Wrapped

by Jennifer Bradbury

  Caedmon’s eyes widened. “Me?”

  Showalter nodded impatiently. “I presume you know something about the collection? Something that might make our journey here worthwhile?”

  If he recognized Caedmon from the party, he didn’t let on.

  Caedmon put his tools down. “Glad to oblige.”

  Showalter snapped his fingers. “Right, then.” He whirled round to me. “Where would you like to start?”

  My shoulders fell. We were really going to do this. “I . . .” I cast my eyes about for something, anything. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “There are some absolutely enormous items in here, aren’t there?” Mother said, surveying a granite spire that climbed halfway to the ceiling before breaking off in a jagged line.

  “That’s an obelisk.” Showalter reached out and rubbed his palm against the carved side. “I’ve got some bits of these things back at home I can show you. They’re not much to look at,” he said dismissively, turning, eyes falling on the case behind us. “But these little beauties,” he went on, pushing past us, “these are stunning.”

  “And what are they?” Mother asked, pointing at the collection of polished stones in the case in front of her. They ranged in color from deepest black to a smoky green. But the basic shapes were all the same.

  Caedmon stepped forward. “Heart scarabs, ma’am,” he said.

  “They look like giant beetles,” Mother said dubiously.

  “The scarab beetle was revered in ancient Egypt,” Showalter offered, joining Mother and Caedmon at the case. “The natives associated it with the sun god.”

  “The scarab lays its eggs inside a ball it fashions from animal dung,” Caedmon said carefully. “And it pushes the ball containing the eggs along the ground until it finds a safe place for them to hatch.”

  “How dreadful,” Mother said, looking back and forth between Caedmon and Lord Showalter. I wondered what she saw when she looked at them. Wondered if she saw them as I did, if she ever could. If she could ever view Caedmon with the same hope and pride that I felt, or Showalter with the same kind of pity. Pity for pinning his hopes on a girl like me . . . a girl who felt too much for someone else.

  And I wondered if she at least noticed that Caedmon was a bit taller, his hair a bit fuller, maybe even his eyes a bit kinder. . . .

  I thought too how Caedmon must see Lord Showalter. Did he envy his luck at having been born into a fortune, a fortune that allowed him to indulge his passion for Egypt?

  Did he envy him that that wealth also gave him access to me?

  Was it awful that I hoped he did?

  Caedmon was still trying to persuade Mother of the nobility of the scarab. “To the ancients, the sight of the young beetles emerging from the clod of dung was magical, a picture of life coming from a place it wasn’t meant to be. And the sight of the beetle pushing the ball along the ground gave them an image for another myth. They thought the sun was pushed along in the sky by a giant beetle like the ones depicted here.”

  “The scarab was worshipped in Egypt, and the people there wore it as a talisman, like one might wear a crucifix today,” Showalter said, horning in, perhaps afraid of being shown up by Caedmon.

  “These all seem a bit big for wearing,” Mother said, studying the pieces in the case below her.

  “Heart scarabs were placed in the wrappings of a mummy, directly over the heart,” Showalter supplied, falling easily into that role he loved so much, the role of expert, the role of lecturer. “Had we not been interrupted a few nights ago, we’d have likely found one in the wrappings.”

  “But I thought all the organs were removed from the bodies?” I said.

  “All but the heart,” Caedmon said, without looking up at me. “The Egyptians saw it as the most important part of the body. And on the journey to the afterlife, it had to be weighed and measured for purity by the gods. They put these scarab beetles over the heart in the remains to remind the dead to avoid confessing to any sins they’d committed in their lifetimes, lest they be denied their final rest.”

  “They used them to lie?” I asked.

  I thought I saw Caedmon steal a glance at me before he went on. “More that they used them to hide. To shield their hearts, the things they’d really done”—he paused—“or perhaps had felt.”

  I felt sorry that these objects, which were so dear to the people who’d counted on them so long ago, were now under glass, dismissed by the likes of us who didn’t know their real worth.

