Lady Emily's Exotic Journey (7 page)

Her father scowled at her and turned to Lucien. “Hamiz tells me that you traveled with an English party.”

“Yes, that's right.”

“English!” Carnac said it as if it were a curse, and perhaps for him it was. He had not forgiven the Englishman Layard for the fame he had received, fame Carnac thought belonged rightfully to Botta and the French. Nor had he forgiven the English for the collection of Assyrian artifacts that Layard had sent to the British Museum, or for the ones Rassam's brother Hormuzd had sent there.

He perhaps had a point there, Lucien acknowledged, since Hormuzd Rassam's successful excavations had been conducted in the section allotted to the French. However, it seemed unbecoming for a man who claimed to be interested in nothing but scholarship to focus so much on fame. And also, Lucien had listened to far too many diatribes on that subject. They had already become boring months ago. He started to stand and excuse himself.

“Wait,” Carnac commanded. “These English, they plan to excavate?”

“Not at all. Lord Penworth is here at the behest of his government to consider the possibility of building a railroad from Basra and Baghdad to Constantinople.”

“He is not a scholar then?”

“No, though his wife is interested in antiquities.”

While Carnac returned to brooding, Mélisande perked up. “An English lady? She is fashionable, perhaps?”

“Very elegant, I would say. And she brings with her two young ladies not too much older than you, her daughter and a friend.” Why was he telling them this? Emily and her family—they were safe here now, and the adventure of their journey from Constantinople was over. There was no need for her to see him again. He had no right to intrude on them.

Mélisande's eyes widened, but before she could speak, her father raised a hand to silence her and demanded, “He is important, this English lord?”

“Important?”

Carnac waved a hand impatiently. “His government, men of that sort. They think him important?”

“Yes, I believe so. The ambassador in Constantinople seemed to think him important, and the sultan as well.”

“And he is rich?”

“One of the richest men in England, I am told.” Lucien regarded Carnac warily. He was not sure he liked the direction in which this seemed to be heading.

“Good.” Carnac smiled in satisfaction. “You will call on him. I will go with you. And I will invite him to see the excavations. His wife will be impressed, and so he will be impressed, and then he will provide the moneys I need to continue.”

“I am not sure…” Lucien began uncertainly.

Carnac held up a hand. “It is decided. Those fools in Paris, the Louvre, the emperor, they should have supported me. Now, so much the worse for them. The glory will go to England. We will go first thing in the morning.” He stood and marched out of the room before Lucien could object.

Mélisande jumped up in excitement. “And I will go too. They will know all about fashion, the young ladies, and about balls and parties. And they will be able to tell me if it is true, what they write in the journals. Oh, Lucien, thank you!” She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him before snatching up her journals and running off.

There was less enthusiasm in Lucien's expression as he remained at the table sipping his coffee. Mélisande was in many ways a delightful child, but she must be what, fourteen? Not really a child any longer. And her mother had died four years ago, or something like that. He had been told, though he had not paid much attention when he arrived last year. Still, she should not be here in Mosul. There was no life for her here. Carnac should have sent her back to France when her mother died, not kept her here to keep house for him. He could have sent her to his family or to her mother's family. There must be some family somewhere, and if not, he could at least have sent her to school as he kept promising he would.

Carnac's obsession with Nineveh had aroused Lucien's admiration when he first arrived. He thought it praiseworthy dedication. Now he was no longer so certain. When he ignored his daughter's needs, when he was not even aware that she had needs, this was not so much dedication as utter selfishness.

Was it a good idea to introduce her to Lord Penworth's household? He did not doubt that Emily, and Julia and Lady Penworth as well, would treat her kindly and try to put her at her ease. Emily, he was sure, would never mock the girl for her bizarre clothing and manners. But Mélisande was not a fool, for all her lack of education. She would see immediately the difference between the world she had grown up in and their world, the one she read about in the ladies' journals that were her only reading material. Differences that were greater than she realized.

Would Carnac too see the differences? Would he see the difference between the way a man like Lord Penworth cared for his family and his own behavior? For Mélisande's sake he hoped so, but he doubted it. Carnac was not stupid, but he was obtuse and oblivious to everything outside his studies.

