Chapter 9
DAPHNE WANTED TO RUN BACK TO THE BOAT and hide in her cabin, which was childish and silly, she knew. When she did get back to the boat, she would give herself a good talking-to. She could not revert to the heedless schoolgirl she’d once been, ruled by her passions. Then she’d paid with a prison sentence of a marriage. Now she would pay with her reputation, shaming Miles, who’d made it possible for her to continue her work and to whom she owed her sanity.
If your honor means nothing to you, she told herself, at least consider his.
Aloud she said, with all the composure she could summon, that she would very much like to visit the pyramids—as soon as she made copies of the cartouches.
Mr. Carsington unloaded her drawing supplies from her saddlebags, then kept out of her way while she worked. It did not take very long, and she was surprised, when she was done, to look round and find him standing under a palm tree, sketching.
“I didn’t know you could draw,” she said.
“It’s one of my deep, dark secrets,” he said. “Actually, it’s the only one. Not much of a secret, either. My father believes a gentleman must know how to draw as well as fence and shoot. If I go home with no pictures, I’ll never hear the end of it. There.” He showed it to her.
The sketch was of the colossal Ramesses—and of her, seated on her stool, copying the signs on the stone pharaoh’s wrist.
“It’s very good,” she said, surprised. She felt a surge of pleasure, too, because she was in the picture, and a chill of anxiety, because she was in the picture, and the portrayal struck her as…intimate. But that was ridiculous, emotion playing tricks on her reason. Who’d ever know it was Daphne Pembroke, that tiny figure next to the immense pharaoh who’d fallen on his face?
THE SAQQARA PYRAMIDS were reputedly older than those of Giza. They were still imposing structures, Daphne thought as they crossed the plain. The main one, the Pyramid of Steps, was their destination.
When they reached the pebbly sand slope leading to the pyramids’ plateau, she and Mr. Carsington dismounted, to spare the donkeys.
Debris littered the way. He paused for a time, studying it, an odd expression on his face. She said nothing, simply watched, surprised, as his countenance hardened and he turned into someone she scarcely recognized. The cold mask reminded her of the change in his voice when he found the bodies in the pyramid. He’d sounded like a stranger then, so cold and detached.
She saw the same stranger now. Usually, even when he wasn’t smiling outwardly, she’d felt the smile was there all the same. In his dark eyes she usually discerned a gleam of amusement, as though he knew a very good joke. That, no doubt, was why one was so easily deluded into believing him an amiable idiot.
The good humor was completely gone. He straightened and, without a word, walked quickly on, taking long, angry strides she couldn’t hope to match.
Puzzled, Daphne squatted to look more closely at the rubbish covering the ground. Bits of marble and alabaster. Pottery shards. Shiny blue and green slivers. Shreds of dirty brown linen. Some odd bits of dark material. And white…bones.
She rose and gazed about her.
The place was a pillaged burial ground. These were the contents of graves. The pieces of dark material were what remained of mummies. The linen was the remnants of their winding sheets. The other bits must be the vestiges of burial objects.
“Oh, you poor things,” she whispered. Her throat closed and ached.
She rubbed her eyes and sharply told herself to stop being maudlin. Her collection of papyri had been plundered from the graves of ancient Egyptians. The same was true of her little wooden Egyptians.
“What an idiot—and a great hypocrite—you are, to weep about them now,” she chided herself. But she’d been an idiot from the time she woke up this day, it seemed. She rubbed her itching eyes and took a steadying breath, and continued to the pyramid.
She found Mr. Carsington at an ominous-looking black hole in the north face. The cold, hard look was gone, and the gleam was back in his eyes. A European in Arab garb stood with him. Mr. Carsington introduced the man as Signor Segato. He was excavating the pyramid for the Baron Minutoli, she learned.
“He tells me the interior is wonderfully complicated,” Mr. Carsington said. “Makes Chephren’s tomb look like child’s play, by the sounds of it. This is the way in.”
Daphne ventured nearer the hole. It was much larger than the entrance to Chephren’s pyramid.
“The shaft is only eighteen feet deep,” Mr. Carsington said.
“It can’t possibly be that easy to get inside,” she said.
“No, that’s the beginning,” he said. “The burial chamber’s about a hundred feet below, under the pyramid.”
“A hundred feet,” she repeated while her heart beat a fearful No, no! No, no! No, no!
“It’s gradual,” he said. “Miles of descending passages and stairs. Some pits and such. And a place where the stones are threatening to fall in. Are you game, Mrs. Pembroke?”
She did not want to go down into that hole, be it ever so large. Every natural instinct recoiled, and common sense warned against it.
“There are hieroglyphic signs on a doorway,” he said.
