by Lara Temple
They were far enough away to ensure the others did not hear their low conversation above the desert winds, but perhaps something in the force of his voice carried because Ellie glanced up from her book and met his eyes.
It was like standing on the apex of a dune—standing still was impossible as the sand slowly skittered away underfoot, so he was reduced to shifting constantly to keep his centre of balance until he no longer knew what it was. He didn’t know if what he told Lucas was the truth or pure cowardice. All he knew with absolute certainty was that he was desperate to go to her. Suddenly Ellie smiled the same smile he knew from Huxley’s study and the world fell away, leaving only one, ringing truth.
He might not be right for her, but she was right for him.
If only he could get rid of Whelford’s reincarnation.
‘Do me a favour, Lucas, and find something to occupy Mallory before I do. Just look at him hanging over Ellie.’
‘He’s hanging over Sam at the moment,’ Lucas pointed out. ‘In fact, she looks like she is about to stab him with her pen any moment now. I’m so glad to see she’s recovering her foul temper.’
‘Sam is only an excuse. The idiot is smitten.’
‘Which idiot?’
Chase shot his brother a look of dislike.
‘Glaring at me won’t help, Chase. Come, I will go rescue him from our womenfolk.’
They moved forward just as Ellie set down her book and went to stand by the railing, beckoning to Mallory.
‘Do you know what that ruin on the bank is, Mr Mallory?’
Mallory hurried to join her and Sam rolled her eyes at Olivia and hunched over her sketch once more.
‘See?’ Chase growled at Lucas.
‘I do. You don’t. She was saving Sam. Now go do the same for her.’
‘That is Bait Sobek,’ Mallory was explaining to Ellie. ‘A minor temple and not of great interest apart from the fact that its name refers to the crocodile god which is peculiar, because most sites with imagery of Sobek are upriver where crocodiles were more prevalent.’
‘Maybe a few of the species find this stretch of the river welcoming, Mallory,’ Chase said as he came to stand by Ellie’s side on the railing. ‘You could always test that theory by diving off the dahabiya.’
Mallory frowned, inspecting the tangle of reeds and rushes where long-necked herons waded in search of fish and frogs.
‘I hardly think that is a sensible approach to testing the possibility, Chase.’
‘Not sensible, but certainly entertaining.’
‘Chase...’ Ellie admonished, her voice wobbling a little.
‘What? Hugh would approve of my Baconian method.’
‘Hugh is fourteen.’
‘But a very precocious fourteen...’
‘Mallory, could you come with me?’ Lucas called from the stairway leading to the lower deck. ‘I want your advice when I discuss the next leg of our trip with Hamid.’
‘Of course. With pleasure.’ Mallory smiled at Ellie and Chase and went after Lucas.
‘I thought you liked Mallory,’ Ellie said when the two men disappeared down the wooden stairs.
‘I do.’
‘Then why have you been needling him these past couple of days? Are you jealous? That Huxley entrusted him with the box rather than wait for you?’
He gripped the railing hard. For that brief moment before she qualified her question he thought he’d been as obvious to her as he was to Lucas.
‘I’m not jealous.’ Not of that, anyway. ‘I’ve merely forgotten what a tiresome bore he can be.’
‘I realise he can be a little pedantic, but there was no need to make it clear you would prefer he jump overboard.’
‘I was merely suggesting he test his theory.’
‘By swimming in crocodile-infested waters.’
‘Why the devil are you defending him? He’s a grown man, not one of your charges. And neither am I for you to scold. I’m not Henry or one of your siblings.’
‘I’m well aware of that, Mr Sinclair.’
The flickering amusement in her eyes drained immediately and for once he didn’t feel the need to snatch it back.
‘Are you? You seem to treat us all the same, as if we survive on this planet by grace and it’s only your superior good sense that can point us in the right direction...’
They stood for a moment in silence. Her face was flushed and her breathing fast and he wanted to take back his words, or at least explain...
‘Ellie, I’m sorry.’
‘I always tell my charges not to apologise for speaking the truth. Good day, Mr Sinclair.’ Each word dropped like a boulder on his ragged soul and he didn’t try to stop her when she returned to the others.
She was right. He wasn’t truly sorry. For hurting her, yes, but not for his words. He was tired of her worrying about him. He wanted her to...
Oh, hell, he just wanted her. On whatever terms. He had no idea which way was up any longer. All he knew with absolute certainty was that he was desperate to just be with her, the two of them alone. He knew it with a vicious fever that worsened with each day and it just became more and more complicated.
During the long weeks from England to Egypt he’d still had a hope that one day he would awake and discover he was cured of this malady. That some miracle of time and reality would numb this pulsing core of him that was constantly crying out to close the distance between them, physical and otherwise.
Because he hated it. Sometimes he even hated her.
He wasn’t surprised he felt these surges of queasiness. He was making himself ill just thinking about what a weak, lustful fool she’d reduced him to. He’d never in his life been so at sea with a woman, literally and figuratively, and he hated it. Hated that she could walk by him with no more than an impersonal nod and sit by Sam and Olivia and Mallory, responding to his comments as if they had never spent hours together alone in the study, as if he had never touched her more intimately than any man had...