Lucien should, of course, call on Lord and Lady Penworth in any case. They had been kind enough to allow him to travel with them. The least he could do was make certain that they were well settled in and see what he could do to be of service to them. That also meant he would see Emily, but that was not his object in calling. Not at all.

The sunlight coming through the fretwork of the shutters made an interesting filigree pattern on the tile floor of the sleeping chamber. It was the first thing Emily noticed, and it had worked its way into a dream in which it was the pattern of the magic carpet on which she was escaping from Lady Bulwer, who kept insisting she would never reach the Gate of Jade. Or something like that. It all tumbled into confusion as she blinked her eyes open.

She had obviously spent a restless night, since she was on her stomach with her legs tangled in a coverlet, her head and arm dangling over the side of the bed. That, no doubt, was how it had come about that the first thing she saw was the pattern of sunlight on the floor. She blinked some more, shook her head to get rid of the dream remnants, and focused on her surroundings.

They were extraordinary surroundings, similar to the apartments in homes where they had stayed, but far roomier and far more luxurious. Apart from the wooden shutters with their complicated curlicue cutouts, there were ottomans and cushions covered in glowing silks, a small table with what looked like mother of pearl inlays in an intricate, delicate pattern of geometric shapes, and an entire wall of cabinets, all of them decorated with more carvings and inlays. The bed itself had sheer silken draperies in a rosy shade suitable for a fairy-tale princess. And the air was filled with a sweet floral fragrance. Was it perfume?

She rose and went over to the window, moving quickly because the moment she stepped off the silky carpet, the tile floor was cold under her bare feet. The shutters were firmly fastened, and she soon gave up trying to open them. Peering through the cutouts, she could see a low balcony wall entwined with a vine covered with white blossoms. Jasmine. That was the source of the lovely scent. Beyond that she could see the tops of trees. The courtyard had made little impression when she arrived yesterday but must be grand indeed to have such large trees in it. The sun was just appearing over the flat roof of the building, so it must still be early.

Her stomach growled. Early or not, she was hungry. She had gone to bed—or been put to bed—so early yesterday that she had missed dinner, and she really wanted something to eat. But this was a strange house. She not only didn't know where things were, she didn't know who else was here. It probably would not be a good idea to go wandering around in her nightdress and wrapper. She eyed the cabinets optimistically.

It was as she hoped. While she slept, the elves—or more likely Nuran—had unpacked her baggage and put everything away. The poor girl must be exhausted, and Emily hoped she was having a good long sleep this morning.

Out came a chemise, petticoats, stockings, garters, her old half boots. Her hand hovered over a corset, the one she could fasten herself, and she took it out along with hoops. She dressed quickly, ending with a skirt and bodice in blue-and-white-checked muslin. The lightweight garments were in need of pressing, but that couldn't be helped. She brushed out her hair, twisted it into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck, pinned it into place, and examined herself in the long mirror that stood in a corner of the room.

The familiar sight of Lady Emily Tremaine looked back at her, the proper young lady who was the daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Penworth, the young lady who was perfectly at home in the parlors and ballrooms of London. The boring parlors and ballrooms… She suppressed that thought. She needed the familiarity of her usual appearance. The novelty and excitement of the journey had been exhilarating, and more novelty and excitement awaited, she was sure. But the encounter with Lucien—the very close encounter—had thrown her off balance. It was as if some stranger was inhabiting her body. She needed assurance that she was still herself while she tried to decide just what that encounter had meant and what she thought about it. Looking like herself might help.

But first she needed to find something to eat.

Sometime later, when Lady Penworth entered the courtyard, her daughter was sitting on the side of the fountain in the dappled shade of an overhanging tree.

“Good morning, Mama.” Emily waved at a tree. “The one in the corner over there is a lemon tree but this one and the others are all orange trees. And this is Shatha. She is the cook and makes the most delicious soft, flat bread.” She smiled at the small woman dressed in multicolored garments who was bent over a brazier on which something sizzled with an appetizing meaty smell.

Lady Penworth smiled at the cook and nodded her head in greeting. “
As-salaam alaikum
,” she said, pronouncing the Arabic greeting carefully.

