The Alexandria Affair

by Ashley Gardner

  We waited while the wind pounded and sand flowed around us. Brewster and I pushed the drifts away with our boots, but they swirled back to us. I knew now how the monuments of the ancients had become buried as the years had gone by. No matter how carefully and cunningly men had built their temples and tombs, the relentless sand had swallowed all.

  Sunset flared, the sand becoming blood red for a moment or two, then blackness descended. My tongue was stuck to the top of my mouth, my lips glued together. My limbs were so stiff I couldn’t move.

  Brewster slumped against me, asleep or awake, I could not tell. I fought against drifting off, fearing the sand would simply cover us, but in the end, my body took over, and I slept.

  I woke to Brewster shaking me. I moved my coat, sand cascading down my body and into my boots. It was dark, but when I drew a breath, the air was almost sweet.

  “Wind died,” Brewster said, his voice a bare rasp. “Sand stopped.”

  I could see that, and I let out a breath of relief. Brewster helped me to my feet. I unfolded painfully, sand in my boots, my trousers, my shirt. My knee had frozen in place, and I cried out as I straightened my leg.

  Brewster steadied me without comment. It was too dark to see the seriousness of his head wound, but he seemed unwavering. He led me out into the arroyo, the steep sides cutting off the desert above.

  The clouds of dust and sand had faded, and the dark night sky unrolled above us in all its splendor. The moon, a thin crescent, hung high in the sky against a glittering backdrop of stars.

  I had not seen the stars this clearly in a long time. We occasionally had fine nights in London, but usually the smoke, soot, and glare from the gaslights blotted out the stars.

  I had certainly never seen the sky like this. The entire bowl of the heavens opened over us, the smudge of the Milky Way blazing a trail through the constellations. The sky was rendered more beautiful, perhaps, because I was alive to see it.

  I had to clear my throat several times before I could speak. “Can we get out?”

  Brewster led me along the arroyo to a place the walls weren’t quite so high. Without a word, he leaned down and boosted me up, pushing me as I scrambled and slithered to the top. Footholds were scarce, and the last pieces of my gloves shredded on the rocks I clung to, but at last, I gained the top. Brewster tossed my walking stick to me, which landed with a clatter beside me.

  I dropped to my stomach and reached into the gulch to help Brewster ascend. He slipped three times back down the side, but on the fourth try, I was able to grab him firmly and haul him upward.

  He heaved a long sigh as he flopped over onto his back at the top. “Most definitely a rise in wages,” he said breathlessly.

  It seemed a hundred years since I’d so eagerly leapt up the blocks of the Great Pyramid. The night was still, the heat gone, the breeze now that we were out of the cut, sharp.

  We’d seen nothing of Marcus as we’d made our way down the arroyo. I spied no huddled figure of Grenville out here, either. I hoped he’d been able to return to his pavilion before the storm had become too fierce, but I could not suppress my fears that we’d find his body lying on the ground between the arroyo and the pyramids.

  I assumed Matthias and Bartholomew would have rushed out to look for Grenville the minute he went missing, helping him to safety. They might be looking for us as well.

  The only trouble was, I had no idea where the pyramids lay from here. I wasn’t certain exactly where the arroyo was in relation to them. I saw no silhouette of pyramids against the stars, in any case, and no lights anywhere.

  “We should make for the river,” I said.

  “We should stay here,” Brewster countered. “Mr. Grenville and your footmen will be looking for us. They’re partial to you.”

  “And if they cannot find us?” I rested my weight on my walking stick and looked around. “I’d rather not wait to die of thirst, or be bitten by a snake or torn apart by jackals while Grenville tries to search for us. We know that the river lies to the east—it will be hard to miss. If we cannot find someone to take us across this late, we can rest on the shore until morning.”

  “Oh yes?” Brewster said skeptically. “How do we find east then?”

  I pointed my walking stick skyward. “The stars are a map, Brewster. They show the way even better than a compass.”

  Brewster eyed me dubiously. “If you say so, guv.”