  “How . . . primitive,” Mother said after too long a pause. “Though it’s a pity they couldn’t have found a creature more noble for the purpose,” she said. “Rather appalling to ornament oneself with an insect that cavorts around in excrement.”

  I wanted to apologize for my mother’s comment, wanted to somehow make her see how lovely these things were. Wanted her to like them more, because in some odd way, it felt like if she liked them better, she’d like Caedmon better.

  “It little matters what they were for,” Showalter interjected. “These objects are highly prized by collectors. They fetch quite a price.”

  “We are very fortunate that we established such a collection,” Caedmon said softly.

  I surprised myself by speaking. “They don’t belong here.”

  Showalter leaned in. “What’s that?”

  I looked quickly between him and Caedmon. “They don’t belong here,” I repeated. “They ought to be with the bodies, or at least back in Egypt where the scarab is understood.”

  Caedmon spoke without looking at me. In fact, he’d so far been able to avoid giving any indication of our association. And it bothered me more than I could say. Bothered me that he could see me with Showalter and carry on as if he didn’t even know me. As if he hadn’t been as rattled as I was by how close we’d found ourselves last night.

  “Perhaps the work the museum does to help people understand outweighs—”

  “No,” I said firmly. “We don’t want to understand them. We want to gawk at them and congratulate ourselves for having such precious things. Things we’ve rescued from ignorant savages around the world—”

  Caedmon set his jaw, nostrils flaring, finally angry, finally showing something for me other than polite deference. “You presume too much,” he said. “You’re dead wrong to paint every person interested in antiquities or other lands with the same brush.”

  “But they belong in Egypt!” I said, pleased that some of his true speech was slipping out, that the mask of the academic was failing him.

  “They belong where they can best be understood,” Caedmon said evenly. “And perhaps the greatest gift we can give the people of Egypt in return is the benefit of our research. So that they might better understand their own history—”

  “Now who presumes?” I said heatedly. “British citizens a thousand miles away know better what it meant to be a subject of the pharaoh?”

  “You misunderstand me,” Caedmon said, fuming, but I didn’t let him finish.

  “I think it is quite the reverse!” I said, feeling like a child for baiting him with an argument I knew he could not resist.

  I realized Mother was squeezing my arm. “Perhaps we’ve had enough excitement for one morning,” she said brightly. “Agnes has been feeling very tired by all the events of her debut, Lord Showalter,” she said apologetically. “I’m afraid she’s always veered toward petulance when she overexerts herself.”

  “I can speak for myself, Mother,” I said bitterly.

  Her nails dug into my skin. “You’ve left no room for doubt on that point, darling,” she said. “But I think perhaps we might consider returning to the museum when you are a bit less excitable?”

  Showalter eyed Caedmon carefully, looking for all the world as if he wanted to reprimand him for arguing with me. He started to speak to him, but I couldn’t bear the thought of what he might say.

  “Mother is right,” I said quickly. “I am very tired and have behaved very badly. I would be most grateful if we
could luncheon earlier than planned and I might be excused to rest this afternoon.” I didn’t wait for confirmation, didn’t wait for Showalter or Mother to say our good-byes to Caedmon. I threw back my shoulders, lifted my chin, and stalked grandly from the room. I knew that under different circumstances, my exit might have drawn praise from Mother for its grandiosity, but I also knew that when the time came for her to evaluate me, it would draw something else entirely.

  Mother and Showalter chatted politely in the carriage on the way back to his home, both carefully avoiding any mention of the scene I’d just made. I dreaded explaining myself later to Mother, but not nearly so much as the conversation I’d have with Caedmon eventually.

  And I still had lunch to endure.

  Upon our arrival, Lord Showalter’s very annoyed housekeeper informed us that they hadn’t expected us until twelve, and the meal was far from ready. Mother and I followed Showalter into the back gardens.

  As we emerged, we were greeted by a terrific crack and cloud of white smoke rising into the air.

