Daisy Gumm Majesty 06-Ancient Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  After I’d taken all my letters and the postcards down to the front desk, where they had a mail service, I went back up to my room yet once more, stripped my overused gray dress off over my head, flung it aside and plopped on the bed, thinking to rest up for twenty minutes or so.

  I awoke with a start when I heard a knock at the door. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, I noticed with horror that it was eight o’clock already! The heat must have a soporific effect on a body, because I very seldom napped in the afternoon. Scrambling up off the bed, I darted to the closet, praying whoever had unpacked for me had hung my robe on the door. S/he had. Thank God. I fumbled into the robe and walked to the door, feeling guilty. Again.

  Harold took one look at me and said, “Good Lord, Daisy. You can’t go down to dinner looking like that!”

  “I’m sorry, Harold. I lay down, thinking to take a little nap, and just woke up when you knocked at the door. I’ll change quickly and join you downstairs in a few minutes. Is that all right?”

  With an expression of sympathy I knew I didn’t deserve, Harold said, “Of course you may, Daisy. Take your time. You needn’t hurry. I’ll have a drink in the bar, and you can join me there.”

  At first his words shocked me because I’d become so accustomed to life in the USA, where Prohibition was supposed to be in effect, although it was honored more by word than deed from what I’d seen and read. I guess it had slipped my mind that people in other parts of the world could still take a sip of something alcoholic when they wanted one without fear of arrest. “Thanks, Harold. I’m really sorry.”

  “No need to be. You need your rest.” He gave me another searching glance, and I knew what was coming next. “And some food.”

  I regret to say I borrowed a gesture from Sam Rotondo and rolled my eyes at Harold, who held up a hand. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop pestering you about your weight.”

  “That’s okay,” I told him. “But you know I eat as much as I can. It’s just that right now . . .”

  “Yes, yes. I know.” He turned and hurried off, and then I felt guilty for making him feel guilty. How stupid life could be sometimes! Or maybe it was just I who was stupid. I didn’t want to think about it.

  I selected my evening costume with care, wanting to placate Harold, who was such a good friend to me, even though he tended to fuss. Because he was tired of seeing me in black and gray, and because we Americans really didn’t follow the wearing-of-black custom as much as we used to do, I decided I’d wear a blue silk frock at dinner. It was very comfortable and light of weight, which aided my selection, since the weather, in spite of electrical fans in the room, was still quite warm.

  The frock had an unfitted hip-length, tubular-shaped bodice. It actually looked tubular on me, too, which came as something of a shock. I knew I’d lost some weight, but hadn’t realized exactly how much. Maybe everyone was right, and I should try to eat more. On the other hand, the thin, boyish figure was “in” then, so nuts to that; I’d eat when I darned well felt like it. Anyway, the bodice had a scooped neckline and short sleeves, with a silver lace overbodice. The tiered skirt came to mid-calf, and the whole ensemble was pulled together by a little rosette of pink looped ribbons and two streamers where the overbodice met in the middle. When I’d made the thing, I’d thought about putting little rosettes on each of the tiers, but had decided that would look funny and overdone, so I didn’t.

  Anyhow, I thought Harold would be pleased. I wore silver cross-strapped evening slippers I’d purchased at Nash’s on sale. Actually, this had been one of my more expensive outfits if you count the shoes. The lace overbodice I’d made using leftover fabric from something Mrs. Pinkerton’s seamstress had sewn for her. My friend Edie Applewood, who worked as Mrs. Pinkerton’s lady’s maid, gave it to me after Mrs. Pinkerton gave it to her, since Edie didn’t sew. But the shoes had cost a dollar and a half, which is where the expense came in.

  There was no need to wear a hat at dinner, so I just donned some flesh-colored stockings and slipped into my shoes. Then I tackled my hair, which had gone kind of flat on one side. But I have thick hair that’s easy to manage, and not much more than twenty minutes had slipped away before I grabbed a feathery-light shawl, left my room and headed downstairs to the bar. The bar. Imagine that!

  Another surprise awaited me at the bar. Harold sat on a stool in animated conversation with the same gentleman who’d accosted me at the postcard rack.

