Whispers in the Sand (4 page)

That morning, as she locked the front door and hefted her suitcase into the waiting London taxi, her nerve had almost failed her. The quiet early-morning streets were white with thick February frost and the pre-dawn light was strangely flat and depressing. All her resolution had fled. If the cab driver had not been waiting to take her to Victoria Station to catch the train to the airport, she would have turned back into the empty house, forgotten all about Egypt forever, climbed back into bed, and pulled the duvet over her head.

It was hot and stuffy on the plane, and her head ached. She couldn’t move in the closely packed seats, and she could feel the arm of her neighbour wedged tightly against her own. Beyond a nod and half-smile when she had looked up to reach for her tray and another when the drinks came round, he had said nothing more to her, and the silence was beginning to weigh on her. She wasn’t looking for a full-blown conversation, in fact only a short time before had dreaded it, but a casual remark to lighten the atmosphere would be a pleasant change to silence. The drum of the plane’s engines was relentless, and when she closed her eyes it seemed to grow louder by the minute. She had declined headphones for the film. So had he. As far as she could see, he was asleep, his book upside down on his lap, his fingers loosely linked over the cover. The first guidebook had been replaced by another, and he had glanced through it swiftly before sitting back, rubbing his face wearily with his hands, and seeming to subside at once into a deep sleep. Glancing out of the window, she could see, far below, the tiny shadow of the plane dancing across the intense blue ripples of the sun-warmed Mediterranean. She risked a second glance at her neighbour’s face. In repose it was less attractive than when awake. The lines drew heavily downward, the mouth was set and sad, a tangible weight moulding the features. She turned her attention back to her own book, envying him his ability to sleep. Another two or three hours loomed before them, and her muscles were screaming to be released from the cramped position into which they were squashed.

Reaching up to the control panel over their heads to try and find some cooler air, she realised suddenly that he had opened his eyes and was watching her. He smiled and she gave a small grimace in return. It was meant to convey cautious friendship and sympathy over the tightly packed, too intimate seating. She was about to follow this with a noncommittal remark when once again he looked away and closed his eyes.

Shrugging, she delved into the bag at her feet and brought out Louisa’s diary. She had been saving it to read on the trip. Perhaps this was the moment to start.

The paper of the leatherbound notebook was thick, deckle-edged, and in places foxed with pale brown spots. Carefully she turned to the first page of florid italic script and began to read.

“February 15th, 1866: And so, the boat has reached Luxor and here I leave my companions to join the Forresters. Tomorrow morning my boxes will be transferred to the
Ibis
which I see already tied up nearby. The decks are empty, even of crew, and the boat looks deserted. It will be wonderful at last to have some privacy, especially after the constant chatter of Isabella and Arabella, with whom I have had to share a cabin all these weeks from Cairo. I am sending a packet of sketches and paintings back with them on the boat and hope to start a new series of drawings of the Valley of the Tombs as soon as possible. The British consul has promised me a dragoman, and the Forresters are said to be a kind, elderly couple who will allow me to travel with them willingly, without too much interference to my drawing. The heat of the day which at first renewed my spirits after the long voyage out here is growing stronger, but the nights are blessedly cool. I long to be able to see more of the desert. The nervous excitement of my companions so far on this adventure has prevented us from venturing any distance from our boat, and I cannot wait to begin my explorations further afield.”

Anna looked up thoughtfully. She had never seen the desert. Never been to any part of Africa or the Middle East. Imagine the frustration of not being able to explore because your companions were too nervous. It had been bad enough knowing there was no time, no possibility of visiting properly the places she had travelled to with Felix. Shifting a little in her seat to try and make herself more comfortable, she turned back to the diary.

“Louisa, dear. Sir John Forrester is here.” Arabella bounced into the small cabin in a froth of white lace and slightly stained cambric. “He has come to take you across to his yacht.”

“It’s not a yacht, Arabella. It is called a
dahabeeyah
.” Louisa was packed and ready, her painting things already neatly roped on deck with her trunks and her valise. She adjusted her broad-brimmed black straw hat and reached for the small portmanteau on her bunk. “Are you coming to see me off?”

“Of course!” Arabella giggled. “You’re so brave, Louisa. I can’t imagine how frightening the rest of the trip is going to be.”

“It won’t be frightening at all.” Louisa replied tartly. “It will be extremely interesting.”

Her voluminous skirts gripped tightly in one hand, she climbed the companionway steps and emerged into the blinding sunlight on deck.

Sir John Forrester was a tall, skeletally thin man in his late sixties. Dressed in a heavy tweed jacket, plus fours, and boots, he turned to greet her, his white pith helmet, his only concession to the climate, in his hand. “Mrs. Shelley? How very nice.” His bow was courteous, his eyes brilliant blue beneath bushy white eyebrows and shrewdly appreciative. He greeted her companions in turn then instructed the two dark-skinned Nubians with him to remove her luggage to the felucca drawn up alongside the paddle steamer.

Now the moment had come, Louisa felt a small pang of nervousness. She had shaken hands one by one with the men and women who had been her companions over the last few weeks, nodded to the crew, tipped her cabin servants, and at last she was turning towards the small sailing boat which would ferry her across to the
Ibis
.

“Bit of a test, my dear, getting down the ladder.” Sir John offered her his hand. “Once you’re down, sit where you like. There.” His sternly pointing finger contradicted the vagueness of his invitation.

Louisa wrapped her skirts around her tightly, holding them as high as she dared, and cautiously she reached down for the ladder with a small brown boot. From below, a black hand grabbed her ankle and guided it to the first rung. She bit her lip, firmly fighting the urge to kick the man who had taken such a liberty, and quickly lowered herself into the small boat with its flapping sail. She was greeted by smiles and bows from the two Egyptian crewmen as she slid towards the seat to which Sir John had directed her. He followed her down, and within seconds the boat was heading across the turbid water towards the
Ibis
. Behind her Arabella lingered on deck, her face shaded by her pink parasol, and waved at Louisa’s departing back.