Shatha beamed back and bowed. “
Wa alaikum assalaam
,” she said. What followed was a spate of Arabic that sounded to be questions. When the only response was blank looks, she popped up and directed Lady Penworth to sit on a bench in the shade of the loggia that surrounded three sides of the courtyard. She placed a folding table beside her, which was in no time filled with bowls of yogurt and dried fruit, boiled eggs, and a plate of steaming bread.

“Have some bread and honey,” Emily said. “The honey is incredibly delicious.” She was trying to be her usual cheerful self, but given the peculiar look her mother was giving her, perhaps she was not entirely successful.

However, Lady Penworth did not make any comment. She did, however, beam with pleasure when Shatha produced a steaming pot of tea and some cups. “Would you care for some?” she asked, as she filled a cup.

“Yes, thank you.” Emily accepted the cup gratefully and breathed in the aroma, the familiar aroma. She frowned in puzzlement. It was a
very
familiar aroma. She looked at her mother in surprise.

Her mother nodded. “You are quite right. I brought the tea from home, not knowing what might or might not be available, and saved it until we were settled in one place for a while. I gave it to Altan, the servant who appears to be in charge of the household here, last night. I find myself ready for something familiar.” She took a sip of the tea and smiled contentedly. “They do know how to brew tea here. I am so very glad.”

Mama was looking at her again and seemed about to say something, but Julia came in, followed almost immediately by Papa and Mr. Oliphant. Emily was grateful for the interruption, since any comment Mama made was likely to be an awkward one. It was not that Mama was the prying sort of mother, or the sort who was always scolding her children. It was simply that she noticed too much, and her remarks reflected that. Anything she said now was likely to be about their most recent adventure, and Emily was still trying to sort through her feelings.

Once her father and Mr. Oliphant arrived, however, concerns about feelings were irrelevant. Practicalities took over. The intention was that they would stay in Mosul for a month while Lord Penworth examined conditions here, so there were plans to be made, living arrangements to organize, servants to meet, and some sort of communications to establish. Mundane tasks, but all new and strange here in Mosul.

* * *

Lucien felt uncomfortable in his frock coat and trousers with a silk hat in his hand, hardly the garb that allowed him to pass unnoticed through the streets of Mosul, but Carnac had insisted on formality for this visit. It would, he insisted, be only proper, and it was necessary to impress the marquess. Lucien doubted that the marquess would be terribly impressed by Carnac's rusty coat and limp cravat, even more dated than Lucien's own, but he held his peace. How Mélisande was dressed he did not know, for she was enveloped in her blue robe, as anonymous as every woman in Mosul.

A servant admitted them and led them into the courtyard where Lady Penworth and the young women were seated. He noted his surroundings automatically—the elegant pillars surrounding the courtyard to support the balcony above, the carved octagonal fountain in the middle of the area, the elaborate pattern of tiles on the floor in brilliant shades of turquoise and yellow and blue. The part of his mind that was always aware of his surroundings noted all that, but what filled his sight was Lady Emily.

Dressed in something pale blue and filmy, with miles of skirt surrounding her, she sat on the bench built against the wall of the house amid the piles of pillows that cushioned it, along with her mother and Lady Julia. Now that he looked at all three of them, with Lady Penworth in the center, they looked like a queen and her court. They were beautifully turned out, dressed as they had been in Constantinople, in fine fabrics trimmed with ribbons and flounces. Not a wrinkle marred their costumes, not a hair was out of place. Well, the lace on Emily's collar was not quite straight, and a few locks of her hair had escaped their pins. A particularly charming lock was dangling down to caress her cheek. His finger itched to trace its path.

On the table in front of them was a tea set, an English tea set—teapot, sugar bowl, creamer, large English tea cups—and a plate of what looked like English biscuits. It looked utterly misplaced in the setting but also just right.

No one would believe that these delicate creatures had just spent three weeks on horseback crossing the Taurus Mountains, putting up with innumerable hardships, and had then ridden rafts down the Tigris and been shot at by reckless Kurds—all of that not simply without complaint but with positive enjoyment.