Damn, damn, damn her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bab el-Nur was beautiful.
Sam had pointed it out to her from the river—a great sprawling white structure set against a rising cliff and surrounded by gardens within tall earthenware walls. But it was even more impressive once inside the eight-foot walls. They hid from view a palace which satisfied the fantastical imaginings sparked by the Desert Boy books—the walls were decorated in patterned tiles and the windows with wooden shutters so delicately carved the light streaming in studded the stone floors with jewelled stars.
They were met by a host of servants who embraced the Sinclairs like long-lost children before handing them into the care of the Carmichaels, a grey-haired couple who beamed with pleasure as they patiently awaited their turn. Ellie and Olivia stood a little to one side, smiling at each other a little nervously at this whirlwind of very un-English affection.
Mr Carmichael was a bear of a man, not quite as tall as Chase and Lucas, with a head of unruly black-and-grey hair and an even more unruly beard, while Mrs Carmichael was tiny, her hair steel grey and her eyes a surprising sapphire that glistened with happy tears. After introducing Lady Sinclair and Ellie she turned to Sam and pulled her into another embrace, lingering unashamedly before drying her eyes with an enormous handkerchief she extracted from her husband’s pocket.
‘Finally. It has been too dreadfully long, my dears. Now you all go refresh yourselves and later we shall have tea in the garden. Off with you.’
Ellie’s room overlooked the garden and beyond it rose ochre-coloured hills slashed at the top into a dramatic cliff fall overlooking the murky green ribbon of the Nile.
A wave of pure misery swept through her and she turned her back on that perfect tableau and went to sit on the bed. She had no right to expect anything from Chase, but she hated the way he was turning agai
nst her. He might have been grateful for her presence on the Seahawk, but he was clearly regretting his impulse to bring her to Egypt now that she’d made a fool of herself at the ball. She was losing even his friendship—the warm, approving acceptance that made her feel more herself than she ever had. Like the fairy tales, she’d been granted a dream only to see it twist around her into a mirror of her pain. She’d known there would be a price for accepting Chase’s proposal. She’d not thought it would be exacted so soon and so harshly.
She straightened at a knock on her door.
‘Aanisah Walsh? Miss Walsh?’ Hamid called through the door.
‘Yes, Hamid?’
‘It is Effendim Chase, aanisah. He says to join him in the garden, please.’
Ellie followed Hamid through the whitewashed corridors, her heart flopping about like a landed fish. Was this the ‘talk’ he had threatened her with at the ball? Was it perhaps why he had been so distant and tense on the dahabiya? Had he been gathering his resolve to face what he felt was his responsibility?
And if this was the moment of truth—what would she say?
She had a rather terrifying sensation that trying to stop herself from throwing herself at him again would be as impossible as stopping her breath.
What would she say? She would have to say something.
No, Chase, I cannot marry you.
‘Oh...inalabuk,’ she mumbled, copying Chase’s curse, and Hamid stopped on the stairs, blinking back at her.
‘Excuse me, Aanisah Walsh?’
Ellie flushed.
‘I lost my book,’ she offered and Hamid’s dark-brown eyes sparkled.
‘You wish for me to look for it, miss?’
‘I am certain it will turn up, Hamid, shukran.’
‘Very well, miss. You must not worry. What is lost is often found when one least expects it.’
Not my heart, she thought as they continued. It is lost and I knew precisely where it is.
Inalabuk, she repeated—internally this time. She liked this curse. It started with a languorous role and then slammed into the wall like a cudgel. Wham. She must have Chase teach her a few useful juicy Arabic curses so she could at least take those back home with her when her time was up and hurl them at walls and at the heavens.
Home.
She didn’t want to go home. She wanted to stay with Chase.
How on earth would she find the strength to say no?
Of course she wouldn’t say no.
Would she be so very wrong for him? He might not wish to settle, or be in love with her as she was with him, but then how many people truly found the kind of love she felt for him? Perhaps with his losses and fears he must learn to trust before he could care? She could at least give him her love and perhaps children... Whatever he professed to the contrary she knew he would love his children wholly and without reservation. And he would be a most excellent father. So if by chance this was to be a proposal, even a reluctant one, she would...
Her heart was slamming around her chest so brutally she had to press her hand to her midriff to calm its acrobatics as Hamid led her to a shaded courtyard with a tiled fountain and large urns tumbling with flowering bushes.
Despite this beautiful setting, her sorely abused heart gave a protesting creak and slowed from its gallop to a disconsolate trot as Poppy Carmichael beckoned her to come join him and Chase. Not even the sight of an elaborate wooden box on the marble-topped table countered her disappointment.
There would be no ‘talk’, apparently.
‘Miss Walsh, come sit by me. Chase was explaining about Huxley’s letter and the confusion. Dear me, what a brouhaha. If I’d known... But how could I? I was surprised enough when Mallory arrived with the box and news Huxley was ailing, only to receive the lawyers’ letter a few days later. Mrs Carmichael is very cut up, very cut up indeed. There were no blood ties, but you are all family to us. He sent both of us a letter, Chase. Explained everything to me and told me to keep the box by me until you arrived and could decide what was right. She was your mother, after all.’