  “Look.” I tried to wet my lips with my dry tongue. “There is the plough, plain as day. If you follow a line from the last star of the plough itself, you get the pole star. That is due north, or mostly so.” I pointed high overhead. “The W is Cassiopeia. At this time of year, at this time of night, she is in the east, Hercules to the west of her. We head that way.” I brought my arm and stick down and pointed due east.

  Brewster watched and listened but with none of the fascination I’d had when an old farmer had told me this under the empty skies of Norfolk.

  “Maybe in England it’s that way,” he suggested.

  “The stars are the same the world over, Brewster.” I began walking—hobbling, rather. “We can see a few different ones this far south, but the constellations themselves don’t change. No matter what happens on this earth, the stars are forever. Makes our troubles seem a bit petty, does it not?”

  “Mmm,” Brewster rumbled. “Lost in the middle of the desert. No water. Head aching. Following a madman.” His boots crunched on rock as he moved ahead of me. “Petty is not the word in me mind, guv.”

  “I will make it up to you with plenty of ale,” I said. “The Egyptians invented ale, did you know?”

  “If they did, I haven’t seen enough of it this journey,” Brewster said over his shoulder. “I’ll take a few barrels, please.”

  “You shall have them,” I promised lavishly.

  We fell silent, picking our way slowly across the desert. Neither of us wanted to trip, fall into a hole or down a gully, or step on a snake who’d take objection to being trodden upon.

  The air was indeed cooler—in fact, it was growing bloody cold. The afternoon had roasted us, and now the night tried to freeze us to death.

  Brewster insisted on walking in front of me, checking for danger as we went. I came behind, hunkered in the coat that had kept me from choking on sand, my walking stick testing the ground before my feet.

  After an hour of this, I judged—my watch was still not ticking—Brewster pulled up.

  “’Struth. It worked.” He pointed ahead of us. Starlight gleamed on the surface of the river, its ripples reflecting the riot of stars overhead.

  “Simple navigation,” I said modestly, though in truth, my heart was banging in relief.

  We moved forward cautiously, though I know both of us wanted to run gladly to the water. But we had marshland to navigate, with mud that might suck us down, not to mention more snakes and possibly crocodiles on the banks.

  Eventually, we trudged through muddy fields, the Nile’s inundation rendering the farms one shallow, spreading lake. Crocodiles could lurk here too, not a pleasant thought.

  At last we reached a few mud houses on fairly dry land, right on the river’s edge. The village, what there was of it, had been built on a small rise, which was now an island.

  No one was there, however. The inhabitants must have fled the spreading waters, to wait elsewhere until the river receded.

  “We’ll have shelter anyway,” I said.

  Brewster only grunted. We were too thirsty and exhausted to care much anymore.

  I looked inside the first mud house, but there was no light. I smelled the lingering odor of goat but no one had been here in a while, I could tell. I’d hoped they’d left a water jar—the Egyptian servants placed large jars of water into niches in our house in Cairo in attempt to cool the air. I could see nothing, unfortunately.

  “Guv.” Brewster’s hoarse cry had me backing out of the house. I found him waving his arms at a boat that was sliding silently along the river, heading south.

&
nbsp; It was more barge than boat, with flat decks, lit windows, and an ornate sail. I’d seen a similar barge as we’d floated toward Cairo, the one with the European gentlemen on it.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, waving my walking stick. Brewster’s cries joined mine, his big arms moving in the air.

  The night was so still that I heard Lady Mary’s voice quite clearly from the deck of the ship: “Good Lord. Is that you, Captain Lacey?”

  Chapter 18

  I had no breath left to answer. I’d not thought much of Lady Mary in Alexandria, but at the moment, I wanted to fall at her feet and kiss her gaudy slippers.

  Brewster shouted back. “The captain’s here, your ladyship. Can you help us? We’re nobbled.”

  Lady Mary was calling to whoever piloted the barge. “Stop I say, man. Put in here. We must rescue my friend.”

  A loud argument in Egyptian ensued, Lady Mary switching to that language to harangue her captain. The sail furled and dropped, then the barge slowed and swung ponderously around.

