. As if I needed a reminder, my wound throbbed dully and the faint scent of peonies filled my bedroom. Unconsciously, I reached into the pocket of my jeans to retrieve St. John’s note – a talisman to keep my dark thoughts at bay.
But the rest of the week passed without incident, though I had to return briefly to the hospital to have my stitches removed. It was less painful than I thought it would be except for a brief flash of sharp pain whenever the attending orderly tugged to free a stitch from the flesh at my temple.
Of more concern to me was Mum’s response to my trip to Paris. Her repeated cautioning and advice was starting to grate on my nerves – I knew that she was acting out of concern for me but after years of being “the responsible one”, I chafed at the restrictions placed upon me now. I realised how much I valued my independence and was loath to lose it simply because of a stupid accident. I think the reminder of the accident due to my puckered flesh where a scar was forming acted as fuel to the fire because, whenever I brushed my hair out of my eyes, Mum would wince and start in again on my need to listen to St. John who would be there in Paris to watch over me and keep me safe.
In fact, she couldn’t have been closer to the truth had she known it – St. John had been true to his word; acting as my self-appointed guardian. He’d taken to having dinner at the Manor House since I arrived back from the hospital, much to my parents’ delight. I would have been delighted too, had it not been for his patronising attitude towards me. Not only were my parents and Fi happy to accept him as one of the family, his amusing stories and anecdotes entertained even my younger siblings, but it was frustrating that he playfully included me amongst them.
Yet the close contact allowed me to observe St. John as I wouldn’t have been able to before my accident. Around my family, he was all that was charming, urbane and witty. The perfect guest. The perfect dinner companion.
Yet, every now and again, I detected something in his eyes or his gestures that was, if not practised, then more careful or guarded. It may have been a reflection on how closely I watched him that I also began to notice with studied interest his speech patterns. His natural speech was peppered with literary and biblical allusions – whether he was conscious of it or not. He often wove quotes from Donne to Shakespeare and Erasmus to Heidegger seamlessly into his conversation – though many of these were quite familiar, there were many more far obscurer references which I had no knowledge of. This, coupled with the gentle rhythms of speech to be found in the pages of a Jane Austen novel or Oscar Wilde play, spoken by a Mr Knightley or Lord Goring, and the archaic turns of phrase he often used, suggested that St. John was even more of an enigma than I’d thought previously. But when I’d raised my thoughts with Fi she dismissed what I said claiming that if St. John’s native tongue was French then it stood to reason his English wouldn’t be perfect.
But what she didn’t understand was that his language, like the rest of him, was perfect. Too perfect. It seemed to me that St. John Rivers was forever playing roles. I didn’t think anyone knew the man beneath the social mask or behind his authoritative role as Assistant Keeper at the museum.
And I wondered at his intention to protect me. On the one hand, it was almost as if he was taking on a chivalric role, an old-fashioned courtship. But, on the other, it was as if he thought I was constantly falling headlong into danger and the best way to stop this from happening was to ensure there was no danger for me to fall into.
So when the day finally dawned on our trip to Paris, I instinctively knew that this time alone with him would be crucial. Not only was I intent on uncovering whatever secrets St. John kept hidden from view, I knew our relationship couldn’t continue as it was – balancing so precariously on a knife’s edge.
As always the day began a dull metallic grey, evidence of our advance into winter. I chose my outfit carefully with a view to comfort rather than making a lasting impression. I would save that for an evening out when I could dazzle St. John with something feminine and alluring. Right now I decided simply to opt for jeans, knee-high leather boots and a two-toned knitted top under a smart chocolate corduroy jacket. I wound a green scarf round my neck for warmth and completed my ensemble with a jaunty little black cap that made me look like a cheeky Artful Dodger. Set at an angle, its rim covered my scar from view which was the reason I chose it.
I made my way down the stairs rolling my carry-on luggage behind me. It contained my essentials for the week – mostly filled with guide books, laptop and charger, and reading material. I probably didn’t need the guide books – one for Paris and its outer regions and another on the rest of France – as I’d lived in Paris for a while when Dad was working there but I felt that they might come in handy and, out of habit, I packed them into my bag. I parked my suitcase next to the back door along with my tote and walked into the kitchen.
Mum looked up and gave me a small, taut smile where she stood by the kitchen sink, arms across her chest, staring out the window at the dark, bare branches of a row of tall rhodendrums that would bloom in the spring but now stretched naked across the smoky coloured sky. I joined her at the window, putting my arms around her waist and bending into her to lean my cheek against her shoulder blade. She reached up a hand and gave my arm a pat as if to say that everything was all right.
Placing my chin on her shoulder, I asked, ‘What’s up?’
She ignored my question but answered it in her own way. ‘Be sure to ring me when you arrive and every night so I know that you’re safe.’
‘Yes, Mum, I promise.’ I answered dutifully, knowing that nothing less than my faithful promise would satisfy her.
