Daughter of the God-King (8 page)

The next morning, Hattie awoke, heavy-eyed, to see sunlight glinting in under the cabin door. She was not certain of the time but guessed she had slept late—the price of debauchery—and swung her legs over the side to assess Bing’s state of health.

Her companion, however, was upright, dressed, and regarding herself in the small mirror hanging on the cabin wall with a critical eye. “You are recovered,” Hattie proclaimed with some surprise. “I am so glad.” This was to some extent insincere, but Hattie was encouraged to believe that Berry was the sort of man who could easily outfox a chaperone.

“Not as yet, my head aches abominably,” Bing confessed.

“Shall we go discover whether there is a cure for the cure?” Hattie was in a fever to see what was happening up on deck, and in particular whether there were any other battle casualties.

Pinning her hat firmly on her head, Bing acquiesced. “I do have need for some fresh air, I believe—if you are willing, Hathor.”

Needing no further encouragement, Hattie made ready to venture above decks before her companion could suffer a relapse. Although she was tempted to take the time to arrange her hair in a more becoming style, her desire to visit the scene of the cataclysmic events from last night took precedence, and so she quickly plaited her dark locks and decided a hat was unnecessary as it was only wont to blow off, anyway.

“You may wish to bring your parasol,” Bing suggested as she eyed her bareheaded charge. “Your face is a bit brown, Hathor.”

Upon emerging onto the quarterdeck, Hattie surveyed the immediate area, dutifully hoisting her parasol against the bright sunlight. Neither the captain nor Berry were in evidence, although a seaman was rinsing off the deck with a bucket and paused to tug at his cap. Hattie put her hand under Bing’s elbow to steady her, and the two women walked over to the gunwale and considered the shoreline, barely visible in the distance.

Vague about the particulars of their journey, Hattie asked, “Where are we, do you suppose?”

Her companion considered, her chin on her breast. “Portugal, I imagine.”

Hattie gazed with interest. “What will happen to Portugal, now?” The country had not fared well during the Peninsular War—after the betrayal by Spain it had been helpless when the French invaded and its losses had been staggering, particularly in those unfortunate towns between the port and Lisbon.

Bing held the brim of her hat against the sea breeze. “It is as yet unclear. The Congress of Vienna will make a determination—the recent unpleasantness has left matters in disarray.”

Hattie made a wry mouth at the euphemism, remembering the Prussian Ambassador’s heated criticism of the French Emperor. “More like one man has left matters in disarray.”

“One man could not cause a war of such magnitude,” Bing reminded her. “He has a plentitude of supporters.”

“He
had
a plentitude of supporters, you mean—now that he is shown to be merely mortal I cannot imagine he would inspire the same devotion. Why, he is fortunate to have survived so as to be packed off to Elba rather than be summarily executed, as the Ambassador suggested.”

“Undoubtedly,” agreed the agreeable Bing. “There were many who demanded his blood.”

Her childhood companion came to Hattie’s mind, even though she hadn’t thought of him for several days. “I wonder how Robbie does, and whether he will return to the Congress after the funeral.”

Bing shot her a measuring glance from under the brim of her hat. “Perhaps he will rendezvous with you in Egypt, now that he is untrothed.”

But Hattie would not be drawn on the subject, having relegated her old friend to the category of also-rans long before the passionate embrace of the night before. “Soon we will be in Cairo, Bing. I can hardly credit it.”

Her companion looked out over the sea again. “I confess I am looking forward to seeing those things that Edward described in his letters—it is unfortunate that this journey is tempered with sadness.”

“No need to be sad on my account,” Hattie reminded her with a small smile. “You know I hardly knew them—why, your brother knew them better than I.”

“Then we shall look to do your duty, rather than mourn.”

“Edward was fond of them—you said so last night.” Hattie had been awaiting just such an opening, as she wished to do a little probing.

Bing nodded. “He admired them greatly. They were utterly dedicated, and not distracted by worldly gain—they made no attempt to capitalize on their own fame as many others did.”

“You mentioned,” Hattie added diffidently, “that he had some concerns about the dateline.”

Bing raised her brows in surprise. “Heavens—did I?”

Hattie prompted, “I think it had to do with which pharaoh was the princess’s father.”

After hesitating for a moment, her companion confessed, “The Blackhouses were certain it was the great Seti, and so Edward deferred to their judgment, although he was not convinced.”

“Were there discrepancies in the hieroglyphics, perhaps?” Bing’s reticence to discuss the subject only fueled Hattie’s curiosity; that, along with the fact that the captain had seemed inordinately interested last night.

Weighing her words, her companion said with an apologetic air, “Edward’s correspondence always contained strict instruction that I was not to speak of these matters to anyone.”

“I suppose he was afraid of tomb raiders,” Hattie conceded, hesitant to press any further in the face of Bing’s reluctance.