  The pilot was not foolish enough to run himself aground, no matter what Lady Mary urged. An anchor dropped, and then two small boats lowered from the barge’s side and headed for us.

  Brewster and I waded out to meet them. In the boat I reached first I found Miguel, Lady Mary’s Spanish assistant. His strong hand came out, and he helped me onto the tiny boat. In the other, small Egyptian men were struggling to accommodate the bulk of Brewster.

  Finally we were settled and taken out to the barge. I nearly collapsed trying to climb onboard from the small boat, but Miguel assisted me, and at last I made it.

  I was a shivering, pathetic, and very thirsty wreck when I landed on the deck near Lady Mary’s feet. She was not, in fact, wearing her garish beaded slippers, but sensible half boots.

  “Dear, oh, dear,” she bleated. “Miguel, take them to the cabin. Tea, I think, not coffee.”

  “Water,” I said, my voice barely a scratch. “We’ve had none.”

  “Of course, my dear Captain. Come along, Miguel. And you.” She pointed her imperious finger at an unfortunate Egyptian and babbled demands at him.

  Not long later, I found myself seated on a low cushioned bench that lined a wall of the stern cabin. This seemed to be Lady Mary’s private drawing room—hangings, cushions, carpets, and books were everywhere, along with little trinkets and small paintings. The pasha’s palace was only slightly more lush.

  But then, Lady Mary, daughter of a duke and widow of a marquis, was a wealthy woman indeed. Her widow’s portion, it was said, had been immense, and her father had left plenty in trust for her. She traveled the world, going where she pleased, apparently in great comfort.

  She welcomed Brewster into her cabin as well and said not a word about the state of our sandy clothes and muddy boots. She only watched as servants brought in ewers and poured water into large goblets with a soothing, liquid sound.

  Both goblet and the water within looked clean, though I knew I wouldn’t have cared if it had been mostly sand. I poured the water into my mouth, Brewster doing the same, willing my throat to work to swallow it down.

  Brewster wiped his mouth on his sleeve and held out the goblet for more. I was ready to simply seize the ewer the servant held and imbibe its entire contents, but I forbore and let the man refill my glass.

  Once the ewers were empty, the servants departed and returned with tea served in dainty porcelain cups. The cup Brewster lifted disappeared in his big hand, but he drank the tea with as much relish as he had the water.

  “Now, good heavens, you must tell me what happened,” Lady Mary said. “What were you doing on the shore of the Nile in the middle of the night? On the west bank, no less? You do know that the west bank holds the cities of the dead, while the east is for the living.”

  Brewster snorted. “Thought we’d be one of the dead—that’s a fact, your ladyship.”

  “We were caught in a sandstorm,” I began, and then told Lady Mary our adventure. I left out everything concerning Marcus, letting her believe we’d simply been exploring when we’d been cut off by the storm.

  “What about Grenville?” Lady Mary asked worriedly. “Where is he?”

  “I hope he is safely at home.”

  “Oh.” Color left her cheeks, leaving patches of deep pink. She had used the rouge pot this evening. “Dear me.”

  “We saw no sign of him as we walked,” I said. “His footmen look after him well. Mother him, I would say. I imagine he is all right.”

  I spoke with a conviction I did not feel, but Lady Mary looked to be on the verge of swooning.

  “Well,” she said, with the air of a person trying to be brave. “Then we must see you to your lodgings and make certain. If not, then I will sail this barge back across the river and find him.”

  Determination filled her words. I admired her resolve, even though I uncharitably wondered if she meant to make Grenville so grateful to her, he’d unbend and propose.

  Nevertheless, I agreed we should return to Cairo at once and discover what had become of him and the rest of our party. I would not forgive myself if Grenville had perished in that storm—I’d not discouraged him from following me into the desert, and then I’d ordered him to remain at the top of the arroyo. He’d have had more shelter if he’d climbed down with us.

  “Captain?”

  Lady Mary’s worried voice came from far away. In spite of my agitation about Grenville’s welfare, the bench seemed to slide out from under me in my exhaustion. I landed on the carpeted floor, which was soft and flat, the boat’s gentle rocking like a hammock on a summer’s day.