  “Capital!” Showalter cried out. “The morning may be salvaged after all.” He bounded down the steps to where his gamesman stood next to a table bearing a small collection of revolvers.

  “I was merely cleaning and testing the firearms, sir,” the gamesman said. “I thought perhaps since you’d be away for the morning . . .”

  “Your timing is impeccable,” he said. “We find ourselves in need of some diversion. And I’m sure the ladies will not object?” He turned, his gaze seeking Mother’s permission.

  “Just the thing,” Mother said genially, though I knew she loathed guns. It was expected for men to shoot pistols, and even common for women of the upper class to engage in the practice. But Mother forbade it at home and wouldn’t allow it at our country house either if she was about. Rupert and Father always shot when she was away.

  Showalter grinned, took up one of the pistols, and aimed at a target set up some thirty or forty yards away, near the entrance to the thicker part of the garden.

  “Well shot, sir,” said the gamesman to Lord Showalter after the echo of the gun’s report faded with the cloud of smoke.

  They set off for the target. I could see from here that the shot had found its way to the outer edges, leaving the cartoon of Napoleon’s face untouched.

  “You behaved abominably at the museum, Agnes,” Mother said, without looking at me.

  “I know,” I said. I wished I could tell her why. Wished I could tell her what had come over me. Wished that she could understand what it felt like to have the two of them in the same room together, to have the two worlds crowding up against each other; what it felt like to see that it didn’t bother Caedmon in the least to see me with Showalter.

  “I’ll thank you to acquit yourself more carefully this afternoon. If you can refrain from bickering with the servants, I’ll take it as a personal favor,” she said acidly.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  I was saved further reprobation by the return of our host. He bounded back up the lawn to us, the gamesman following slowly as he retamped the barrel on the pistol.

  “Nothing like a little target practice with old Boney,” Showalter said, gesturing behind him.

  “Very patriotic,” I offered.

  “Would you care to have a go, Lady Wilkins?” Showalter asked.

  Mother shook her head. “Actually, I believe we’d be better off in your very comfortable drawing room. I’d hate to allow Agnes to become even more enervated by this sunshine.”

  “Go ahead, Mother,” I said, knowing that if I went inside with her, I’d have more of her reprimands to endure. “I’ll stay and watch. My bonnet should cover me quite well.”

  Mother started to protest, but Showalter interrupted. “In fact, Lady Wilkins, I’m happy to escort you myself. There’s something in the library that I’d like to ask your opinion of,” he said, smiling warmly at me. “I’ve purchased a gift for a certain young lady making her debut rather soon, and want a woman’s refined perspective, you understand.”

  “I really don’t think you should have—”

  “Really, Agnes, I believe we’ve all had enough of your ill-formed opinions for one morning,” Mother’s barb landed with far more accuracy than Showalter’s shot. She took our host’s arm. “I’m happy to help.”

  They disappeared into the house, leaving me stunned in the yard with the gamesman.

  “Want to have a go?” he asked, nodding toward the target.

  Mother wouldn’t like it. But she was already as angry as I’d ever seen her. “Perhaps just one shot,” I said, looking over my shoulder to make sure Mother wasn’t watching from the windows.

  He extended the pistol to me. “She’s already loaded.”

  I took a careful step closer and picked up the gun. Its weight felt unnatural in my hand. “It’s remarkably heavy,” I said, surprised as I stared at the pistol. The hammer atop the firing mechanism was carved to look like the head of an eagle, the powerful beak clamped tightly around the nub of flint.

  “It’s a new model,” the gamesman said. “Don’t know that we’ll keep it round long, owing to some of the trouble we’ve heard about with it.”

  “Trouble?” I asked.

  He nodded. “It’s a little tricky. So long as you pay attention, and can aim true, it tends to find its mark. But if you leave it at full cock for any time at all, it’s as likely to explode in your hand as it is to shoot where you aim.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said, moving to return it to him.