Here, within the traditional courtyard of an Arab house in Mosul, they should have looked ridiculously alien. Yet somehow, they looked completely at home. Like fairy creatures, conjured up by some genie. Had he been enchanted by some spell? He could not stop staring at her, willing her to look up and meet his gaze.

At last she did, and for the first time since he had met her, those blue eyes were filled with uncertainty. A faint blush tinted her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze. He was not the only one who had been disconcerted by their encounter on the raft. Good, he thought savagely. At least he was not the only one being tormented by that memory.

“M. Chambertin, how good of you to call,” said Lady Penworth with obvious pleasure, her voice breaking into his thoughts.

He stepped up to her and bowed over the hand she offered. “Lady Penworth, may I present M. Carnac, the gentleman who is working on the ruins of Nineveh, and his daughter, Mélisande.”

“I am delighted to meet such a distinguished scholar. M. Chambertin has told us much about your work.” Lady Penworth turned her charming smile on Carnac. “We are just having some tea. Won't you join us?” She glanced at one of the servants who immediately carried over a folding chair.

The old man did not seem charmed. He bowed stiffly and spoke abruptly. “I have no time for that. I had hoped to have a word with Lord Penworth. Where is he?”

Lady Penworth's smile did not falter, though her eyes narrowed slightly, and the hand that had been hovering over the teapot froze before returning to her lap. “I'm afraid he and Mr. Oliphant are not here at the moment.”

Carnac grunted in displeasure. “When does he return?”

“My husband is here in Mosul on official business, you understand. He has a great many meetings to arrange and will have to do some traveling.” Lady Penworth's smile was beginning to wear thin, and there was a decided edge to her voice.

That edge recalled Lucien to the reason he was here—his excuse for being here—and he decided he had better intervene before Carnac created a disaster. “M. Carnac was hoping to invite you all to see what is being done at the Nineveh excavations. At the Kouyunjik mound, he is uncovering a royal palace, and there are some marvels to be seen. I told him that Lord Penworth had mentioned your interest in antiquities, and he thought you might enjoy seeing these.” He was relieved to see Lady Penworth look less irritated, and he thought—hoped—that Emily looked at him with approval. For his tact, if nothing else.

“Indeed, we would all be interested in seeing the excavations,” Lady Penworth said. “I fear we are still all at sixes and sevens today, but perhaps you and your daughter would care to dine with us tomorrow? And you too, of course, M. Chambertin.”

This time Carnac's grunt was less offensive, accompanied as it was by a nod rather than a scowl. “Good. We will come.”

As he was turning to leave, Emily chimed in. “Perhaps Mlle. Carnac would be willing to stay and visit with us for a while? Lady Julia and I would be very grateful if she could tell us something about life here.” The smile she directed at Carnac was very like her mother's, perfectly courteous with no warmth in it. She did not look at Lucien at all.

The old man turned around and frowned at his daughter as if he had forgotten her presence, and he probably had. Mélisande had been so silent that Lucien had almost forgotten her as well. Now, when he turned and took a good look at her, he was stricken with guilt.

The child was almost in tears. She had done something bizarre to her hair, which poked out in stiff ringlets, and her dress was adorned with every flounce and flower she could make in imitation of her fashion journals.

Emily had come over and took her by the arm, smiling kindly. “Please say that you will stay. It is always a bit lonely for newcomers like us in a strange place.” She managed to sound as if Mélisande would be doing them a favor by remaining with them. That was his Emily, always aware of the feelings of others, always sympathetic.

He caught himself. What was he thinking?
His
Emily—where had that thought come from? He had no business thinking that way, no right. She was not his. He did not want to think of her as
his.

Carnac shrugged. “Why not?” he said as he turned to leave. At Lucien's cough he paused long enough to say to Lady Penworth, “Until tomorrow.”

Lucien suppressed an impatient sigh as he watched Carnac march off. “I will send a servant to wait for Mlle. Carnac and take her home,” he told Lady Penworth. He stopped, uncertain of how much he should try to explain. He did not wish to embarrass Mélisande, but they needed to understand that she really did not know much—anything—of European manners and customs. He looked to Emily for help, but she was ignoring him. “It is not often that European ladies come to Mosul,” he said to Julia, who was at least looking at him.