The boat towards which they were heading was one of the graceful private vessels which plied up and down the Nile, this one propelled by two great lateen sails and steered from the back by a huge tiller that extended over the main cabin roof. The elegant accommodation, she soon discovered, included cabins for herself, the Forresters, and Lady Forrester’s maid; a saloon, filled with divans and a large writing table; and quarters sufficient for the crew which consisted of the captain, or
reis
, and eight men. The deck allowed room to sit and to eat outside, should they wish it, and also an area for the crew, one of whom was an excellent and talented cook.

This time she was to have a cabin to herself. Staring round it, Louisa felt her heart leap with delight. After the dark wood and brass fittings of the paddle steamer, this cabin, tiny though it was, was beauty itself. Her narrow bed was spread with brightly coloured woven fabrics, there was a carpet on the floor, fine blue and green shawls were draped across the window, and the basin and ewer were made of some beaten metal which looked like gold.

Tearing off her hat, she flung it on the bed and looked round approvingly. From the deck overhead she could hear the pattering of bare feet and the creak of the masts and rigging.

Of Lady Forrester there had been no sign. “Indisposed, my dear. She’ll join us for dinner.” Sir John had said vaguely as he showed Louisa to her cabin. “We’ll sail as soon as possible. Not far. We’ll tie up on the other side of the river so you can set off for the valley tomorrow. Hassan will be your dragoman. That is, he will act as your guide and interpreter. Good chap. Highly recommended. Very reliable. And cheap.” He smiled knowingly. “And you’ll have to share Jane Treece, Lady Forrester’s maid. I’ll send her in to you directly and she can help you settle in.”

And here she was, a woman of about forty-five with hair pulled severely off her face beneath her cap, dressed, like her, in black and with skin which beneath the cruel sun had freckled and creased into a tight map of lines and blotches. “Good evening, Mrs. Shelley.” The woman’s voice was deep and educated. “Sir John has asked me to act as your maid and chaperone while you are on his boat.”

Louisa hid her despair as best she could. She had hoped to be free of such formality. It would, though, be helpful to have someone unpack and shake out her dresses and fold away her underlinen and petticoats and lay out her hairbrushes and combs. Her sketchbooks and her precious Winsor and Newton watercolour box, her paintbrushes, she would allow no one to touch but herself. These she put on the small table in front of the elegantly pointed cabin window with its latticed shutters.

Turning, she stared at the evening gown which Jane Treece had already shaken free of its folds and laid out for her. Her vision of casting aside her corset and petticoats and the formal black which her mourning demanded and putting on the blessedly cool, softly flowing dresses made for her all those long months ago in London by her friend Janey Morris, were beginning to recede once more. “I had assumed we would be more casual on so small a boat,” she said cautiously. “And, though it was kind of Sir John to think of it, as a widow I scarcely think I need a chaperone!”

“Indeed.” The word conveyed shock, scorn, and such superiority that Louisa was in no doubt at all that her assumptions had been dreadfully misjudged.

“Sir John and Lady Forrester keep every formality on the
Ibis
, Mrs. Shelley, I assure you. When you leave the boat to go off and see the heathen temples, I have no doubt it will be more difficult to maintain the niceties, and I have made it clear I am not prepared to go with you on those occasions, but while we are here, Sir John’s man, Jack, and I, see to it that everything runs as well as it does at home in Belgravia.”

Louisa bit her lip to hide a wry smile. Trying to look suitably chastened, she allowed the woman to help her on with her black silk gown and pin her hair up in loose ringlets and loops around her head beneath a black lace veil. At least without the weight of her customary chignon, it was cooler. The assurance that Jane Treece would not be going with her to visit the Valley of the Tombs had cheered her up enormously.

The main saloon of the boat was as exotic as her own cabin, but the silver and china laid on the table for dinner was English. The food itself, though, was Egyptian, and delicious. Louisa ate with enjoyment as she tried to explain to the Forresters why she wanted to paint the Egyptian scenery. Augusta Forrester had emerged from her own quarters looking as elegant and cool as if she were entertaining at home in London. A small, silver-haired woman in her early sixties with huge dark eyes, she had managed to retain a prettiness of feature and a charm which made her immediately attractive. Her attention span was, though, Louisa discovered quickly, very short.

“When Mr. Shelley died,” she explained as they ate, “I found myself lost.” How could she ever tell them how lost without her beloved George? She had contracted the same fever which had killed her husband, and although she had recovered, it had left her too weak and too listless to care for her two robust and noisy sons. They had gone to stay with George’s mother, and Louisa had been persuaded finally that a few months in a hot climate would restore her to health. She and George had planned to come to Egypt one day. It was George who had regaled her with stories of the discoveries that were being made in the sands of the desert. It was George who had promised that one day they would go there and that she would paint the temples and tombs. The somewhat unconventional household they ran with its laughter and conversation and the constant flow of painters and writers and travellers had fallen apart when illness had struck. George’s mother had arrived, nursed them both, taken away the children, dismissed half the servants, substituted her own, and left Louisa devastated.

Glancing from Sir John to his wife, Louisa saw that the latter was no longer listening to her, but the mention of Augusta’s nephew, Edward, brought her back from her daydreams, and for a few minutes she sat, her beautiful dark eyes fixed on Louisa’s face, as her guest described how that young man, a friend of George’s, had rescued her, arranged her passage, booked the steamer from Cairo, and persuaded his uncle and aunt to take her to see the excavations. Without his help, she would have been destroyed.