“Inside?” she said. “Inside a pyramid?” She’d never heard of anyone’s finding hieroglyphs inside a pyramid. But this excavation was very recent. She turned her gaze to Signor Segato and fired a series of questions at him in Italian.
Yes, yes, he agreed with the signora: this was most unusual. He was greatly surprised when he found them: birds, snakes, insects, and the other little pictures. The chamber itself was decorated, very beautiful.
She swallowed. “Very well,” she told Mr. Carsington. “I should like to see this inscription.”
It was a beastly long and uncomfortable way to the chamber, and the heat so far below ground was sufficient to bake bricks. But once they’d amassed torches enough, and she stopped coughing from the smoke, she could appreciate the interesting labyrinth of passages and the complex of chambers, so unlike the simplicity of Chephren’s pyramid at Giza. This one, too, was empty of treasure, which could surprise no one. In Egypt, plundering tombs had been not simply a fact of life but a profession since the time of Cheops at least.
She found treasure enough for her, though, deep in the bowels of the pyramid.
The chamber was all and more that Signor Segato had promised. Upon the dark blue painted ceiling gleamed golden stars. Turquoise-colored tiles covered the walls. But most wondrous of all was the doorframe. Above it and along the sides were hieroglyphs, beautifully cut in low relief.
A repeated motif adorned the sides. A falcon wearing the pharaoh’s crown stood upon a rectangular pedestal divided into two squares. The top square contained three signs: at top, the hatchet that signified a god; beneath this, the almond shape she’d decided must be the r sound; and under it a sign less familiar: a rattle, insect, flower, or musical instrument, she couldn’t be sure. Four vertical sections divided the bottom square. Did these signify pillars? she wondered. Doors?
“Is that the god Horus?” came Mr. Carsington’s deep voice from behind her.
The voice went straight down her spine and up again. In self-defense, she adopted her pedantic mode. “So it appears,” she said. “The sign below him is the one Dr. Young interprets to mean god. As you see, Horus wears a pharaoh’s crown. The kings were believed to be gods. Perhaps this one was closely associated with Horus.”
“The signora can read the ancient writing?” Signor Segato asked.
“Ah, no,” Mr. Carsington said quickly. “She has read a little Greek, though.”
“Herodotus,” Daphne said quickly.
She really must learn to keep her hieroglyphic speculations to herself. As Noxley had remarked, the Egyptians loved to talk, and news traveled swiftly. If the explorer mentioned an Englishwoman who could read hieroglyphs, all of Egypt would soon hear of it…including the mad villains who’d kidnapped Miles—and who wouldn’t hesitate to come after her.
“She uses a little Herodotus and a great deal of woman’s intuition,” Mr. Carsington said, in precisely the patronizing tone one would expect from a superior male.
Normally, the condescension would have had her seething. Now she almost laughed—with relief—at how adeptly he’d covered her blunder.
Ironic that she could trust him to keep her secret better than she could do.
She did not half understand him, she realized, and she apparently had a less than perfect understanding of herself.
It seemed she understood only her work. She gazed at the hieroglyphs, at the familiar cobra and vulture and bee and hatchet. She pondered the significance of the semicircles under most of the figures. Baskets, the larger ones with the round side down? What of the smaller ones, round side up? Sound or symbol? Thus questioning, speculating, theorizing, she swiftly forgot everything else.
GETTING MRS. PEMBROKE away from the confounded falcons and what-you-call-’ ems took steady and patient coaxing.
This was not what Rupert wanted to be doing.
While he watched and listened to her, he wanted to get her naked.
There was the seeing-stars kiss, from which he still suffered aftereffects, something like the morning after a debauch—except that his head wasn’t what ached.
There was whatever she was doing to him now, and he wasn’t sure what that was.
She managed—just barely—to hide her learning from Segato. She couldn’t conceal her excitement, though. It set the very air vibrating.
Since she couldn’t run about the place, openly gesticulating and theorizing and talking six languages simultaneously, she stuck close to Rupert. And when she couldn’t contain herself—which happened every few minutes—she’d clutch his arm and tug to bring his ear near her mouth, so that she could whisper.
He had to feel her breath on his ear and neck and cheek and be aware of how close her mouth was and how all he had to do was turn his head to taste it again—and see stars.
But he couldn’t turn his head. He had to behave, because they weren’t alone, which was why he had to endure the whisper torture.
Luckily for her, Segato was Italian. Assuming the whispers were romantic rather than pedantic, he kept a tactful distance.
This belief wouldn’t do Mrs. Pembroke’s reputation any good. Still, the alternative was worse.
It wasn’t hard to guess what Duval and his underlings would do if they found out they’d kidnapped the wrong sibling. They’d come after her, and they’d murder whomever happened to be in the way: captain, crew members, Leena, and Tom.