  I hesitated at the door of the bar, wondering if I should simply walk boldly in and interrupt their discussion or wait a bit. Harold solved the problem for me when he spotted me in the doorway and waved me over.

  “Daisy! I was just chatting with this gentleman, and when I told him my sister was traveling with me, he asked if that sister was you.” He winked to let me know I should keep up the deception.

  That was all right with me. What’s more, I hoped Harold had mentioned that I was his recently widowed sister who was suffering agonies of bereavement over her late husband. For some reason, this blond guy didn’t seem quite right to me, although I couldn’t come up with a reason for that to be so, unless it was because he’d spoken to me before we’d been introduced. But that was silly. It was 1922, for heaven’s sake, and the old, formal ways had bitten the dust a long time ago.

  Both Harold and the other man, whose name I’d forgotten, rose from their stools. “How nice to meet you again, Missus Majesty. Please accept my deepest condolences on the loss of your husband.”

  “Thank you.” I turned to Harold. “I fear this gentleman and I weren’t properly introduced, Harold, and I can’t remember his name.”

  I got the feeling Harold was taken aback by the frigidity of my manner—although, God knows, any sort of refrigeration would have been welcome at that point—because he said, “Oh. Well, please allow me to introduce you to Mister Wallingford Stackville. Mister Stackville, my sister, Daisy Majesty. Daisy, by the way, is short for Desdemona.”

  Darn, I wish he hadn’t said that! I’d never live down that “Desdemona” name I’d saddled myself with when I was ten. Oh, well. I held out my hand for him to shake. “How do you do?”

  “Fine, thank you. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Thank you.” I probably should have said something else, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I certainly wasn’t happy to see him again, although I couldn’t have given you a reason for my aversion to the chap.

  “Would you like a drink, Daisy?” asked Harold. “I think sherry is generally taken by ladies before the evening meal.”

  If there was anything I wanted less than an alcoholic beverage at that moment in time, I didn’t know what it was. Unless it was to get rid of Stackville. “No, thank you, Harold. I don’t care for anything right now.”

  “Very well. Would you like another, Stackville?”

  “I don’t think so, thanks.” He turned to me. “I was just saying to Harold that since I’m traveling alone in Egypt, it would be my pleasure to take my new friends to dinner at the hotel,” said the suave Mr. Stackville.

  I didn’t like that idea. Mind you, I’d come to the conclusion that I really ought to make an effort to meet more people and get back into some sort of social life again, but I was thinking more along the lines of meeting other women. Women who could become friends and to whom I could write about this and that when we got back to our real lives.

  “And I told him I thought that was a swell offer,” said Harold, dashing my hopes of getting rid of the man.

  Then I decided I was being too hard on him. After all, I’d only just met him. So I said, “Thank you, Mister Stackville.”

  “It will be my pleasure, believe me, Missus Majesty.”

  That’s when I figured out why this fellow put me off. He acted toward me as the fat man with the cigar had acted. The fact that Mr. Stackville was tall, blond and handsome didn’t make his attentions any more welcome to yours truly. But perhaps I was doing the man an injustice. Time, as people always say, would tell. Anyho
w, there was no getting away from dining with him this evening, since Harold had already accepted his invitation.

  The meal was delicious, I suppose. I couldn’t eat much of it, and waiters kept coming with various courses until I stopped counting. I sipped some lentil soup and discovered I wasn’t a great fan of lentils. The fish was good, so I ate a bite or two of it. The lamb was spiced in an odd way—odd to me, I mean, who was accustomed to good old American food—and I wondered what seasonings were used, because it was quite delectable. I actually ate four or five bites of that before I had to push it away.

  I noticed Harold eyeing me through the meal, which only lessened my already enfeebled appetite, but I tried not to let his scrutiny bother me unduly. It wouldn’t do to make a scene in public, after all.

  Mr. Stackville produced a glib spate of tidbits about Egypt throughout the meal. I suspected he was trying to impress us, although he didn’t seem to brag; only to tell us things he thought we might find interesting.

  “You’re both visiting the pyramids at Giza tomorrow, I understand, Missus Majesty.”

  “Yes.”

