“Laban,” the waiter kept repeating in response to their expressions of puzzlement before walking away in disgust.
Edward smiled wryly.
“I am not sure exactly what I asked for,” he admitted, picking up the glass and examining it warily. “It seems to be milk, but perhaps it would be wise not to take the risk.”
Taking his lead, Sophie picked up the other glass.
“If we both took a little sip, it couldn’t do us much harm, could it?” she said. “After all, what is the point of travelling if one does not take a chance occasionally?”
Edward looked at her with admiration. “Bravo, Miss Lucas, you are quite right. Shall we?”
He lifted his own glass in a toast and after a slight hesitation, Sophie nodded and they each took a small sip.
“It is milk,” Sophie said. “Only very sweet, with a flavour I do not recognise.”
“And thicker than milk should be. Do you know? I recall reading somewhere that a French king in the sixteenth century was miraculously cured of some disease after eating a fermented milk drink sent to him by an Arabic doctor. Perhaps this is it. However,” he added, as Sophie took another sip, “I would counsel some caution. This is only our first day here; we should be prudent in our experiments.”
Sophie agreed and turned instead to the tiny cup of steaming black coffee in front of her. It was rich and thick, copiously sweetened, and very refreshing. “Most invigorating,” she said.
“I am glad you are enjoying yourself.”
“How could I not?” she said. “It is hard to believe that only a few short months ago I was languishing in Meryton, and all I had to look forward to was decorating the church with Mama for the harvest festival. It was a good notion of yours to come to Egypt.”
“I have dreamed of this trip all my life,” he said, and all his enthusiasm and natural good spirits were in evidence. “And now I am here, I am determined not to waste one single moment. There is so much to do and see that at times I almost feel overwhelmed by the thought of it all. When I woke this morning and smelled the jasmine in the air and heard the strange chatter in the streets below, I could scarcely believe that I was at last here. And this adventure has barely started for me. When we arrive in Cairo, there will be much to see and do. You will be entranced, S… Miss Lucas. There are the pyramids, and then there is the sphinx, which is a wonder to behold—or so I am told. And after that the beauty of the Nile and then down into the Valley of the Kings with all its splendour—” He stopped, suddenly aware that he was monopolising the conversation. “Forgive me, Miss Lucas, I am afraid that when I start talking about Egypt I find it hard to stop, but I know not everyone finds it as fascinating as I do. How are you feeling now? If you are rested, we should perhaps continue with our shopping.”
He was making a special effort to drag himself away from the topic which intrigued him, and Sophie smiled.
“I have spent so much of my life listening to my brothers talk of nothing but hunting and shooting and my father talking of his presentation at St James’s that it is a pleasure to hear a man talk of something more interesting for a change. And you speak this strange language, too, which is something most of us have not even considered.”
“Only a few words,” Edward said, but Sophie shook her head.
“Nevertheless, we would not have managed without you today. Perhaps when we return to the hotel you might teach me some phrases.”
“It would be my pleasure, Miss Lucas,” he said warmly, looking at her with new respect. For a moment neither of them spoke—then Edward stood up. Leaving what he hoped was enough money on the table, he leaned forward to take Sophie’s hand. “We really should be joining Elizabeth and Darcy now.”
They began to gather up their purchases as the waiter came over to them. When he saw the small fortune that had been left, he was almost in paroxysms of delight.
“There, Mr Fitzwilliam,” said Sophie, her eyes twinkling with amusement as the waiter showered them with “Allahs.” “You have made a new friend at this coffeehouse today.”
He looked at her warmly and said, “I hope I have made two.”
She smiled in answer. He offered her his arm, and as they set off toward Elizabeth and Darcy she felt lucky she had discovered that there was more to life than deciding on which hymn to practise for the Sunday service and that feckless young men did not have the right to destroy her life. There were other young men in the world, interesting and courteous and chivalrous young men, who, perhaps in time, might be trusted. And then, who knew what might happen?
***
Paul Inkworthy looked at the camel driver in front of him. He tried to keep his mind on his subject as he sketched the man’s long, flowing robe and characterful face, instead of letting his thoughts wander to the far more interesting subject of Miss Sophie Lucas.
Sophie had come to occupy his mind far more than was wise over the past few weeks. It had been impossible to escape her on the sea voyage, despite his noble intentions to stay away from her, as he knew full well that a poverty-stricken artist had nothing to offer a woman whose father was a knight. But now that they had arrived in Alexandria he knew that he must gradually withdraw his attentions, which had been more marked than they should have been, given that he was not in a position to support a wife. And so he had set out early that morning in order to remove himself from temptation.
Reminding himself that he was on the trip as the Darcys’ artist, he forced himself to pay attention to his work. He had promised Mr Darcy a faithful representation of all the varied scenes of Alexandria: the boats coming and going along the river, the little boys driving donkeys, the camels with water jugs on their backs, the men with their copper faces and their long robes, the women with their black hair and eyes—all the noise and confusion of a busy Egyptian port.