  Someone laid a blanket on my back and slid a small pillow beneath my head. Before I drifted off to sleep, I thought I recognized the tanned hands of Miguel, but I could not open my mouth to thank him.

  * * *

  I could barely move from the gangplank of the boat to the wheeled conveyance Lady Mary had commanded be brought for her when we landed. The cart looked like a miniature version of a landau, pulled by two donkeys. I tried to laugh, though nothing emerged but a croak.

  I was piled into the cart, and Lady Mary, without worry of scandal, climbed in beside me. Brewster had recovered more than I had, and marched along beside us, but slowly, not his usual robust self.

  The streets were thronged, the night cool here but lacking the sharpness of the open desert. The shops and cafes were still open, Egyptian men sipping coffee or gently sucking smoke from hookahs in lighted doorways. We moved through the crowd with difficulty, though Miguel ran in front of us, opening a way.

  When we reached the house, I tumbled out of the cart at the courtyard’s gate. Brewster caught me, as did Bartholomew, who had sprinted out of the house as soon as the cart halted.

  “Grenville?” I tried to say, but only a thin wheeze escaped my lips.

  “Now, don’t you fret yourself, sir.” Bartholomew had a strong arm around me, half lifting me. I had no idea what had become of my walking stick—my hand closed on empty air.

  I noticed quite a number of people in the courtyard. Bundles lay at their feet, and one man was lighting the lanterns the others held.

  Matthias raced out from the drawing room. “Is he here?” He stared at me then turned around and yelled back into the house. “He’s here! Sir! He’s come back!”

  More footsteps sounded, and Grenville himself darted into the courtyard faster than I’d ever seen him move. He advanced upon me, halting a foot from me, and his hands landed on my shoulders.

  “Good Lord, Lacey,” he said.

  He squeezed my shoulders, pressing them as hard as a man might embrace another. But even now, when everything told me Grenville rejoiced that I was alive and whole—he was keeping himself from embarrassing me.

  “Lacey, I have to say that I am damned glad to see you.” Grenville squeezed me again, ran his hands down my arms, then let me go. “Bartholomew, Matthias, help him. Can I get you anything, my dear fellow?”

  “My bed,” I mumble
d. “Now that I know you aren’t dead in the desert, I have no more reason to remain awake.”

  Bartholomew caught me as I sagged. He and Matthias carried me between them up the stairs and into my small bedchamber. I still had no idea what had become of my walking stick.

  Grenville’s voice came through the window that overlooked the courtyard, his words holding trepidation. “Lady Mary?”

  I fell asleep before the chuckle left my mouth.

  * * *

  In the morning, I could barely move. I climbed from bed, my limbs painfully cramped, my knee aching more than it had in a long while.

  I had a shock when I dragged myself to the washstand and looked into the mirror. My face was bright red with windburn and studded with pinpricks of dried blood where the sand had pitted my skin.

  My hands were raw, my gloves having torn completely away as I’d climbed from the arroyo. Though I’d assuaged the worst of my thirst on Lady Mary’s barge, my mouth was parched and swollen, my lips cracked.

  Bartholomew entered with a silver pitcher of water, the mist gathered on it telling me the water was cool. He poured a glass and handed it to me.

  I downed the water in a few swallows, and Bartholomew refilled the glass, letting me drink until I could breathe again.

  After that, he sat me down, shook out a towel, hung it around my neck, and proceeded to wash and shave me as he did every morning.

  I flinched as Bartholomew brought the razor down to my lathered face, certain the blade would hurt my burned skin. But the soap he’d used cooled me, and Bartholomew handled the razor so deftly I never felt its touch.

  Grenville let himself in after a polite tap on the door. He was dressed in his light suit for warm climes, his face shaved, his hair combed. He came to stand in front of me while Bartholomew leaned over me from behind, quickly scraping my face.

  “What became of you?” I asked, ignoring Bartholomew’s frown when my jaw moved. “I was very certain I’d gotten you killed.”