CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Is the Sitt awake?”

At the sound of Magi’s dulcet tones, Desdemona rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. She didn’t want to talk to Magi. She felt: awful: foggy-headed, feeble, and embarrassed.

“I can see that revered Sitt is indeed awake.”

“No, she’s not.”

“Yes.” Magi sounded positively perky. “She is. I can tell from the moaning she makes. Very different from the moaning she made when she was asleep. But this is stretching the definition of ‘sleep.’ I would be better served by saying ‘unconscious.’ ”

Desdemona turned her head. The rest of her body refused to follow. “I really don’t feel very well, Magi.”

“Oh? Really?” Magi cooed. “I am devastated to hear as much. I am sure your discomfort far exceeds that felt by certain people upon hearing from Duraid that you sneaked into the suq and were smoking hashish.”

Desdemona groaned.

“Or upon hearing that you were kidnapped by white slavers.”

Desdemona closed her eyes.

“Or that you had been drunk on fermented goat’s milk.” She waited.

“I’ve had a rough week.”

“How could you, Desdemona?” Magi demanded, sweetness abandoned.

This time Desdemona managed to roll over. Magi stood over her, her hands planted on her hips, dark eyes flashing. Even though lying on her back put Desdemona at a distinct disadvantage, she couldn’t find the energy to rise.

“I didn’t even know it was hashish.”

“Humph. You are not a fool, Desdemona. You must have suspected you were not imbibing in a simple puff of sheesha.”

Sheesha. Tobacco. Harry had said the same thing … hadn’t he? But Joseph had assured her that—

At the thought of Joseph, she bolted upright. With the sudden movement, pain hammered through her temples. She grabbed both sides of her head, squinting in pain. “Ow! Where are the ostraca?”

Magi pushed her back down, clucking impatiently. “They are fine. Harry brought them over and gave them to Sir Robert. Your grandfather is most pleased, Desdemona.”

Damn! She couldn’t ask her grandfather to give them back. She bid good-bye to her projected five-pound profit. Thank you, Harry, she thought. At times it almost seemed he was making a concerted effort to sabotage her plans to return to England. She shook her head.

The entire preceding day was an inextricable tangle of images and voices and sensations—all of them profoundly uncomfortable. The most disquieting one had Harry attached to it. She remembered a kiss. Or was that a three-year-old memory? Could hashish conjure up the past—textures, fragrances, flavors—so clearly?

She had to have been reliving that one long-ago kiss. The memory of disappointment was the same, the feeling of frustration and abandonment. It had ended the same way it had then—with him setting her aside. Hadn’t it? Lord, she was so confused!

“I cannot stand by when you endanger yourself,” Magi was saying.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“It had best not. Hashish is for fools,” Magi exclaimed passionately. “In the seraglio there were many women who smoked hashish and opium. They smoked it to flee the boredom of their lives, to wander in dreams where they were forbidden to go in reality. Pitiful creatures making fantasy their only truth.”

“Don’t worry, Magi.” She meant it. If she never saw another hookah, it would be too soon. She could not remember ever having feilt so dull and sluggish … and stupid. And if what she half remembered did indeed happen, she’d certainly embodied that last attribute.

“You must promise me—”

“For heaven’s sake, Magi, I promise. You and Harry. The two of you should open a school of naggery. No wonder Harry is so good at what he does … he bullies his clients into acquiescence.”

“I am glad Master Harry has lectured you.” Magi sniffed. “I do not mean to harass you. I only want you safe, Desdemona.”

Magi’s mouth turned unhappily and Desdemona, suddenly aware of her ingratitude, caught her hand, squeezing it. Magi’s concern for her was real, her affection unfeigned. Magi was as much a mother as Desdemona had known. “I know, Magi. But please don’t worry. I have no intention of ever smoking hashish again.”

“Good.” Having gotten the answer she wanted, the worry promptly evaporated from Magi’s expression. She pulled her hand free, fussing about at the foot of the bed.

“Desdemona?” her grandfather called from the other side of the bedroom door. Desdemona glanced at Magi. If her grandfather got wind of what had—

“He doesn’t know,” Magi whispered.

Desdemona sighed with relief. If he heard of yesterday’s misadventures, not only would her grandfather be scouring the English countryside for long-lost relatives to dump her on, it would break his heart.

“Yes, Grandfather. Come in.” She pushed herself to a sitting position as Sir Robert entered.

“Desdemona—” he began, and then stopped short of the bed, peering at her in concern. “Are you feeling quite the thing, dear? You don’t look well.”

“Headache,” she said. “You were about to tell me something?”