He finished the sketch of the camel driver and then flicked back through his sketchbook, marvelling at the opportunities that had come his way since setting out from England.
The earliest sketches were of the Darcys in their London home: Darcy standing in front of the fireplace; Elizabeth walking in the garden, with the wind whipping her skirt about her ankles; the children at work and play. But these soon gave way to a collection of drawings and paintings of the sea voyage, which had provided him with a chance to produce character sketches of the sailors as well. It had also given him an unprecedented opportunity to perfect his rendering of tall sailing ships as well as to capture an endless array of seascapes, from calm to storm. In addition, the ports they had visited had given him a chance to sketch places as varied as Southampton and Malta.
And now he was in Alexandria, where the light effects alone would provide him with a year’s study as he sought to capture the way the air shimmered in the heat and the way the water dazzled under the full glare of the sun.
He picked up a half-finished painting and put it on his easel, returning to the scene he had abandoned half an hour earlier and, newly inspired, captured the heat haze that had defeated him before.
He stood back to look at his painting when he was done, squinting against the bright Egyptian sun.
“Exceptional,” came a voice at his shoulder. “I have seen many artists at work here, and they have all captured the scene in front of them to great effect. But you have caught the wind in the sails, the movement of the water, the bray of the camels, and the scent of the spices. I have long been searching for an artist to record my travels and I have been on the point of making arrangements with three of them, but something always held me back. I was looking for something more, though I didn’t know what that something was. But now I know. Whereas other artists will bring Egypt into my living room, you, dear sir, will transport my living room to Egypt.”
Paul turned to see an English gentleman who was well dressed and whose attire made no concessions to the heat. He was wearing a tight tailc
oat and breeches together with a frilled shirt and a starched cravat. On his head was a tall hat, and he carried a cane.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the gentleman. “Here, my card.”
He handed it to Paul, and Paul felt the quality of it even as he read the name, Sir Mark Bellingham, Bart.
“Of the Shropshire Bellinghams,” said Sir Mark.
“I don’t know the Shropshire Bellinghams,” said Paul awkwardly, feeling his lack of status.
“My dear sir, I would be surprised if you did,” said Sir Mark, amused. “But you will, I hope, become further acquainted with this one. I am looking for an artist to travel with me through Egypt, making a record of my journey and providing me with a number of finished paintings to hang on my wall when I return to England. You have just the talent… no,” he said, looking again at the paintings clustered haphazardly round Paul’s feet, “the genius I am looking for.”
Paul was flattered by the praise and the offer of employment, but he said, “I am already engaged.”
“Whatever your patron is paying, I will double it,” said Sir Mark, unconcerned.
“I think you would regret the offer if you knew the cost,” said Paul with a sudden smile. “Besides, I cannot abandon my current patron in the middle of his journey.”
“I admire your loyalty, if regretting its consequences. But can we not share you? If you will accept a commission for three paintings of Alexandria from me—”
Paul shook his head.
“We will only be in Alexandria for a few days. After that, we travel to Cairo.”
“That is no difficulty,” said Sir Mark, waving away the problem. “I will be going to Cairo myself next week.”
“But we will not be long there, either,” said Paul. “We will be travelling down the Nile shortly afterward.”
“I, too, will be sailing down the Nile,” said Sir Mark. “Whereabouts will you be staying?”
“We will be joining Sir Matthew Rosen’s dig.”
“Ah,” said Sir Mark. For the first time he acknowledged the problem.
“I believe Mr Darcy had a certain amount of difficulty in persuading Sir Matthew to accept his presence,” said Paul. “I am not sure Sir Matthew would welcome another…”
“Dilettante?” suggested Sir Mark. “Well, perhaps not. But you will not be working for Mr Darcy forever. Perhaps you will be good enough to keep me informed of your progress, and when your present patron announces his intention of returning to England, you will find another patron waiting for you.”
“That is very good of you,” said Paul. The thought of continuing employment was very welcome. “But I believe I must return to England with the Darcys.”
“Must you?” asked Sir Mark. “But why?” His eye, which had been travelling over Paul’s collection of sketches and paintings, came to rest on a portrait of Elizabeth. “Ah!” he said. “It seems there is a lady in the case. Your patron has a daughter, and a very lovely one. I understand now your reluctance to leave him.”
“That is not his daughter; it is his wife,” said Paul.
“Indeed,” said Sir Mark with a quick glance at Paul. “A beautiful woman.”
“Yes, she is,” said Paul.
Sir Mark looked at him appraisingly for a moment then looked again at his paintings, letting his gaze wander over them until they came to rest on a sketch of Sophie.
“And who is this?” he asked.
“That is Miss Lucas, a friend of the Darcys,” said Paul, blushing as he said it.
Sir Mark smiled.
“I see. A family friend. A young lady who is well-connected and therefore above a poverty-stricken artist with his way to make in the world. But not above an artist with a wealthy patron and a handsome income, I think. Keep me informed of your whereabouts, young man. True artists are hard to find, and I believe you could make my reputation as a serious patron of the arts. In return, I could make your fortune.”