“Or rivals in their field, or even government agents—remember Egypt’s rule has changed hands several times over; it would not do to unwittingly invite another such change of hands by boasting of a particular find. Edward did mention”—here Bing cast a glance over her shoulder so as to ensure they were not overheard—“that your parents were entering into negotiations with the British, unbeknownst to Muhammad Ali, the local viceroy who holds power at present.”

Hattie considered this, but it didn’t seem particularly alarming. “I suppose they knew the British would re-establish rule, sooner or later.”

Bing nodded. “Apparently, it was extremely tiresome to have to be constantly reassessing who might hold control over the sites in Thebes—all the archaeologists had to be adept at politics even though they held very little interest in such things; deals had to be struck so as to continue the work that was so important to them.”

Assimilating this information, Hattie steered the conversation back to the original topic. “Did Edward think the princess was from an earlier or a later dynasty?”

Bing lowered her voice and confessed, “That was the problem; in his opinion there was too little upon which to make a deduction—very few artifacts were found in her tomb. And the hieroglyphics were not particularly helpful with respect to her identity.”

Even Hattie, who paid little heed to the particulars, knew the tombs were usually bursting at the seams with artifacts piled up for use in the afterlife. “Perhaps it had been raided already,” she suggested.

“Not exactly. Edward seemed to think”—Bing took another cautious look around—“that there was a secret chamber, one that the Blackhouses knew of which supported their theory; but that he and the others on the site were not privy to its location.”

Ah, thought Hattie, the penny drops; her parents indeed had a valuable secret—a secret chamber. Although why it was a secret was unclear; they had uncovered many such treasures in the past without such secretive measures. “Perhaps it is a particularly rich trove, and they didn’t want to reveal it until they had concluded their negotiations with the British.” She frowned even as she posited the theory aloud—this didn’t make much sense either. Such a course would only postpone whatever outrage they feared from the current viceroy, not avoid it. Hattie was vaguely aware it was never a good idea to double-deal with the powerful local potentates—why, one could simply disappear, never to be heard from again. With this alarming thought, she stood very still for a moment and didn’t hear Bing’s response. Pulling herself together, she said, “I’m sorry, Bing, I was wool-gathering. What was it?”

“I confess I did wonder,” Bing repeated, “if the cave-in that killed Edward and the others was an attempt to discover the secret chamber.”

Meeting her companion’s troubled gaze, Hattie shook her head in disagreement. “If Edward was anything like you, it seems very unlikely that he would flaunt my parents’ wishes in such a way.”

“That is true,” Bing conceded. “He would defer to them, despite his own curiosity.”

Hattie put a hand on Bing’s at the railing. “Perhaps we shall discover what happened to Edward as well as my parents—solve both mysteries at once.”

But Bing only shook her head a bit sadly. “I don’t believe it is much of a mystery, Hathor; cave-ins are an unfortunate hazard of tunneling. I am reconciled—he died doing that which he most loved.”

Hattie said nothing, not wanting to share her concerns with Bing, who was not aware of Berry’s hints nor of the deadly scuffle on the deck the night before. She had little doubt that Edward’s death was yet another suspicious one connected to the new excavation. Reminded, she asked, “What did Edward think about the curse?”

Bing gave her a look. “Edward was a scientist, Hathor; there are no such things as curses.”

“But everyone seems to think there is, Bing—and it does seem that a great many have died, one after the other.”

Bing rested her chin on her chest. “The natives are credulous, of course. It comes from centuries of tradition steeped in superstition; but as Edward would say, superstition is a crutch for the fearful.”

Gazing out over the horizon, Hattie voiced aloud a thought she had entertained last night, when she was thinking about all the things she needed to think about. “In a way, the curse is almost helpful—no one would interfere with the site if they feared the wrath of the gods.”

“Someone—unfortunately—was not afraid of the gods,” Bing pointed out. “And your poor parents suffered for it.”

“True—although I suppose it works both ways; someone may believe that it would best please the gods to kill those who desecrate the tomb.”

Bing sighed. “If that is indeed the case, then it seems unlikely we will ever know the truth of what happened to your parents.”

The two women stood in the sun for a few minutes, watching the distant shoreline as the boat heeled with the wind. I believe we will discover the truth, thought Hattie. Berry knows the truth—or most of it—and as much as he would like to winkle information out of me, I think I could do some winkling of my own; he is smitten, I believe. She took a glance around the deck, hoping to spy him.

“Your parasol, Hathor,” Bing reminded her gently. “You will be mistaken for a native, else.”

Hattie noted that the brisk sea air had brought a bit of color to the other woman’s pale cheeks.

“Are you able to contemplate a bite to eat? I am afraid you will blow away in the breeze, Bing.”