Ellie watched Chase’s face as he listened. His mouth was drawn tight, the grooves at either side sharply marked. She leaned a little towards him, but did not reach out as she wished. When he didn’t speak she turned to Mr Carmichael.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr Carmichael. What is in the box?’
Mr Carmichael sighed and raised the lid to extract a thickly folded letter.
‘There are two letters—one for you, Chase, and another to be included in the box when it is put in the shrine.’ He held it out to Chase, but he shook his head and turned to Ellie.
‘You read them, Ellie. Please.’
It was the ‘please’ that did it. Ignoring the surprise on Mr Carmichael’s face, Ellie unfolded the two sheets of paper and read aloud.
Chase, my dear boy,
If you receive this letter first no doubt you are in Egypt, hopefully at Qetara. I had hoped to see you yet in England, but when Mallory reported you were off once more I worried you might already be on your way to Egypt.
I hope we might yet meet one last time before this illness wins the battle, but I feel myself fading fast. Strangely, I think my quest to discover the author of the Desert Boy books staved off the end, but now my quest is over I find I have little strength to resist the siren pull of peace.
I’m weary, my boy. I’ve had a good life. And what I could not have I have still cherished. So if that compassionate heart of yours is worried for me bid it quiet.
I am only sorry I probably shall not have the chance to confer with you about whether to tell Sam about Edge. I dare say Poppy knows he is the author, though he never even hinted to me that he was, nor did your mother. Perhaps you already guessed as well, but if not, you should know, for Sam’s sake. But I leave it to you and Lucas to decide what to do with that knowledge.
So—you may read my letter to Tessa. You are all old enough now to know my feelings. In fact, it would be a relief to me for all of you to know. Your mother was the most precious thing in my life, even if I could never be more than a friend to her. I know you were often frustrated with her, and frightened for her, but rest assured she loved the three of you above all and knew you loved her, which is as important.
This box carries all that matters to me in the end. The memories of my true family. I am only sorry I am fading too fast to spend time again with all of you. But in truth I prefer you all remember me as I was in these tales I gathered.
Goodbye, my boy
Ellie’s throat was thick with the pain she could see in Chase’s half-averted face, but at a sign from Mr Carmichael she unfolded the second sheet. It was long and tightly written, as if Huxley had hunched over his task like a fist around a thorn.
My darling Tessa,
I never had the right to say these words, but now I am fading, and you are gone, so I give myself leave to write what I never spoke.
I knew my fate the day I arrived at the Palazzo Montillio and saw you for the first time in many, many years. I came to Venice motivated by responsibility and compassion—Oswald showed me the letter Chase sent him and, from the unspoken plea hidden behind the determination and the careful schoolboy’s writing, we knew someone must intervene and force your return to England if necessary, so we could see to the children’s welfare if nothing else.
But when I walked into that salon and you turned from the arched windows overlooking the canal everything changed. I cannot explain, but that day I decided you would all come with me to Egypt and I would find some way to heal you. And between me and the children we took that first step.
I know I failed in that ambition—I never healed you as I wished. Even in your pain and confusion and loss it was always Howard. But I found a corner in your heart, did I not? We found no peace, you and I, but a little solace.
Each of your smile
s is a gift I carry with me and relive as I read through my notebooks. The one before me tells of one day when you were in your favourite corner of the garden, when we sat reading the first Desert Boy books and exclaiming over Sam’s marvellous illustrations. It was a perfect day, was it not? You had Sam back with you, a respite from her wastrel husband. She was pacing to and fro as she read passages from the Desert Boy manuscript the publisher sent, remember?
I can recall the moment I saw realisation dawn in your eyes, but when I tasked you as to the author’s identity you said it was only conjecture and possibly harmful if the truth were known and would say no more.
It pained me that once again you kept me outside, but now, knowing it is most probably Edge, I realise why you refused to tell. Sam was so excited about being asked to do the illustrations for the Desert Boy books—for the first time in so long she was once again our ‘bright, particular star’. I realise that had she known Edge was the author she would have seen in it an act of pity or charity, and would never have accepted it—never from him.
I don’t understand why they parted on such poor terms, but if you knew more than I that was another thing you kept from me.
You would call it foolish vanity, but the need to uncover what you knew has assumed a runic power over me this past year—my last quest, I am afraid. In the end it was a matter of being methodical—each book held its own clues, but it was the tomb of the bulls near Saqqara and the oases of the White Desert that settled the question. Of those remaining on my list of possible authors, only Mallory and Edge were present in both and I would be most shocked if my most efficient Mallory’s imagination could extend to the fantastical.
Did you ever tell Lucas or Chase? I feel it is important they know and will tell Chase when he comes as Lucas, most amazingly, has married and is off with his new bride, but I shall leave it to them to decide whether it is right for Sam to know.
I was always grateful for the gift of your time and your wondrous trio. How proud you would be of them today, Tessa, for all their struggles. I am.