With that, he tipped his hat and walked away.
Paul watched him go and then turned the card over in his hand again. Sir Mark Bellingham. A wealthy baronet with a love of art.
Visions of a rosy future opened up in front of Paul. He saw himself paying court to Sophie, winning her hand, and then settling in some splendid home, thanks to Sir Mark. There would be London exhibitions, fame, fortune, success…
A camel bumped into his easel and the painting fell, still wet, toward the sand. Leaping into action, Paul managed to catch it before it hit the ground, while the camel driver shouted at him in rich, colourful language and the passing throng laughed, brought together by the comical scene, before moving on.
Paul began to pack up his belongings, laughing at himself wryly for his daydreams. It was too hot now to paint and he wanted to return to his room, where in the relative cool he could ponder the morning’s events.
***
The man who had introduced himself as Sir Mark Bellingham returned to his lodgings with no less to ponder. He had learned a lot about the movements of the Darcys and had confirmed what he already knew, as well as giving himself the advantage of an informant in Darcy’s camp, for he did not doubt that the artist would apprise him of his movements, particularly if there should be any change to the Darcys’ plan.
He went into the walled house, with its refuse-strewn courtyard, and up the crumbling flight of steps to the large room beyond. His wife was there, surrounded by a host of colourful items: shawls and scarves and earthenware pots. She looked up as he entered the room.
“La, George, where have you been?” she asked. “I have been wanting to go out this last half hour, but it is not safe for a woman to go out unaccompanied here. I set my foot out of the door and nearly had it shot off by a soldier of some kind. The men here are not what they are at home.”
“And so I told you before we arrived,” he said.
“I wish you would tell me what we are doing here. You told me it would be an adventure, but all it has been so far is seasickness and dysentery,” Lydia said discontentedly.
“You did nothing but flirt with the sailors on the various ships that brought us here, and as for dysentery, you have the strongest stomach I have ever come across in a woman,” said her husband without sympathy.
“La, George, ever since Mama told us that Lizzy was going to Egypt you have been acting very strange. I am sure I had no objection to leaving England, seeing as how our creditors were pressing us close, but I wish you would tell me what we are doing here. And what are these cards for?” she asked, picking up one of the calling cards he had lately given to Paul Inkworthy. “Who is Sir Mark Bellingham?”
“For the moment, I am,” said George.
“Oh, another scheme,” said Lydia. “You are always hatching some plan or other.”
“This one will make our fortune,” said Wickham.
“How will coming to Egypt make our fortune?” said Lydia. “And why did we have to come by ourselves instead of travelling with Lizzy and Darcy? We could have travelled in comfort, instead of taking passage on a variety of cheap old tubs, setting off before Lizzy and arriving after her.”
“Because no one must know we are here, least of all Darcy.” He had no particular wish to take her into his confidence, but she gave him no peace until at last he rapped out, “If he knows we are here, he will know we are after the treasure.”
“Treasure?” said Lydia, stopping in midsentence. “What treasure? There is something you are not telling me, George. Very well, if you will not tell me, I will ask Mr Darcy. I am sure it will not be hard to find out where he is staying.”
Wickham scowled, but seeing that she would not be satisfied unless he told her everything, he said, “You know that my father was a friend of Darcy’s father? And a friend of Edward Fitzwilliam’s father, too, for that matter.”
“I
know he was old Mr Darcy’s steward,” said Lydia unhelpfully.
“He should have never been a steward,” said Wickham, a flash of anger breaking through his crocodile charm. “He should have been a wealthy man and in a position to employ a steward himself, not become one. He saved old Mr Darcy’s life, and for that, old Mr Darcy rewarded him by making him his servant! My father was not born to be a servant. He was the son of a gentleman. He should have been a wealthy landowner. Then he would have left his estate to me. And he would have been, had old Mr Darcy valued the service my father did for him, saving his miserable existence.”
“I never heard he saved old Mr Darcy’s life,” said Lydia, her interest aroused.
“It was in Egypt, many years ago,” said Wickham. “When my father was a young man, before he met George Darcy, he was left a small inheritance and he used it to finance a Grand Tour. He visited France and Italy then he travelled on to Malta, where he met Charles Fitzwilliam and George Darcy. The three of them became friends and travelled on to Egypt together. They sailed down the Nile, stopping every now and then to explore half-visible temples which rose out of the mountains of sand. When they were returning from one such expedition, they found a man in the middle of the desert. He was lying in the full sun, collapsed, more dead than alive. He begged them to take him back to Luxor and promised them a reward if they did so.
“The reward meant nothing to them, but they did as he asked. However, by the time they arrived at Luxor he was so weak that he died. They paid for his funeral and afterward were surprised to find that he had left his few worldly possessions to them in his will, namely three pieces of a map and a curious Egyptian doll. He left a piece of the map to each of them, with the assurance that it pointed the way to an unplundered tomb. It showed various landmarks and had an inscription in hieroglyphic writing. They did not believe him, as the tombs thereabouts had been plundered many times, but nevertheless they were curious and they set out to find it.