“Yes! My word, yes. The most wondrous thing has occurred, Desdemona. I think I’ve found an Apis bull. In El Minya.”

“Really?” She scooted farther up, ignoring the hammer hitting the anvil of her brain case.

“And I’m the first in Cairo to know about it. I have to go down there as quickly as I can make arrangements. Before the horrible Chesterton finds out.”

“Of course you do.”

Her grandfather beamed approvingly at her, and then his expression turned glum. “You realize that this means that I won’t be able to escort you to that Turkish chappie’s dinner on Friday night?”

“He’s the khedive’s secretary, Grandfather. The khedive,” she repeated when he stared at her blankly. “The ruler of this country?”

“Whatever,” her grandfather said. “At any rate, though I was hoping to chaperone you and young Lord Ravenscroft, I simply cannot eschew such an opportunity. How I would love to be able to set you up properly in a London town house.”

“Set me up?” Desdemona raised her brows. “If we could sell Mr. Schmidt a bull, we’d use the money to repay your debts and send you and your collection on tour.”

“Oh, that would be nice. But not as nice as seeing you in your own garden, surrounded by English spaniels and plump, ruddy-cheeked English babies.”

“Yes.” Dear man, he was always more concerned with her future than his own. “That would be nice. But not as nice as seeing you standing in front of the National Geographic Society.”

Her grandfather flushed. “Yes, that would be delightful. But visions of your chubby tots make any self-aggrandizing schemes of mine seem quite insignificant—”

“Yes. Well, fat children are certainly a fond dream of mine, but when one has a lifetime of knowledge to impart—”

“Oh, stop it, you two!” Magi broke in. “Always trying to convince each other how wonderful England is. It is maddening! The issue today is that Desdemona does not have a chaperon.”

“Oh, that,” Desdemona said. “Don’t worry, dear. I don’t need a chaperon. I’ll be fine.”

“Well, of course you’ll be fine,” her grandfather said, rolling his eyes. “It’s not a matter of whether or not you’ll be fine. It’s a question of appearances. There are proprieties to observe. As a viscount, Lord Ravenscroft is bound to be sensitive to the look of a thing. We won’t want him to be disappointed.”

“I’m sure Lord Ravenscroft is not as stiff-necked as all that.”

“Perhaps not, but still, we have to ask ourselves, is it the done thing? I mean, in England, would it be proper? We don’t want Lord Ravenscroft to think that just because we’re in Egypt we’ve forgotten what is and isn’t done.” He wrinkled his brow. “And there’s the question of who will accompany the two of you on your trip to Giza tomorrow, too.”

“I will be pleased to act the doyen,” Magi volunteered. Sabotage was written all over her face.

“No. Thank you, Magi,” Desdemona responded quickly.

“I’m afraid that won’t do, Magi,” her grandfather unexpectedly concurred. “Though I thank you. I’m expecting a shipment from England tomorrow. Someone will have to be here to see the thing isn’t mismanaged.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. “I suppose I could ask Harry—”

“No!” Desdemona burst out.

Her grandfather blinked in surprise.

“I mean, no, sir.” She didn’t remember much of what had happened between Harry and herself yesterday, but what she did remember made the thought of Harry acting as her moral guardian not only absurd but mortifying. If she recalled correctly, she’d asked him to make love to her. No. Harry was her last choice as a chaperon. In fact, he wasn’t a choice at all.

“I think it’s a fine idea, sir,” Magi piped in.

Desdemona speared her with a glare. “No, it’s not.”

“Why not?” her grandfather asked.

“I’ve enjoyed my liberty and been guided by my own good sense for five years, Grandfather.” She ignored Magi’s snort. “I cannot suddenly pretend to conventions I have never adhered to and have no intention of adhering to. Even to make our guest comfortable.” The words, though initially offered as an excuse, were, she realized, nothing short of the truth.

“I suppose you’re right, Desdemona. You’ve had far too much license.” He passed his hand across the crown of his head. “I haven’t done an exemplary job as your guardian.”

“Nonsense. You’ve been wonderful.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t. I had you shipped to Egypt, exposed you to obsessives like Chesterton and criminals like Paget, allowed you too much freedom in some arenas and not enough in others. It hasn’t been the best circumstances in which to raise a young woman. But once you’re back in England I’m sure you’ll adjust. But for now …?” He sighed heavily. “I’ve done my best. I won’t try to restrain you at this late date.”

“Nope.”

“You’ve been socializing with those Americans again, haven’t you?” He sighed, not really expecting an answer. “Very well, then. You have my permission to go off unattended with Lord Ravenscroft.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Devious, he was. Subtle, he was not.

