Wrapped

by Jennifer Bradbury

  Caedmon smiled. “Most people are surprised to find it there.”

  I began to read the text aloud. “‘In the fourteenth year of Ptolemy . . .’”

  “You can read Greek?”

  “Read, yes. Speak, I’m not so sure.”

  Now Caedmon was impressed.

  “But I presume I’m not the only one who can read the Greek. And if the demotic and the Greek say the same thing, doesn’t it stand to reason that the glyphs are a direct translation?” I asked.

  “Picture writing is far more nuanced than written script. More than half the population couldn’t read. Hieroglyphs were like pub signs or signal flags, almost. And adding them up together is the difficult part. On top of that, there appear to be slight but significant variations between the Greek and demotic texts,” he explained.

  “Didn’t you say that the Ptolemy referenced on the Stone is the very one who last bore the standard before it disappeared?”

  He nodded.

  “Then the Stone might contain some clue to finding it?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what I’ve been trying to work out, but . . .”

  “Is Wepwawet mentioned in the demotic or Greek texts?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think I would have missed that.”

  “But couldn’t this be him here?” I asked, pointing to the top edge of the Stone, where the piece had broken away in a jagged hunk. Below the edge, a curved line, leading into the bottom of what appeared to be an open mouth, was plainly visible. Caedmon leaned closer, inspecting the incomplete hieroglyph.

  “No . . . ,” he began, fumbling in his pocket for the jackal’s head. I snatched it from his grip and held it to the bottom outline. The contours matched exactly. It was my jackal’s head in miniature. I gave a short, explosive giggle and turned to see Caedmon’s cheeks burning.

  “Of all the chuckleheaded things,” he said sheepishly. “I only focused on the complete characters.”

  “Sometimes a puzzle requires a pair of fresh eyes,” I consoled him.

  “And my eyes are anything but that at this point,” he said, still embarrassed.

  I wanted to take his hand. I wanted to reassure him that anyone could have made the same mistake. I wanted to promise him that we would prevail. Instead I made a promise that I could keep.

  “I’m coming tonight to help you.”

  I was pleased more than I could express that he did not argue.

  He did say we needed to leave now—the supervisors would be back in moments—and led me from the chambers and back toward the hall. As we rounded the corner, a living, breathing person far more frightening than any of the mummies blocked our path.

  “What is this?” spat the figure, clad in a severe black suit, a polished leather briefcase tucked under his arm.

  Caedmon’s face went ashen. “Mr. Banehart, I—”

  The man looked even ghastlier than I recalled from having met him last spring at a lecture I attended with Father.

  “You know these areas are restricted!” Banehart seethed, edging closer, his pale skin aglow in the dusky light. “And to bring a woman back here,” he added angrily, looking to my face for the first time. A hint of recognition seemed to spark in his eyes. I fanned it into flame.

  “Mr. Banehart, please don’t be angry with”—I turned to Caedmon and looked at him as if I didn’t know him—“with Mr. . . . Mr. . . . ?”

  “Stowe,” Caedmon squeaked finally.

  “Our dear friend Lord Showalter often encourages me to see the collection, and since his party I confess I’ve been even more curious. I wandered back here by mistake, and Mr. Stowe was good enough to help me find my way back to the exhibits.”

  “Forgive me, miss, but I have a difficult time believing that someone like yourself—that is, someone who can read—could have failed to notice the posting on the only door leading into this facility,” he said with carefully controlled menace.

  “Very true, sir. But I found the door ajar, and I confess was so taken with the mystery and beauty of the artifacts that a long hallway and tumbled storeroom seemed to fit right in with the stories I was concocting in my head.”

  “Of all the nonsense—,” he began.

  “I’m sure that were I with Lord Showalter I’d be granted access to these rooms?” I asked after he continued staring at me.

  Banehart forced a polite smile. “Of course. Please give him my regards, Miss Wilkins. You are both welcome to return together.”