‘What do you want for breakfast?’ she asked, slowly disengaging herself from my arms and turning away from the window.
I knew better than to tell her that I wasn’t hungry which was only the truth as my stomach was filled with butterflies that were causing havoc at the thought that I was about to leave for Paris with St. John in less than an hour, so instead I requested pancakes to appease her.
I sat at the kitchen counter while she whipped the mixture with a hand beater and chatted inanely about going to buy gifts from the boutiques at Val d’Europe if I got the chance.
‘When’s St. John taking you to the Louvre?’ she asked, pouring a ladle of pancake batter onto the hot crepe pan on the stove.
‘I’m not sure,’ I replied with a shrug, ‘I think it’s tomorrow or the next day but it’s a private tour he’s arranged so I expect it will be either early in the morning or late at night when the tourists have gone.’
‘It’ll be like The da Vinci Code but without the curator’s dead body,’ Fi suggested as she entered the kitchen still dressed in her pyjamas and slid onto a stool next to me.
I rolled my eyes as Mum laughed in response.
Fi gave me a nudge under the countertop, ‘Maybe you and St. John can role-play Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu.’
‘Leave your sister alone, Safie,’ Mum chided, as she placed a stack of freshly-made pancakes in front of us.
I managed to eat a couple of pancakes to satisfy Mum before I heard the purr of an engine as St. John’s black Audi drove past the French windows to park close to the rear.
He knocked on the back door and entered, droplets of rainwater sparkling on his golden curls and his black turtleneck sweater. It was always an impressive sight when he entered a room, as if it lit up with his radiant presence. He ran a hand through his hair giving it a slight shake.
I snickered and his
head snapped up, his eyes meeting mine.
‘You look like Indy when he shakes his head.’ I answered the query in his eyes.
He laughed, not taking offense. ‘Great! Now I look like the mutt!’
‘Ah, but he’s not a mutt,’ I disagreed, ‘He’s a pedigree pointer.’
As if to prove a point, Indy bounded in from the opposite direction, tail wagging enthusiastically and planted two paws on St. John’s chest.
‘Indy! Bad dog! Get down!’ Mum called out and tried to shoo him away with a tea towel.
Fi and I were in stitches, laughing even harder when St. John attempted to brush dog fur from his damp sweater and pants. Green eyes flashed retribution in my direction but I only raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t afraid of St. John Rivers – I didn’t need to be; after all, he was my very own personal protector.
The Eurostar ran from Ebbsfleet International in Kent to Paris Gare du Nord, leaving mid-morning and arriving less than two hours later. St. John had booked premier first class tickets as he was a frequent traveller which also allowed for long-term parking for his Audi and more leg-room which, given St. John’s height, wasn’t so much a luxury as a necessity.
I hugged Mum and Fi farewell and told them to say goodbye to Jasmine and Alex as I’d already said my farewells to Dad last night. Mum was a little anxious but at least Fi was there to calm her down. But as I handed my suitcase and jacket to St. John to put in the boot of the car, Fi whispered the most outrageous suggestions making me blush to the roots of my hair. I just hoped no one had noticed.
Climbing into St. John’s Audi felt like a declaration that I belonged there next to him, especially as he turned up the heat in the car and offered me the use of his overcoat to place over my legs if I was feeling cold. It was difficult to see how this could be the case as the air-conditioning unit in the car worked extraordinarily well and I was warm in no time.
I was just getting comfortable, maybe a little too comfortable, when St. John broke the silence.
‘What are you intending to do in Paris?’ he asked, accelerating onto the motorway.
‘Well ... I want to buy Christmas presents for my family and spend some time at the Louvre,’ I replied, watching his profile from beneath my lashes, ‘and visit the teahouse at Mariage Frères – I’m dying for their tea jellies.’
He laughed, a rich sound that filled the car and provided me with more warmth than the car’s functional air-con. ‘Have you tried their tea-infused chocolates?’
I gasped, my mouth automatically watering at the thought. ‘No. That good, huh?’
He nodded, looking at the road as it bent in the distance.
‘Don’t tempt me, I’m only human,’ I said wistfully.
For a moment I thought he stiffened but I couldn’t think what I’d said that might make him react in such a way. But his voice when he finally spoke sounded quite normal.
‘Could I tempt you?’ he teased, flashing a smile in my direction.
I blushed, recalling Fi’s blatant suggestions. If he only knew that for me he was an addiction – one that I couldn’t and didn’t want to break.
The silence lengthened between us and I might have kept my own counsel had it not been for his hands which were clamped hard on the steering wheel, the knuckles so white that I was sure he’d leave an imprint on the wood veneer.
‘Too easily,’ I replied, trying to put some distance between us in the car by turning to look out the passenger side window. ‘You’re hard to resist.’
His mocking laugh came out rather like a growl. ‘I’m not the one that’s irresistible.’