  “It’s all right. Not even cocked yet.” He moved closer and placed his hand over mine on the grip.

  His thumb pulled back the ornate metal mechanism atop the pistol. It clicked once. “That’s half-cock there,” he said. “When I pull it all the way up to full, point at the target and pull the trigger with your finger. Problem comes when a body hesitates, and the powder has enough time to slip back in the chamber. Then the charge doesn’t carry the ball forward.”

  “What happens when the ball doesn’t go forward?”

  He hesitated. “It has to go somewhere. Most often the pistol sort of explodes.”

  “Perhaps—”

  Click. “There’s full. Just don’t wait too long, and don’t shut your eyes.”

  I had no time to think. I pointed the barrel at Napoleon’s face, straightened my arm, and squeezed gently on the curved metal trigger.

  The noise was deafening, the flash of powder as it ignited blinding, the smoke suffocating. And the force of the shot threw me back several steps before I regained my balance.

  “Nice and quick, miss,” said the gamesman, his hand recovering the pistol from mine.

  His voice sounded far away, accompanied by a ringing in my ears. “Shall we go down and see if you’ve got him?”

  I nodded weakly and followed him the length of the garden. What awaited shocked us both.

  There was a new mark on the target. A mark through the French tyrant’s left eye.

  The gamesman whistled low. “We’d better not tell your mother about that, had we?”

  I shook my head. “Perhaps not.”

  “Who’s that wasting my ammunition?” Showalter shouted from the steps, smiling as he descended.

  The gamesman and I exchanged a glance as my host jogged to our sides. I spoke before he could.

  “This gentleman obliged me with a demonstration,” I said. “So the fault is my own.”

  Showalter studied the target. “No fault in that,” he said, fingering the sixpence-size hole in the paper. “Adams is the best shot in London. That’s why I hired him.”

  The gamesman merely smiled, nodded, and looked at me. “You’re too kind,” he said, peeling away to head back up the hill to reload.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mother’s tirade that afternoon was legendary. She was so incensed that she ordered Clarisse to bring me supper in my room, requesting that I remain confined there for the rest of the evening in order that I might recover something
of the sensible, respectable girl she believed me to be. I was barred even from attending Lady Kensington’s card party with her for fear of what fool thing I might say next. She left me cowed in my room, framing excuses for my absence before she even reached the hallway.

  She had no way of knowing how welcome her punishment was.

  Mother’s carriage pulled away that evening with Aunt Rachel beside her to take my place at cards. I watched them go, Caedmon’s face drifting back into my mind, along with the expression of misery he’d worn when I stormed out of the exhibit hall. I’d wanted to provoke a reaction, wanted to believe he felt as anguished as I had at my being there with someone else. But as soon as I had, as soon as I realized I had injured him, I wanted to take it all back.

  Still, despite my exhaustion, despite how badly I’d behaved at the museum, despite how difficult my reunion with Caedmon would prove this evening, I had to make the most of my opportunity.

  Clarisse appeared at the door as Mother’s carriage left the drive.

  “She is quite upset with you, mademoiselle,” she teased. “If she only knew . . .”

  If Clarisse only knew.

  “But at last I can hear your tale without fear of her interruption.” She settled beside me and looked at me eagerly.

  “I’m sorry, Clarisse,” I said, “but I have to hurry.”

  She looked confused. “You go to him?” she asked. “Tonight?”

  I nodded. “Though not for the reasons you might imagine.”

  She studied my expression, must have seen what looked like heartbreak there. “What has happened?” she begged.

  I shook my head. What had happened? A pretend love affair already undone? It hardly seemed reasonable to feel so upset. But I was afraid if I let spill the story—or some sham version of it to pacify Clarisse—I would not be able to avoid very real tears.

  “I cannot explain,” I said simply, “not now. But I must go and see if I can make things right.”

  She hesitated, desperate for more details, but finally she stood and kissed the top of my head. “I will do what I can to keep your mother from looking in upon her return,” she said.