“Hadn’t you better be making travel arrangements?” she asked. She settled back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

“Oh, my, yes. I’ll be leaving this evening if I can arrange it.”

“I still think Desdemona should not go alone with this Ravenscroft. What do we know of him?” Magi protested.

Her grandfather paused. Desdemona could hear the honest surprise in his voice as he replied, “Why, Magi, he’s a viscount.”

Harry paused outside of the Carlisles’ front door and wiped his palms against his trouser legs. His heart beat too rapidly and his mouth felt dry. He was afraid.

He did not know how much of yesterday’s adventure Dizzy would remember, or how much she would fault him for. He could not forget her forlorn and lost expression as she’d accused him of spurning her. Again.

A wave of self-disgust swept through him. She’d been in his arms and he’d acted like a bloody, prideful knight-errant. What a complete ass he was. She’d been willing, his flesh had been more than willing, and yet he’d held back, tethered by some notion of chivalry.

He was becoming some sort of aberration, controlled by fantasies as peculiar as Dizzy’s.

He rapped sharply on the door and waited. A moment later Magi ushered him inside. Absently he noted the dingy interior, the threadbare carpet runner, the chipped plaster molding in the corner of the ceiling. All of Sir Robert’s money was devoured by his consuming passion for Egyptian antiquities. There was scant left over for necessities, let alone creature comforts.

“Do they need anything?” he asked Magi. “Do they need money?”

“They always need money. But”—she lifted her shoulders—“I do not know if the household finances are harder-pressed than usual. Desdemona no longer lets me see the accounts. She does not want to worry me.”

And that worried him.

“I’ve come to see her.”

“She’s not up yet.” Magi’s sniffed response gave clear indication of her feelings on the matter.

“Then I’ll see Sir Robert.”

“He is gone.” Magi was obviously displeased with him. Normally she was one of the more loquacious women of his acquaintance.

“Fine. I’ll just trot along and see how Diz is do—” Magi stepped in front of him, blocking his way to Dizzy’s room.

“Listen, Magi. I didn’t drag her to Hassam’s store and force that water pipe in her mouth.”

“You should have been more attentive.”

He lifted his hands, palm upward, in frustration. “How? What would you have me do?”

“Marry her.”

He shook his head. “She doesn’t want me. She wants some English paragon, a bloody knight in shining armor. And dammit,” he muttered, “she deserves to have those desires realized. If anyone deserves it, Diz does. Sir Robert”—he caught his breath, outrage making him breathe too harshly—“Sir Robert told me what her childhood was like.”

None of the hazily detailed memoirs Dizzy had sporadically related had prepared Harry for Sir Robert’s confidences. After hearing Sir Robert’s story, Harry had realized that Dizzy had made up a childhood to take the place of the one she’d never had, told him of playmates he knew now were imaginary, of parties that had occurred only in her imagination.

The reality had been that Dizzy had been forced to sit ramrod straight for hours on end, reciting and memorizing …

A visceral image flooded Harry’s mind: leather straps tying him to a straight-backed chair in an empty classroom; trickling sweat itching beneath his prickling wool jacket; a voice thundering in his ear hour after hour “Read the words, you stubborn, stupid boy! Read them!”

Impossible to believe that a child prodigy, the antithesis of what he’d been, would ever have endured such loneliness and isolation. But Dizzy had. Regret and anger raced through him. His laughing, life-loving Dizzy had …

“Christ.”

He gazed beyond Magi’s stiff shoulders outside at the brilliant, sun-dazzled courtyard. In his mind’s eye he saw the child Dizzy, her feet tucked under her, secretly reading from forbidden books, books meant for entertainment, not edification, trying to snatch some knowledge of a world and life her genius had denied her. The sunlight was too bright. It hurt his eyes, made them water.

“I think you are wrong, Harry, to let her go to England. I think both you and Sir Robert are wrong.” Magi touched his shoulder. “Here, in Egypt, Desdemona is a part of life, not a spectator. She is important, her talents useful, not merely an oddity. She accumulates responsibilities as other girls collect hair ribbons: the household, Duraid, the street children.

“Sir Robert doesn’t see the satisfaction she derives from this, only the work.” Magi shook her head. “He only knows that her upbringing was unorthodox and unpleasant and he vows to make it right. Like you. You are both wrong.”

As much as he wanted it otherwise, Harry found no solace in her assurance. Magi loved Dizzy like a daughter. Of course she did not want her to leave. And he didn’t either. But Sir Robert’s conversation a few days ago had had its impact. And Egypt wasn’t as safe as England, as the last week had all too clearly proved.

“I’m sorry, Magi,” he said, slipping by her and heading down the hall. Behind him, he heard her emit a gusty sound of exasperation.