  “Be glad you’re going nowadays instead of back in the nineties. They actually have rail cars to take you out there today, but when I first began visiting Egypt—I was only a lad then, of course—”

  Of course, I thought nastily.

  “—we had to ride donkeys.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that,” I murmured as the waiter took away my lamb and plunked a salad down in front of me.

  “You can still ride donkeys if you want to.”

  I blinked at him. “Why would we want to do that?”

  He apparently thought that was extremely funny, because he threw his head back and laughed. When he’d recovered, he said, “No reason. In fact, if this is your first trip to Egypt, I expect you’d rather have a camel ride. Camels are rude brutes, but they’re useful.”

  “Yes. So I’ve heard,” I mumbled.

  “Daisy’s husband studied a great deal about Egypt before his death,” said Harold. I think he sensed my uneasiness about Mr. Stackville. “So Daisy has been filling me in on a lot of stuff about the country. My mother and stepfather visited here last winter.”

  “Winter is the best time to visit,” agreed Stackville. He eyed me with more interest than I cared for. “So you’ve been told a lot about Egypt, have you?”

  “Only what Mister Majesty used to read in the newspapers and National Geographic,” I said, wishing the guy would shut up and go away.

  “There are new discoveries being made every day, and they’re being reported all over the place, although you can’t really get a feel for the place until you see it for yourself. So you’re taking a Cook’s steamer up the Nile?”

  I looked at Harold, who was still munching lamb, so I answered the man. “Yes. And a Cook’s guide is taking us to the pyramids tomorrow.”

  “They call those fellows dragomen here,” said Stackville. As if I cared. “And don’t believe everything they tell you. They’re mainly entertainers, and they take pride in giving the customer what he—or in your case, Missus Majesty, she—wants, which they think is a good time and good stories.”

  What I wanted at that moment was to be back home again. I didn’t say so. “I see.”

  “But you can browse book stalls in the marketplace—they call it a souk here—and perhaps find a book that will give you the unedited, educated version of events and places.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “If you ever need me for anything, I’ll be up on the third floor. The dragoman can find me.”

  Whatever would we need you for? thought I, and decided I was still in a grumpy mood. After all, the man was only trying to be pleasant. So I said, “Thank you.”

  “We’re on the fourth floor. I got us a couple of the better suites,” said Harold. With a laugh, he added, “God knows we’re not used to roughing it. This trip was my idea, in order to get Daisy out and about a bit after her terrible loss, and it came about rather suddenly.

  “I see,” said Mr. Stackville, stroking his moustache. “Yes, I can see why it might have been a sudden decision, given the weather in August as compared to the weather in, say, December.”

  His comment irked me, and I snapped, “It just happened that my husband passed away in June, Mister Stackville. Harold is doing me a great kindness, and he didn’t think it would be wise to wait until December. I . . .” Oh, good Lord, I felt tears spring to my eyes. How embarrassing! Swallowing them with determination and anger at this insinuating specimen, I said, “Harold wanted to get me out and about now. He didn’t feel it wise to wait until December.”

  “Of course. I meant no criticism, Missus Majesty.” Turning to Harold, he said, “I hope you understood that, old man. No criticism at all.”

  Harold waved his hand, which held a buttery knife. “I understand completely, Stackville. Daisy’s a bit . . . touchy these days.” Then he looked at me to see if I was going to pounce on him and beat him to a pulp with a dinner plate.

  Naturally, I’d never do such a thing to Harold, who was one of my closest friends, even if he was calling me touchy, which I resented like fire. Although he was right. My shoulders slumped slightly when I realized the truth. I was not merely touchy and short-tempered, but sometimes I felt as though my skin was so sensitive, if anyone even touched me I’d jump a foot in the air and scream. Maybe someday somebody will invent a pill that will help people who were in the state I was in back then.

  “Yes. I have to admit to being somewhat . . . out of sorts lately,” I said softly, hoping both men would forgive me, although I wasn’t sure for what I needed to be forgiven.

  “Of course, you are,” said Stackville, oozing sympathy. “I’m sorry if anything I’ve said has annoyed or offended you, Missus Majesty. That’s the very last thing I intended to do.”