  “I am very grateful, sir,” I said as evenly as I could.

  Banehart glared at Caedmon. “Escort her out, and then report to my office.”

  As he stalked away, I breathed, letting the adrenaline ebb as Caedmon took my elbow and pushed me down the hall.

  “Stowe!” Mr. Banehart snapped. I froze.

  “Yes, sir?” Caedmon said quietly.

  “This came for you by messenger. I don’t know how I let the brat persuade me to ferry it to you, but here it is.” He held out a scrap of paper, forcing Caedmon to walk back to him to get it. Once he had, we continued toward the main door and out of earshot.

  Banehart was as awful as I remembered, and I found myself thinking how lovely it might be if he did indeed turn out to be the culprit. How convenient it would be to have Banehart proven a traitor and Caedmon revealed as a hero simultaneously. It might even elevate Caedmon far enough to make him admissible to society.

  I was theorizing just how respected he might have to be in order to merit no objection from Mother and Father when Caedmon stopped abruptly beside me.

  He held the note out. “It’s from the public hospital.”

  My heartbeat quickened.

  “Deacon’s there. He’s . . . been attacked . . . and is asking for me.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “I have to go,” Caedmon said, hurtling toward the door.

  “No!” I said. “Banehart won’t stand for it. You’re already going to have to answer for my being in the restricted area!”

  “But—”

  “No. We’ll go tonight . . . together.”

  “But he has no one else,” Caedmon argued.

  “And he of all people knows how important it is that we continue the search for the standard. And if you lose your position here—which is sure to happen if you disappear now—we’ll have no access.”

  He started to protest.

  “You know what he would say,” I said.

  Caedmon nodded weakly.

  “I’ll meet you at ten,” I said firmly, “at his rooms near the Tower.”

  Chapter Fiffeen

  “Honestly, Agnes, you eat like your brother,” Mother complained.

  “If we weren’t in such an infernal hurry,” I said around a mouthful of bread, “I could slow down and be a bit more ladylike. I think Julia and her mother will understand if we’re late.”

  “A lady is never late,” Mother replied.

  “A lady doesn’t bolt down food, either, but that’s what you’re forcing me to do!”

  “Whatever you are in private matters less than what you are in public, though to have mastery over both arenas is preferable. But you cut this fine, so you’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

  I nodded, swallowed, wiped my mouth, and followed her out the door.

  “You’re so completely distracted, Agnes,” Mother said as we rounded the gate at the front walk.

  “It’s a busy time,” I said simply.

  “Don’t tell me about it,” she said. “I had my season as well. And I know how busy it is. And believe you me, shepherding you through your first season is almost as trying as my own debut.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  “But it isn’t that only”—she paused to tug the cap sleeve of my dress into place—“you seem so disconnected. Even when David was here, your mind always seemed elsewhere.”

  It was. It was in the museum with Caedmon.

  “I can imagine how Showalter’s attentions have your head spinning,” she said, no
w pulling at my other shoulder’s sleeve. “Which reminds me: I sent him a note inviting him to take Father’s place with us at the opera this evening. He wrote saying he’d be delighted to escort us.”

  Oh, not the opera now. I’d have to figure a way out of that in order to meet Caedmon this evening. “But we’re already engaged to spend the morning with him tomorrow—”

  “The man knows how to seize an opportunity, Agnes. Something I hope you’ll take a lesson in,” she said, looking sideways at me. “He’s indicated that he’s very eager to speak with your father upon his return.”

  I stopped walking altogether. “What do you mean?”

  She quit fussing with my sleeves. “Well, he can’t very well ask you for your hand until securing your father’s permission. I suspect if your father had not been called away so unexpectedly, and had David not come home, maybe we’d already be planning an announcement,” she said, almost cooing with triumph.

  Planning an announcement? To marry? I found I suddenly had to remind myself to breathe.

  I didn’t want to accept a proposal, much less marry. Not yet at least. But it was more than that.