My head spun to face him as I demanded, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Aren’t we past all evasions now?’ he countered, his rich voice mellowing. ‘I told you that I’d given in, Sage. What was it that Darcy says to Elizabeth? “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed.”’
I remained silent, hoping that he’d quote the rest of Darcy’s declaration, but it seemed that St. John had other ideas, instead confessing, ‘But, to be honest, I think I empathise with Mr Knightley more than Darcy. At least he knew the tribulations of having to wait for Emma to grow up.’
I didn’t know how to react to St. John’s statement. I’d never heard a more botched compliment. I wasn’t quite sure if St. John was confessing he had feelings for me or whether he was justifying his behaviour in blowing hot and then cold. It was astounding.
‘What are you trying to tell me?’ I asked, confused.
‘Something that’ll keep for another time,’ he said, checking his speed, ‘We’re here.’
With that, he swung the car into the undercover parking facility and, before I knew it, he was engaging the handbrake, turning off the engine and alighting from the car to collect our bags from the boot.
I was left stewing in repressed frustration, knowing there was no satisfaction to be had until St. John was willing to resume our conversation – an unlikely event as he had already changed the topic, suggesting that we have a coffee and he could return a few calls on his iPhone while we waited for the train to arrive.
It was the longest twenty minutes I’d ever spent as he ignored me while placing his calls and I was in a foul mood by the time we boarded our first class carriage. I’m sure he was well aware of how I felt but he refused to indulge what he probably saw as a tantrum which, no doubt in his eyes, only confirmed my lack of maturity.
For a time I sat doing nothing, only thinking of Jane Austen’s Emma and St. John and myself, but no matter how I combined them, I couldn’t make sense of what he saw as irresistible – especially if he was comparing me to Emma Woodhouse who was spoilt, selfish and a dreadful snob. If the only thing that made him empathise with Mr Knightley was the difference in our ages, then it was hardly a fair comparison.
Looking out the window of the train as the scenery flashed by, I saw a dark spot on the horizon moving quite fast, keeping easy pace with the train. At first I thought it was someone flying a kite, but then realised it was a large bird, like a hawk or a falcon, soaring in the sky. Speculating wildly, it reminded me of the suspicious flock of birds flying overhead in The Lord of the Rings, which Aragorn feared were servants of Mordor sent to spy on the Fellowship of Seven as they headed south, along the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Then I dismissed my thoughts as ludicrous – I was becoming as fanciful as Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey with an equally overactive imagination – it just proved how silly and immature I was being as St. John ignored me to conduct business. I would just have to get used to it if I wanted to be part of his life, I decided.
We were about halfway through our train trip when I became aware of a silence. St. John was no longer on his iPhone. I’d been daydreaming. Lost, as usual, in my own little world, I’d failed to notice when he’d started paying attention to me again.
‘What?’ I said.
‘You had that same look before you walked in front of the relief and almost got yourself killed,’ he replied.
‘Oh ... Just daydreaming ...’ In that limbo state halfway between Jane Austen and my own life, my wits had failed to catch up with me yet.
His mouth tightened into a critical line and it was only then that I began to notice that he wasn’t quite as cool as he wished to appear to be, his fingers drumming a syncopated rhythm. But I knew instinctively that his restiveness wasn’t because of me.
I was mesmerised by the drumming of his long fingers on the laminated surface of the table top. Then the rhythm came to a halt.
‘Your obsession with the artefact is placing you in danger.’
My eyes flashed to meet his. I felt shaken by his statement which was the last thing I expected him to say.
‘It’s obvious to me that you haven’t let it go, Sage,’ he said curtly, ‘You still think the artefact has something to do with the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said simply.
‘And you’re basing this on what evidence?’ he a
sked, his voice tight.
I was watchful of the look in his jade coloured eyes as I replied. ‘Intuition?’
I meant for it to sound more emphatic but instead it came out as an appeal for his understanding and, perhaps, for his help. He must have realised this because, although he was pushing a hand through his golden hair in a gesture of frustration, the corner of his mouth twitched in response to my answer.
‘Feminine intuition,’ he murmured, reclining back into his seat as if in a gesture of defeat. ‘It’s going to get you killed.’
A shiver ran up my spine as if he held Prometheus’s gift of foresight. My heart thudded against the ancient heart scarab that rested against my breast and I was grateful for its weight and its reminder that not all things were doomed to an absolute and final end.
‘Will you help me?’ I asked, my voice barely a whisper. ‘I need to examine the Esagila Tablet.’
Jade green eyes probed mine. ‘What will that prove?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I told him honestly, ‘but I have to see it.’
He nodded wearily. ‘All right, the Esagila Tablet.’
‘And when we get back to London, can you help me gain access to one of the British Library’s rare books?’
I knew I was pushing my luck but St. John simply raised an eyebrow. ‘Which one?’
‘A sacred text under Zoroastrianism,’ I answered, ‘A book containing illustrations of trees catalogued as RSPA 230.’