by Splendid You
“But I wanted to go.”
He stopped so suddenly that Julia’s feet sent little spurts of gravel flying from the path as she tried not to walk slap into him. “And that’s my fault, as well. I should have sent you to your house this morning.”
Julia made a grab at his arm as he turned away. “Understand once and for all, Simon Archer, nobody sends me anywhere! I chose to come with you; I chose to speak to him.”
“But that’s absurd. No woman—
“If you say once more that no woman can choose for herself, I will scream!”
“There. You see. No man would ever say such a thing.”
“Would you prefer me to be more manly? Very well. Simon, you tell me even once more than no woman can be trusted to choose for herself and I’ll—I’ll punch you in the nose. Better?”
“Don’t get hysterical, Julia.”
“That’s enough!” She reached out and seized hold of his shirt.
“Stop! What will people think?”
Though Julia was rather tall for her sex, she still felt paltry when she stood close to him. Some of her anger departed, for when he looked down at her like that she could only remember that he’d kissed her in the carriage. Nonetheless, she fixed him with as steely an eye as she could manage.
Enunciating each word with precision, she said in a ruthlessly controlled tone, “Never tell me I’m hysterical when you are being unreasonable.”
“I’m never unreasonable.”
“Ha!” She released him and marched past him. “And you call yourself a scientist!”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
This time, she stopped short and had the satisfaction of watching him windmill his arms to avoid running over her. “A scientist has a theory that fits the facts. When a new fact comes along, he changes the theory. You, Mr. Archer, attempt to tailor the facts to fit your theory.”
“I do not! Give me one example.”
“One! I have a hundred, but one will suffice. You theorize that all women are weak and feeble, unable to think or reason without a man’s help. I am a woman.”
“Yes, you are,” he agreed with warmth.
“Don’t interrupt, if you please. I am a woman. I have as loving a heart as any woman ever born. But I am neither meek nor helpless and you yourself have paid unstinting homage to my mind.”
“Your translations are masterly.”
“Yet you refuse to change your theory to fit the fact of my existence! I am a woman and must therefore be a fool and a coward no matter how often I prove the reverse. By not accepting new evidence, you prove yourself to be nothing more than a blind dolt who tripped upon good fortune. You don’t deserve to have found An-ket’s tomb.”
With that parting shot, Julia strode away. It took a surprising amount of self-discipline not to look back and see, if not Simon hurrying to catch up, at least him standing with a look of baffled wonder on his face. When she heard his footsteps matching hers, she looked down just long enough to see his shoes come up beside her. Then, head up, back straight, she continued on her march.
At a rapid pace, they continued through the park. Having surged against a flotilla of nannies with children, both walking and in prams, they could not stop to continue their argument. A few heads turned to watch a man and a woman striding along as though competing for which would bring the news of Marathon.
Julia felt a prickle of sweat under her dress. It was not fair. She must have been carrying twenty extra pounds of clothing compared to his neat attire. And her shoes, while comfortable, were not as sturdy or as supportive as his. Once already, she’d nearly turned an ankle in the gravel.
But she was determined not to falter. At least, not before Simon did.
They rounded a corner and the scent of sun-warmed roses poured over them. Julia slowed her pace perforce to breathe in the aroma, sharp and sweet together. A garden of color-dappled bushes stood to one side off the path, bounded by wrought-iron fences. The Do Not Pick the Flowers notices were discreet but adamant.
“Thank goodness mere’s no law against smelling public flowers.”
Drawn by the scent and the colors, she left the path to bend down over one pink blossom and draw its fragrance deep into her soul. “Heavenly. Simon, come smell this.”
“I’ve never been able to smell roses. Their scent is too light for me to catch.”
“You can smell these. Here—the red ones have the richest perfume. Mmm. It’s enough to make one drunk. I sometimes think bees get intoxicated by the roses.” She pointed to one fuzzy-bodied bee staggering out of a fully opened rose. “Look, there goes one. His flight is very crooked. I think he’s dizzy.”