Her companion considered the suggestion without enthusiasm. “I shall make the attempt, I suppose. It is so lowering to be felled by such an embarrassing weakness.”

“You shall simply have to stay on in Cairo and never board a ship again,” Hattie teased. “I imagine there are plenty of excavations where they’d welcome another pair of hands.”

“The excavation sites are upriver, at Thebes,” Bing reminded her.

“Then gird your loins,” Hattie advised with a smile. “The transport of necessity is by waterway.”

“I’d rather not think of it,” the other replied, and they made their way to the companionway stairs to forage for a meal.

Upon entering the officer’s galley they met the captain, who was leaving but did not hesitate to turn back so as to join them. “Miss Bing; I trust you are feeling more the thing.”

Bing nodded graciously. “Indeed, I am, Captain, and I thank you for your restorative, which appears to have turned the trick. I shall attempt some tea and toast.”

The three had just settled into the wooden benches when Berry made an appearance. Although Hattie had been concerned about controlling her reaction when next they met, she needn’t have worried—instead she felt a resurgence of that sense of exhilaration and met his eye without a flicker as he bowed in greeting. Noting his cut lip and a bruise over one eye, she asked with feigned concern, “Why, Monsieur Berry—I believe you have injured yourself.”

As he seated himself across from her, he nodded in acknowledgment. “I am a clumsy fellow—I ran up against the mizzenmast last night.”

Struggling to keep her countenance, Hattie dropped her gaze to her plate.

“The ship does roll about so, it is a small wonder you lost your footing,” Bing offered with sympathy as tea was served. “Do you require medical attention, Monsieur Berry?”

“I have been attended to in the most satisfactory fashion,” Berry replied. “And what of you? How do you go on, Mademoiselle Bing?”

“I am recovering—I am fortunate the captain shared his remedy.”

“As are we all,” Berry agreed.

Not to be outdone, Hattie turned to Captain Clements. “Do you experience any problems from the sharing of such close quarters? I imagine fights must break out between the men from time to time.”

If the captain found the question odd, he gave no indication, instead reassuring her, “We do have a brig, but fortunately there are few problems—only the occasional contretemps. Nothing to cause concern, Miss Blackhouse.”

But Berry was not so sanguine, and offered a caution. “The close quarters may inspire a different sort of problem and you must have a care, mademoiselle; sailors are rough men, unaccustomed to well-bred young women. You would not want to risk being accosted on deck.”

Bing was shocked. “I am certain no one would dare, Monsieur Berry.”

“Unimaginable.” Hattie managed in a stifled tone.

“Egypt is another matter, however,” the captain warned. “The tenets of civilized behavior are often disregarded, particularly in the remoter areas.” With a proprietary gesture, he covered Hattie’s hand with his own large one. “Promise me you will be very careful.”

Hattie smiled to reassure him. “I will. And Monsieur Berry has agreed to provide an escort, which is much appreciated.”

“
D’accord
.” Berry’s gaze rested for the barest moment on the captain’s hand on her own, and Hattie casually withdrew it; no need to instigate another brawl.

But the other man continued to evidence a proprietary interest in Hattie, leaning so as to place his arm across the back of the bench behind her. “Where will you travel after Cairo, Miss Blackhouse? Perhaps I will delay my return so as to provide an additional escort—I can’t think of a more agreeable duty call.”

But Hattie didn’t wish to be constantly sorting out her suitors, and so answered vaguely, “I suppose that depends—I shall first speak to my parents’ solicitor and discover from him what is best to be done.”

It seemed to Hattie that the captain’s gaze sharpened. “Well then, be aware that I stand at the ready to assist you in any way necessary.”

“Thank you—I am truly grateful for so many supporters.” Not so much supporters as importuners, she thought with a twinge of annoyance—although she could not claim to dislike Berry’s importunings—hopefully she was slated to receive another dose very soon. She addressed Berry so as to divert him; he had watched her exchange with the good captain with a noted lack of enthusiasm. “Do you have any suggestions as to where we should stay in Cairo when we make port?”

The gentleman bowed his head. “It would be my pleasure to arrange for rooms at the Hotel Corsica, which caters to European visitors.”

“Ah—the Hotel Corsica; a fine place. Will Mademoiselle Leone be joining you, monsieur?” The captain’s question directed to Berry seemed a little pointed.

There was the barest hesitation before Berry replied. “I am not yet privy to Mademoiselle Leone’s final plans.”

The captain leaned in toward Bing and Hattie, cocking an eyebrow with a conspiratorial air. “A dear friend of his.” He made it clear there was more to the relationship then mere friendship.

“Indeed,” Berry agreed, meeting Hattie’s interested gaze. “A dear friend from my hometown—in France.”

“How fortuitous,” she responded in a neutral tone. “France is a fine place of origin.”