  I didn’t believe him. I told myself to stop being ridiculous. Perhaps this man was lonely and only seeking some English-speaking company. God knew I’d heard languages from places all over the world since we entered Shepheards Hotel, and that was only earlier in the day.

  “Think nothing of it,” I said to him.

  A waiter came and whisked our dishes away. He gave me an uneasy glance as if to ask me why I wasn’t eating anything and if I found the food distasteful. Great. Now even waiters were getting into the “Force Daisy to eat more” mode. I smiled at him to let him know I thought the salad had been delicious. He smiled back and took our plates back to the kitchen.

  There followed what Harold assured me was a typical English trifle. It tasted funny to me, but I didn’t say so.

  Harold noticed anyway, since I wasn’t eating much of it. “What’s the matter, Daisy? This is one of the best trifles I’ve ever tasted.”

  “I’m sure it’s wonderful. I’m just . . . not very hungry.” I braced myself for a lecture, but Harold didn’t give me one.

  Rather, he squinted from the trifle to me and back again. “I know what it is!” He declared triumphantly. “The trifle has liquor in it. This time it’s . . .” He paused to savor another bite. “I believe I detect the taste of sherry.”

  “Right,” said Mr. Know-It-All Stackville. He gave me what seemed to me to be a patronizing smile. “You’re American, and I’m sure you aren’t accustomed to the flavor of sherry in your desserts.”

  “You’re right about that,” I said, trying not to sound cold and failing. To make up for it, I said, “The fruit is good, though.” And when I got home, I decided, I’d ask Aunt Vi to make the family an English trifle sans alcohol. It would taste pretty good if it weren’t for the stupid sherry. And then I recalled Aunt Vi telling me once about how she used to make something called “tipsy pudding,” and I wondered if it was anything like an English trifle. I decided to ask her in my next letter home.

  The two men dug into their trifles while I sported with a strawberry or two from my own dish, wishing the interminable meal would end. When it finally did, Mr. Stackville asked
, “Would the two of you care to accompany me to the saloon, where dancing will take place shortly? Shepheards has a wonderful band.”

  I couldn’t offhand think of anything I’d like less, so I said, “I’m sorry, but I’m really awfully tired from the long trip.” Speaking directly to Harold, I said, “Would you mind if I begged off this time, Harold?”

  “Not at all, Daisy. But I think I’ll take Mister Stackville up on his invitation. Might as well have a little fun while we’re here.”

  “Excellent,” declared Mr. Stackville. “Why don’t we escort Missus Majesty to her room, Kincaid, and then we can return to the saloon.”

  “Sounds like an idea to me,” said Harold as alarm bells went off in my head. Mr. Stackville didn’t strike me as a person of Harold and Del’s stripe, but if he was, was Harold being untrue to Del by hanging out in a saloon with him?

  And was it any of my business if he was?

  Yes, darn it! I was Harold’s friend. And Del’s, too. I’d never, ever, abet a person whom I liked commit a sin against a marital commitment. Or even a non-marital commitment.

  But Harold was behind me, pulling out my chair, and I’d already sealed the evening’s doings by refusing to accompany the two men. Bah. It occurred to me to change my mind, but the notion of lingering in the saloon, where people would undoubtedly be smoking and drinking and the music would be loud, made my head ache, so I silently commended Harold and Del to God. I didn’t go so far as to commend Mr. Stackville to the devil, but I felt like it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Although I didn’t think I’d sleep much that night because I’d slept away the entire afternoon, I was wrong. I slept like the proverbial baby—not like a real one who, according to friends of mine who knew about such things, cried, screeched and fussed all night long.

  I was dressed and ready to go when Harold knocked at my door at eight a.m. Since this was to be, I hoped, the day during which I’d actually get to ride a camel and climb a pyramid, I’d worn jodhpurs. And what, you might be asking, would a middle-class city kid like Daisy Gumm Majesty be doing with jodhpurs? Well, I’ll tell you. I made them for a class play when I was a senior in high school, and they now fitted me again. It was kind of nice to be able to fit into clothes that I hadn’t been able to wear for a long time, but I’d rather have had Billy back.