She held the bloom steady while Simon sniffed hesitantly. “Yes, I can just catch that.”
“I have some attar of roses in my luggage. I wear it on special occasions. If you’re good, I’ll let you smell my wrist.” Her tone was teasing. Not looking at him, she leaned low to inhale once more the exquisite bouquet that attracted bee and man alike.
“Julia ...”
His hand rested lightly on her waist. She straightened, squinting a trifle in the sunshine. He touched her cheek with his fingertips. She remembered the look in his eyes from the carriage and felt a shiver of some emotion that fell halfway between apprehension and delight. She suddenly knew how a rosebud must feel when, day by day, under the caressing influence of the sun, it began to open. Every time Simon touched her, she unfurled a little more.
She wondered what the end would be even while she hoped for wonders beyond her experience.
“Julia ...” he said again, with an increase in urgency. His hand curled around her waist. She felt the strength in his arm as it began to tighten.
“You can’t kiss me here. There’s a constable coming up the path.”
For one heart-clenching moment, she thought he’d ignore that and kiss her anyway. She wanted him to be so reckless even while she admitted it wasn’t at all wise. But wisdom, she was beginning to sense, wasn’t everything.
The constable gave them a lowering glance from under his hat brim. She supposed they did look more than a little disreputable. Her hat was tilted far back on her head again, her face hot, while her dress was bedraggled and dusty about the hem. Simon’s shirt was wrenched from where she’d grabbed it and his silk cravat had twisted around under one ear. She reached up to adjust it, even while smiling brightly at the policeman.
“Stay off the grass,” he growled.
“Yes, constable. Thank you.”
Once more on the path, Simon said, “So tell me, what you did think of him? A mountebank, no doubt, good only for frightening the credulous.”
“On the contrary, Simon. Dr. Mystery, despite his flamboyant appearance and approach, is completely serious about his spiritualism. He might even prove to be a fanatic about it.”
“Come, come. How can you tell all that from a single half-hour’s conversation?”
“I looked into his eyes.”
“I’ve never noticed anything odd about his eyes.”
“Have you ever looked into them? Deeply? I doubt he would let a man do it, but he was as interested in me as I was in him. Oh, not in any amorous way,” she said, taking the word with a gulp. “Not even in a financial way, and I have seen both often enough. If I did not believe myself to be indulging in wishful thinking, I could almost say that Dr. Mystery was interested in me for my mind.”
Simon said sourly, “In short, your perfect man.”
Julia studied him. Was it possible that Simon Archer was jealous? Impossible, she thought. How could a man be jealous unless he was in love? If he was falling in love with her ... but to her surprise, she found the idea did not elate her. Surely love that admitted jealousy was a possessive, untrusting love, not at all what she had dreamed of since girlhood.
Sighing, Julia walked on, her hands clasped loosely behind her back. Her father always called it her “sailor walk” but it served as an aid to thought like no other.
Was sh
e asking too much of fate? Surely it would be enough for Simon Archer to take her on whatever terms. As his wife, she would have the felicity of assisting a great man in his life’s work, a work that she loved as well as she loved the man.
Julia stole a glance at him, once more walking beside her. He had a remarkably fine profile, like a cameo of a Roman general. It must be a lasting wonder to her that some woman hadn’t married him out of hand years ago.
Was she in love with him? Not just with the personality revealed in his letters, but with the man himself? She recalled seeing him for the first time yesterday, remembering with what anticipation she’d waited for him to notice her. Surely the butterflies in her interior had not been those natural to an applicant inquiring for a post, but the nervous flutterings of a woman meeting the man of her dreams.
She asked herself what he must have seen in that first moment. An Egyptologist, sensibly controlled, stating her case with clarity and determination? Or a man-hungry spinster, looking with covetous eyes at an eligible male? Julia wriggled with humiliation at the very notion of that second possibility.