If Mrs. Pembroke’s secret got out, none of them would be safe.
Keeping the secret was going to be more difficult than Rupert could have foreseen. Every time she met a hieroglyph, she’d act like this: vibrating like a tuning fork, the gigantic brain bubbling over and spilling out its secrets: Greek and Latin and Coptic and names of scholars and who believed what and this alphabet versus that one and phonetic interpretations versus symbolic ones.
The day was waning when they finally climbed out of the pyramid. She was not waning in the least.
Several members of their party had come up from the plain to wait nearby. Though they carried food and water, the lady paid them no heed. A heap of stones a few feet away caught her eye. She wandered thither.
Tom trotted over to Rupert with the clothes he’d discarded en route. Though it was late afternoon, the air had not yet begun to cool. In any case, Rupert wanted to wash off the layer of sand and sweat first. Shaking his head at the boy, he turned away to watch Mrs. Pembroke.
Beside him, Segato watched her, too, remarking how unusual it was to find a woman who shared one’s enthusiasm for exploration and who bore hardship so cheerfully.
There was an understatement.
She must be at least as hot, dirty, and tired as Rupert was. Like him, she’d had nothing to eat since morning. Yet instead of hurrying to the waiting servants who carried food and water, she crouched to peer at a slab of rock poking out of a pile of rubble.
She brushed it off, bent close, shook her head, and with an impatient twitch, knelt in the pebbly sand. She dug under, and after a moment, unearthed the two outer corners. She grabbed the edge and lifted it up. It seemed to be a tablet of some kind, for it was covered in writing.
Rupert saw that, and the shadowy form revealed when she rested it against the rubble heap. He saw the snake rear up, and his heart froze. She sank back on her knees, and, “Don’t move!” he roared.
He was moving as he spoke. He grabbed the clothes from the boy, discarding all but the tunic while swiftly covering the few feet to where she remained immobile. The snake swayed in its place, still confused perhaps after the abrupt awakening, or not sure where the threat lay.
Mrs. Pembroke was leaning as far back over her heels as she could, balanced on one hand, her green gaze riveted upon the serpent.
“Don’t move,” Rupert repeated more quietly. He shook out the tunic, as a bullfighter would shake out his cape. The snake made a quick dart at it without moving farther away from her. The creature was still aware of her, a larger and more solid threat. She was still within its range, and it was fully alert now, waiting. If she moved, it would attack her.
While gently waving the tunic, to fix the snake’s attention there, Rupert inched nearer to her. When he’d finally got the cloth between her and the snake, he said softly, “Now. Back away. Try to make as little disturbance as possible.”
She did as he told her, but the snake must have sensed the movement. The striped head darted forward, and the fangs tore into the tunic.
In the instant the animal was occupied, she edged back quickly. When she’d moved well out of the snake’s reach, Rupert said, “It’s all right. You can get up now.”
Though aware of her rising and moving out of danger, he stayed focused on the vexed serpent.
“There, there, my dear,” he said soothingly. “You’re safe now. The naughty lady’s gone away. Sorry we disturbed you.” He went on speaking gently to the creature as he gradually drew the tunic farther away from it.
When Rupert, too, was out of range, the snake began to settle down. Rupert gently let the tunic fall. The striped head sank down, and after a moment, the creature slithered with remarkable speed into the nearest crevice of the rubble heap.
Rupert watched until it was safely inside. Then he looked about for Mrs. Pembroke.
To his surprise, he found she hadn’t run away and down the sand slope. She stood only a few yards away, looking from him to the hole into which the snake had disappeared.
“You want to be careful around piles of stones,” he said, buttoning his waistcoat. For some reason he felt chilled.
“Yes.” She brushed sand from her clothes. “How foolish of me. Thank you.” She straightened her posture and started toward the others.
Rupert joined her.
It was then he became aware of the eerie quiet.
Egyptians were never quiet. In his experience, they did not stop talking from the time they woke up to the time they fell asleep.
He looked about. His and Segato’s attendants had gathered nearby. Mute and motionless, they stood staring at him.
Segato broke the tableau, hurrying to Mrs. Pembroke. The signora was good? Not hurt?
She was quite unhurt, she told him.
He turned to Rupert. “Almost I cannot believe my eyes,” he said. “It was so quick. My mouth is open, to warn the lady—but too late. I see it come up—like this.” He snapped his fingers.
“Snakes dislike surprises,” Rupert said. To Mrs. Pembroke he added, “You frightened her. She attacked because she thought she was in danger.”
“Oh, you had time to discern that it was a female?” she said, her voice higher than usual.