The captain chuckled. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Shall we take a turn on deck, Hathor?” Bing had apparently decided to call a halt to the competition for Hattie’s attention.

“Of course.” Hattie rose immediately; contrite that she had been so busy enjoying her unspoken conversation with Berry that she had forgotten her companion’s precarious state of health. “If you will excuse us, gentlemen.” Bestowing a dimpled smile on both men, Hattie took Bing’s arm as they exited the galley to reemerge into the bright, breezy sunlight on deck.

“I feared fisticuffs would soon break out,” Bing confessed as they walked the deck, “and I’d as lief not have Monsieur Berry secured in the brig.”

But Hattie disagreed in a thoughtful tone. “I don’t think so, Bing—I didn’t sense any real rancor; it was as though they were both playacting.”

“Indeed?” Bing raised her brows, thinking about it. “How odd.”

“Yes,” Hattie agreed, and decided to keep her new-hatched theories about Berry and the captain to herself, for the time being.

They came to the stern and turned to make another circuit around the deck when Bing observed, “Here’s one who wishes to speak with you uncontested. Shall I allow it?”

Hattie looked up to see Berry approaching in a purposeful fashion, his hands clasped behind his back. “If you would, Bing,” and thought her a very satisfactory chaperone.

And so it came to pass that once again she leaned on the railing beside Berry, the sun and the breeze only adding to her delight in this turn of events while her cooperative companion found something of interest to view from the opposite deck. It soon became evident, however, that a light flirtation was not what the gentleman had in mind. Meeting her eyes very seriously, he spoke without preamble.

“Mademoiselle Blackhouse, I must beg your pardon, and assure you the events of last night will not be repeated. You are without protectors at present, and I should not have taken advantage of you in such a way.”

Primming her mouth, Hattie replied, “I can only agree—I have little experience in such pastimes and felt I was at an
extreme
disadvantage.”

Looking out over the sea, he suppressed a smile. “Hattie—allow me to make my apology.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said gravely. “Pray continue.”

He bent his head for a moment, then added, “It would be best, perhaps, if such an opportunity did not arise again.”

“Yes,” she sighed with some regret. “It would be best, I suppose.”

“I meant no insult,” he explained, watching her. “The opposite, in fact.”

She met his gaze in all sincerity and smiled. “I know it; we shall cry friends and not speak of it again.”

Nodding, he looked away toward the sea again. Five days, she thought, keeping her expression carefully neutral—five days before he is seeking more kisses—six at the most. She had noted during his carefully rehearsed speech that he was unable to keep his gaze from resting on her mouth. Hiding a smile, she thought of it as an interesting paradox—she knew next to nothing about him but nonetheless, felt she knew him very well indeed.

He added suddenly, “Miss Leone is not what she will appear to be.”

“I am unsurprised,” she responded mildly. “No one is, apparently.”

Responding to her tone, he turned to her. “I must ask again that you trust me; you will come to no harm at my hands.”

She arched a dark brow. “No, I hold no grudge against your very capable hands.”

A smile played around his mouth while he bent his head to chide her, “I thought we weren’t to speak of it again.”

“Your pardon,” she offered, contrite. “I forget myself.”

They stood together for a moment, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the deck. Since he seemed unable to move away from her, she asked, “Whose secrets do you hold? If you hold my parents’ secrets, then why can you not tell me of them?”

“Hattie,” he said softly, the brown eyes raised to hers. “It is best you not know, believe me.”

“I would like to judge for myself whether it is best,” she countered. “Were my parents double-dealing? Is that why they were killed?”

Ah, this hit home and his eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

Watching him, she revealed what she had discovered. “They were negotiating in secret with the British, I am told. I imagine Muhammad Ali would have been most displeased with such a development, if he found out about it.” Belatedly, she realized her source had been Bing’s Edward, and perhaps she shouldn’t be giving away state secrets—or at least not until she knew what was what.

Nodding, he dropped his gaze again. “It is possible,” he admitted in a neutral tone.

I did not tell him what he feared I would, she thought in surprise, and thought back over what she had just said. It was the reference to double-dealing—I startled him, at first; but why? With whom else would they be double-dealing, if not the British?

Berry lifted his head. “Once in Cairo, I would ask a favor; I would ask that you accompany me to question those who may have information but are reluctant to speak.”

She blinked, but could see no harm in it and indeed, would look forward to such an outing in his company. “Willingly. Because I would have their sympathy?”

He tilted his head to the side in a now-familiar gesture. “That. And remember that you appear to them as the god-king’s daughter.”

This seemed altogether fanciful, and she voiced her skepticism. “Truly? They will think I am some sort of reincarnation?” On the other hand, she was unfamiliar with local beliefs; perhaps they were indeed a credulous people, as Bing had suggested.

“Any advantage should be taken,” he replied.

With an effort, she refrained from making yet another saucy remark, and merely nodded.