Had she been in love with Simon all along? Had her wild plan of marrying him been born not out of love for Egypt’s ancient glories, but out of a connection to Simon himself? She could not help being uneasy about the answers.
Above all, she asked herself why he had kissed her in the carriage. Was it—horrid thought—out of pity? Had she been giving out, all unconsciously, some sort of signal that she wanted him to do it? Was she demonstrating, even now, that she wanted him to do it again? Because she wanted him to kiss her again. The first one had been too brief. She had sat there, frozen against the cushions, unable to react to this new situation. What if she never had another opportunity?
“Did you say something?” Simon asked.
“No. I have a stitch in my side from all this walking.”
“There’s a bench over there. Shall we sit down?”
“For a few moments. I still have much to do today.” When they sat down, Simon turned toward her and put his arm along the back of the bench. If her posture had deviated even slightly from perfection, she could have thought herself all but cuddled in his arm.
He said, “So you think Dr. Mystery is a fanatic?” “I believe he could become one very easily. Once, after our former vicar had died, several men served our church until a permanent replacement was found. One, a middle-aged gentleman, was as merry and charming as could be, but I could never like him as well as my father and some of the other committee members did. I saw a look in his eyes that made me most uncomfortable. I wish to make no comparisons between true religion and Dr. Mystery’s beliefs, mind you.”
“Of course not. What happened to this ‘middle-aged gentleman’?”
“We heard through friends that in his next post he became convinced that the Messiah would be returning to earth within the year. When he was found waiting for Our Lord in the middle of an icy river at Christmas, it was decided that he must be confined for his own safety. My father sent money for the man’s keep and he was not sent to an asylum. But until he died, he believed that he himself had become what he’d waited for. They say he was a very gentle madman.”
“And you feel that Dr. Mystery is on the verge of such madness?”
“I’m not a physician. But such a little thing set Mr. Marcham off. He’d always been very stern against swearing. Apparently when he heard a young boy take the name of the Lord in vain one too many times ... it was too much.”
“I feel sorry for him. But I’m not concerned that Dr. Mystery ... how I hate that name! I wish I knew what his true name was so that I could use it to his face!”
“Do you hate him?”
He considered, staring off toward some distant trees, before replying, “No. I sincerely hope I have no hatred in me toward anyone. But I despise him because he feeds the false hopes of others and battens on their grief like a vampire.”
Changing his warm, masculine voice to a reedy falsetto, he said, “Do you yearn to speak with those who are lost? Do you long for the touch of a vanished hand? Simply give some prating actor fifty pounds and the eternal mysteries are revealed.” In his own voice, mastering passion with difficulty, he said, “It’s ... it’s making a mockery of things that are too sacred to be made the stuff of commerce.”
“I agree with you,” Julia said, laying her hand on his sleeve. “I’m delighted that he has given it up, for whatever reason.”
Simon’s hand covered hers. She felt tingles run from the spot he touched to the back of her neck. Knowing her cheeks were pink, she slipped her hand from under his gentle pressure. “Dear me,” she said, catching the faint reverberation of the city’s church bells. “I must run away!
I told the Pierce girls that I’d meet them just a little while from now. No,” she added, rising. “Don’t trouble to come with me. Domestic details can never be as absorbing to a gentleman as they are to women.”
“Now you are guilty of the same sin of generalization as I have been. I’m very interested indeed in your ‘domestic details.’" Somehow he managed, whether by inflection or the lift of his impertinent eyebrow, to make those two words sound tempting, as though Adam were discussing applesauce with Eve.
* * * *
In Dr. Mystery’s bedroom, Basil Mortimer stood before his full-length pier glass mirror. Overhead, four soft balls stuffed with millet flew in an endless cascade, while the man’s hands scarcely moved. He juggled without ever taking his eyes from his own reflected eyes, catching and releasing the balls using only peripheral vision. He’d trained himself to be perfect and found the appearance of looking straight ahead while carefully observing around him to be a very valuable skill.