  A snippet of Sense and Sensibility winged its way into my mind. “I want no proof of their affection, but of their engagement I do.” The words slipped out in Spanish before I realized what I was doing. “Quiero ninguna prueba de su afecto, sino de su compromiso lo hago,” I whispered.

  My mother took my chin in her hand and gently turned my face to meet her eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right, Agnes? You look a trifle peaked.”

  “Just a little tired,” I said, wishing my anxiety would manifest itself in a way less obvious than nervous eruptions of A Lady passages. But I had plenty to be anxious about. I was flattered by Showalter’s attentions, even if it was a little surprising how easy making a match had turned out to be. But perhaps that was part of the problem. And what of that sinking feeling that I felt when I saw him, or was about to see him? I thought of how excited I’d been to meet Caedmon at the museum . . . how excited I was to meet him again tonight.

  It was comfortable with Showalter. Easy knowing how much he professed to like me. He was an excellent match. But he did not excite me. He did not vex me. He did not draw my thoughts back to him when I was away from him, despite the magnetism others claimed he possessed.

  He was not Caedmon. The realization struck me with such force that the line popped out again, this time in Dutch. “Ik wil geen bewijs van hun genegenheid, maar ook van hun betrokkenheid ik doe.”

  “You are agitated,” Mother said, new concern lacing her voice. “That translating habit always worsens when you’re working yourself up about something.”

  I swallowed hard. “I suppose it is all a bit overwhelming.”

  Her eyes softened. “I think a nap is in order after we return home. I’m sure Mrs. Overton will understand that we must cut short our visit.”

  She pulled me by the hand through the Overtons’ gate and up the front step as the bread and butter I’d gulped down threatened to make a reappearance on the Park’s most fashionable street.

  “I know you’ll feel better after all is settled with Showalter,” she said, pulling the rope for the bell, the sound muted by the leaded glass.

  “Do you think he loves me?” I asked Mother abruptly, surprised as she was that I’d posed such a question.

  Mother hesitated. “Agnes—”

  “Could he?” I asked again.

  She took my hand. “Love grows, dear. And I’ve no doubt he’ll find even more to love in you than any man could hope to.”

  She wasn’t any surer than I was. But it didn’t bother her. And for the first time I began to feel a bit annoyed that she’d never once asked what I thought, what I felt.

  “But I’ve scarcely even met any other suitable men . . . the season is just starting. What if there’s someone . . . someone more—”

  “Don’t be absurd, Agnes! Lord Showalter is by far the most desirable match—all of London knows it. What more could you want? And what more could he want? You are witty, talented, and beautiful. Any man would clamor to make an early engagement with you.”

  It was hard to think on what Mother was telling me. That love was secondary—both in order and importance when making the choice that I would live with for the rest of my life. The line crept up again, this time in Greek. “.”

  Mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through her nose before opening her eyes and looking at me kindly. “Enough of that, my love. And don’t speak of it to Julia. Boasting of a match before it’s announced just isn’t done,” she said, smiling in a way that made me know she ached to gloat to Mrs. Overton.

  “Yes, Mother,” I whispered as the door opened and the Overtons’ downstairs maid admitted us inside.

  “Agnes!” Julia rose from the settee as we entered the drawing room, and took my arm.

  “Hello, Julia,” I said, kissing her cheek. I turned to her mother and curtsied quickly. “Ma’am.”

  “Oh, there’s the girl who’s stolen the heart of London’s most eligible fellow,” Mrs. Overton squealed.

  I shot a look at Mother, who managed to look satisfied and surprised all at once.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

  Mrs. Overton repositioned her wide hips in the wing chair. “Rightly said, dear girl. Rightly said.” She leaned forward and winked. “Don’t want to jinx it now, do we?”

  The Overtons were new money, having made a fortune in trade and essentially purchased their way into the world that had once been the exclusive domain of men like my father. They’d spent years trying to make everyone forget that they’d come from nameless families in the north, but now and again Mrs. Overton would pop off a remark that undid all her pretending.