“Might have been,” he said. “She was pretty enough. Did you note the markings?”
“I know those marks,” said Segato. He turned his gaze to the hole into which the snake had vanished. “I know that sound also. Everyone here knows this sound: the scraping it makes, like a saw. La vipera delle piramidi. What is the English word?”
“Viper?” Mrs. Pembroke said, her voice rising another half octave. “Of the pyramids?”
“Si. Very bad temper. And quick it moves, so quick. Very bad poison. Not simply is this the vipera, but of all snakes in the Egitto the most deadly.”
Her face turned chalk-white, and she swayed, and Rupert said, “No, don’t!”
But she folded up, and he was already reaching to catch her as she fainted dead away.
DAPHNE RECOVERED ALMOST immediately. Nonetheless, Mr. Carsington carried her down the sand slope, berating her all the way.
“How many times have I told you?” he said. “No fainting.”
“I did not faint,” she lied. “I was a little dizzy. You can put me down now.”
He did not put her down, and she lacked the moral fiber to put up the struggle she ought. She had so little moral fiber that she was quite happy to be where she was.
He was so very big and so very strong and warm, so vibrantly alive. He was her genie, carrying her away, and she let herself be a child and believe in the fantasy. She let out a huff, as though defeated, then rested her head upon his shoulder.
His shirt was damp, and the skin of his jaw was gritty against her face. But he wasn’t cold and rigid, lying upon the ground, as he might so easily have been. The snake could have turned on him. He could have been dead in an instant. That’s what she’d seen in her mind’s eye when Signor Segato spoke of the pyramid viper: Mr. Carsington stretched out dead on the debris-strewn ground. And then she’d heard the buzzing sound and seen the strange wash of bright color before the black wave dragged her down.
“ ‘I never faint,’ ” he said, mimicking her.
No, he was very much alive and not in the least subdued by the experience.
“I don’t,” she said against his neck.
“You did.”
“I was dizzy for a moment.”
“You collapsed into a heap, like a marionette when someone cuts the strings. I know fainting when I see it. You did it, after all the times I’ve warned you not to.”
“Perhaps I fainted a little,” she said. “But I didn’t mean to.”
He went on scolding her: she’d done everything possible to bring about a swoon, he claimed. She baked inside a pyramid for half the day. She let herself become overexcited about a lot of falcons wearing hats. She had nothing to eat and little to drink. When at last he and Segato got her away from the confounded falcons, she did not stop talking once, all the way through the miles of passages and stairs. Then, when finally she came out into the air, did she stop to rest and take a bit of refreshment like a sensible woman? No. She went straight for a heap of rocks—and frightened witless a snake who’d been peacefully napping, minding its own business. Poor Mr. Segato. He’d so generously and patiently shown her his wonderful discovery. In return, she’d given him a shock from which his sensitive Italian soul might never recover.
Daphne didn’t argue. It was all true enough, she supposed. So much had happened this day. She wasn’t used to having an eventful life. She was dull. Her life was dull by normal standards. Everything revolved around her work. She was herself then, and in control, her passions—all of them—focused on a lost language.
She wondered who she was now while Mr. Carsington went on lecturing, striding down the sand slope nearly as rapidly as he’d gone up it, though this time he carried a full-grown and by no means feather-light woman. She meant to ask if he was squeamish about the remains littered about, but she was too tired to interrupt the sermon. She closed her eyes and listened to him criticize her. It sounded like a lullaby.
RUPERT WAS HOPING her too-complicated mind wouldn’t erupt in a brain fever when her body relaxed in his arms.
Devil take it, had she fainted again? Or had she sunk into a coma? “No fainting,” he growled. “No comas.”
She mumbled something, her mouth grazing his neck, and she shifted slightly in his arms.
Not comatose. Asleep.
“Well, I hope you’re quite comfortable, madam,” he muttered. “Asleep. Really, you are like a child at times, a complete child.”
Well, not really. Far from it. He was aware of every diabolical curve of her body while he carried her down the sand slope, bits and pieces of ancient Egyptians crunching underfoot.
It was easier once they reached the plain. He might have carried her all the way to the Isis if he wanted to completely stun the Egyptians with his prowess.
But holding a sleeping woman in his arms—one who, moreover, kept nuzzling his neck and murmuring unintelligibly in his ear—was asking too much of his limited store of self-restraint. He knew he wouldn’t be getting her naked anytime soon. She’d built a wall of moral principles he must find a way to get round, along with other, harder-to-identify obstacles. No point in torturing himself.
He summoned the donkeys, woke her up, and planted her on one. Then, leaving it to the servants to make sure she didn’t fall off, Rupert mounted his donkey and kept his mind off his frustrations by looking out for vipers and villains.