There was no past, no future, he told himself. There is only this moment, this juggling—each ball, every ball. Catch and release, using only the springs in my fingers and the trampoline of my hand.
“‘It has been an... experience meeting you,’“ he quoted, without realizing he’d meant to say anything at all. He dropped one ball, then another. He let the remaining two fall, bounding away over the carpet.
“Damn Simon Archer,” Basil said. “Damn his black soul.”
He’d so nearly had her. He’d exerted himself to intrigue her, dropping hints of what he could do, and he’d so nearly succeeded. If he’d been allowed even five minutes alone with her to make another appointment! Her lovely warm brown eyes had been fascinated by him, fascinated and slightly repelled. He didn’t mind that; he was used to it. So many people were put off by him on first acquaintance, but he’d made a life’s work out of reversing that immediate impression.
He had always been amused that the women who were most troubled by him at first made the most passionate devotees at the last. It was as if they worked so hard to convince themselves that they’d never felt disturbed by his peculiarities that he hardly had to exert himself to seduce them. They came willingly into his bed, eager to learn from him more than mysticism.
Not that he felt any physical desire for Julia Hanson. He recoiled from the very notion. His need for her was not of the gross body, but that of a wizard who has at last found his lost familiar. No, she must remain as pure as when he’d first met her. It would be best if she fell in love with him, of course. Women in love were so easy to control.
“Better than drugs,” he said to himself. The man in the mirror shrugged. “No, I won’t drug her. The manifestations must be undiluted. When she falls in love with me, she’ll give me what I want willingly.”
He’d use the “psychic powers have crippled my manhood” story. That always went down well with a certain type of woman. He wondered how much money she had. Not that it mattered. Between her gifts and his management, they’d both soon be rich enough even for his never-ending wants.
Basil took off his clothes, hanging coat and trousers neatly over the back of a chair. His body was on the stunted side, true, but he had worked with the raw material to fashion an ideal form, in the same way that Mi
chelangelo had found his David in the rough-hewn marble.
No one who had not seen him unclothed would have believed the extent of his muscular development. It was this that made so many of his “tricks” possible. Slipping out of knotted ropes, seeming to levitate using the arm strength no one believed he had, hiding in the top of a cabinet by the pressure of feet and hands—funny how no one ever thought to look at the ceiling of such a deceptively empty box. Just as no one troubled to look past his unappealing facade until it was too late.
It had not been lack of strength that kept him passive when Simon Archer had used him so shamefully in front of Julia Hanson. When it came to a battle of sheer brawn, he could have triumphed. Then it would have been handsome Simon humiliated in the eyes of warm, sympathetic Miss Hanson.
Basil looked at himself and sneered. Lying to oneself was pointless, whatever tales the world swallowed. He knew it hadn’t been a lack of strength that kept him from knocking Simon Archer down; what he lacked was courage.
Ever since his childhood he’d been terrified of being hurt. To improve his skills and his body, he’d suffered tremendously and never grudged a pang. What he feared was pain at the hands of another. He didn’t know why. He’d never been struck as a child, not even by his envious brothers. Grannie Daly had protected him, prophesying that it was this boy who’d inherited her “special gifts.” Everyone had been in awe of that old woman, tiny, white-bonneted, and bent, but with an inner fire capable of scorching anyone who defied her.
She’d been the wise woman of their village, whom even the doctor consulted. Most of the local fools had been afraid of her, fearful that she could “ill-wish” them. Grannie Daly had scorned to do that, though she’d always added that she could if she would. Grannie Daly had taught him more than she knew, for no advice or herbal preparation would be offered without a suitable show of theatricality to wrap her mysteries in greater mysteries yet.
She’d warned him often never to use his powers for financial gain, showing him at the same time how to make people pay or barter without a single overt word being said. He had understood that for her, the power that her fellow villagers gave her was the real reward rather than the chicken or silver pennies they brought in trade.