  Not that I cared. I adored Julia.

  Mother took her place in the chair next to our hostess. I joined Julia on the settee. We spoke of the weather and the next ball until the tea arrived, and then Julia began whispering to me behind her cup while Mother entertained Mrs. Overton with news of David’s visit.

  “He really has set his cap for you,” Julia said.

  “It’s utterly ridiculous,” I said. “I’ve hardly spoken ten words together to the man.”

  “Perhaps he’s less interested in your conversation than he is in your other attributes.” Julia giggled. “Whatever has captured his interest, I should think it only fitting that the most eligible man in London should be caught with such unprecedented speed. I’d expect nothing less in a season as eventful as ours has already proven.”

  “You heard about what happened at our house, then?”

  “No thanks to you,” she teased. “Truly, the fact that I have to learn of the break-in from the servants and not from you is almost unforgivable.”

  I was glad to have sidestepped the subject of Lord Showalter for the moment. And even more glad to let my mind spin through the rest of the adventure. And I didn’t think I could keep myself from smiling. Julia knew me well enough that she’d suspect more. “Speaking of hired help, what news of your chaperone’s attempts to make you a Wilkins?”

  Julia shifted in her seat and glanced at her mother. “I believe she and Mother have abandoned that scheme. Emmaline is convinced his heart belongs to another,” she whispered.

  “Who?” I asked, though the pieces were beginning to come together in my mind.

  Julia shrugged as she bit into a triangle of shortbread. “Didn’t say. I’m not sure I’m entirely disappointed. Honestly, I was more excited about the prospect of being your sister than I was about being Rupert’s wife. And that is no reason to marry the man, even if he wanted me.” Her voice sounded braver than her eyes looked.

  I wished I could reassure her of my brother’s affection, wished I could somehow salve the pain of the rejection. But more than that, I itched to ask her if she’d any evidence of some attachment between my brother and her chaperone. Because if Lady Perkins was indeed the Emmaline re
ferenced in Rupert’s little book, the scandal that might erupt would be sensational. Perhaps even so great as to dwarf all this business with the mummy.

  But Julia didn’t need public insult added to the sting of losing my brother, no matter how lucky she was to be rid of him. So I simply took her hand and said, “You’ve always been the nearest I’ve known to a sister. And always will be, marriage or no.”

  Julia nodded, eyes shining. We said nothing for a moment, my mind wandering to Caedmon and the museum and the jackal’s head.

  “Agnes, have you been angry with me?”

  I turned to her, spilling tea on my skirts in alarm. “Of course not!”

  “It’s just that you’ve been so silent since the party. I rather hoped we’d spend some more time together before you are whisked away to marriage.”

  “I’m sorry, Julia. I’ve just been busy is all,” I offered lamely. “With the fittings and David’s surprise visit home, the days simply aren’t long enough. I’ve not even been reading lately.”

  “Oh!” Julia said, my neglect forgotten. “I’ve finished your Sense and Sensibility.” She popped up from the settee and fetched the book from the mantelpiece. Her mother noted her movement.

  “Ooh, I rather liked that one too,” she admitted. “Have you read it, Lady Wilkins?”

  Mother shook her head and grimaced. “No. But Agnes has quoted it with such frequency, and in so many languages,”—she threw a teasing look my way—“to make me believe I have.”

  “I’m quite taken with that A Lady,” Mrs. Overton continued.

  “As is Agnes,” Mother said. “When she was thirteen, do you know that she tried to convince her father to exploit his connections to discover the author’s true identity?”

  It was true. Father had laughed at my obsession. That was the summer that Julia and I had concocted scheme after scheme to try and suss out exactly who A Lady was.

  “Well, do you know what I heard?” Mrs. Overton leaned forward in her chair, lips pulled to one side of her face, eyes begging me to ask the question.

  “Mother,” Julia said, rolling her eyes, “that’s idle gossip.”