Whispers in the Sand (40 page)

“I do not want his title, Augusta!” Louisa snapped back. “And I most certainly do not want him or his gift. I shall not receive him. Please tell him to go.” She turned and leant against the rail, staring down into the water.

“Louisa—”

“No.” She did not look round. “Please. Get rid of him.”

“I can’t do that, Louisa.” Augusta paused for a moment, looking at her, then, with a sigh she turned away. As with a shout the mooring ropes were loosened and the boat swung into the channel, Louisa found herself alone on deck.

It was perhaps an hour later that she made her way somewhat cautiously back to her cabin. As she passed the door, she glanced into the saloon. Augusta and Sir John were there alone. Of Carstairs there was no sign. With a sigh of relief, she turned towards her door and pushed it open. He was sitting on the bed. On the counterpane beside him was her journal and her dressing case.

At her gasp of surprise and fear, he smiled. “Please don’t scream, Louisa. It would be so embarrassing to have to tell Sir John and Augusta that what they heard was merely the voice of your passion. Give me the key to this silly little box and we’ll have done.”

“You’ve been reading my private diary!” She was overwhelmed with anger.

“Indeed I have. And what interesting reading. You don’t appear to like my company, my dear. Your penchant is for natives, I see.” He sneered at her. “Luckily, I’m not particularly worried by your views, either way. The key, please, or I’ll be forced to break the lock.”

“Get out of my cabin!” Louisa could feel her anger mounting. Heat was flooding through her body. “Get out now!” She moved towards him and snatched the diary out of his hand. “Do you want me to summon the high priest once more to my aid? He came when I called him. Remember? Who knows what he might do to protect me.”

Carstairs laughed. “Summoning spirits, my dear, is what I do, not you. I have trained for years in the occult practices which will bring forth the guardians of your little bottle. Is that really what you want?” He stood up suddenly, and she fell back, frightened. He seemed very tall in the small cabin. Although she was trying very hard to disguise the fact, her courage was draining away as fast as it had come, leaving her numb with fear.

Carstairs looked down at her, not hiding his disdain, then he raised his face and took a deep breath.

“Anhotep, priest of Isis, I call you forth here. Now. Anhotep, priest of Isis, show yourself before me now. Anhotep, priest of Isis, come forth into the daylight!” He flung up his arms, his voice echoing into silence.

Louisa gave a small whimper.

She could see the figure already, transparent in front of the window, the thin, arrogant face, the square shoulders, the strange, pale eyes, so like the eyes of Carstairs himself, with his frightening, penetrating gaze. The silence in the cabin was suddenly intense, the atmosphere electric. Louisa closed her eyes.

“Did you call, Mrs. Shelley?” Jane Treece’s voice, immediately behind her, made her gasp.

For a moment she couldn’t move, then she turned towards the new arrival. “Yes, please!” She clutched at the woman’s arm. “Would you show Lord Carstairs the way out? He was just leaving.” She had begun to tremble violently.

She closed her eyes again as Treece led Carstairs away and sank onto the bed, unable to move. When she opened them again, the figure in the window was still there…

“Oh God!” Anna spoke out loud. She shut the book and took a deep breath. Her hands were shaking. She glanced across the cabin at the closed drawer of the dressing table. Forcing herself to stand up, she was about to cross to it when a cough outside her door made her jump.

It was Toby.

He took in her short nightshirt and dishevelled appearance when she opened the door. Then he focused on her face. “I was worried when you didn’t come to breakfast, having missed supper last night. Are you sure you’re OK? You look awful.”

She gave a brittle laugh. “Is that your usual chat up line?”

“No. As chat up lines go, I can do better.” He smiled again. “What is it, Anna? Your hands are shaking.”

She wrapped her arms around herself self-consciously. “I’m all right.”

“No. You’re not all right. Is it the sight of me, or is it that damn diary again?” He had spotted it lying on the bed. “Anna, forgive me for saying so, but if it upsets you, and it’s taking up so much of your time that you are missing the excursions you have paid thousands of pounds to come and see, is it wise to go on doing it?” He held her gaze for a moment, his expression fierce. “Why not junk it? No, I didn’t mean that, it’s too valuable. Put it away. Read it when you get home, sitting in the garden.”

“I can’t. I need to know what happens.” It came out as a wail.

“Need to?” His voice was marginally softer suddenly. “Why? What’s so important?”

“It’s about the scent bottle. Someone was trying to steal it from her. She thought it was cursed in some way.” She pulled herself up short. She was rambling.

Toby was still looking down at the diary. “And you, too, think that the bottle might be cursed?”

She glanced up, expecting him to be laughing at her, but his face was perfectly serious.

“Will you show it to me, Anna? Watson thinks it’s a fake, doesn’t he? He’s made no secret of the fact. I’m not an expert, but I do have a feel for things.”

She hesitated, then suddenly making up her mind, she went over to the dressing table and pulled out the drawer. She handed him the bottle, wrapped as it was in her scarf. He unwound the piece of silk and dropped it on the bed, then he brought the bottle up close to his face and squinted at it with one eye closed. She watched as he ran his fingers gently over the surface, finding herself strangely fascinated by the way he stroked the glass and ran his thumb over the seal, then held it out at arm’s length, with it lying on his palm, as though guessing its weight.

“It feels right to me.” He glanced up at her. “Hand blown. Rough surface with a lot of imperfections, crude in some ways, but more than that.” He frowned, running his finger over it again. “I can feel its age. Don’t ask me how, but I can.”

“Andy said the top was machined,” she put in quietly.

“Crap. He doesn’t know anything about glass if he says that. And he calls himself a dealer! No,” he ran his forefinger over the seal, “no, it’s not machine made. I couldn’t date it for you. A museum would have to do that.”

“But it is Egyptian?” She looked up at him.

“Does Louisa Shelley say it is?”

“Oh, yes.” She bit her lip.

“Then it’s Egyptian.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Anna, why not find a nice bit of diary to read?” he suggested suddenly. “Something cheerful. There must be nice bits in it. Then put it away for now and come sailing. Can I try and find you a cheerful bit to read?”

She hesitated.

“I won’t damage it, I promise. I’ll just glance through and look at the writing. You can tell a lot from writing, you know.” He paused, and when she didn’t say anything else, he sat down on the bed and began to leaf carefully through the diary beyond the place she had marked.

She stood watching him without a word, wondering why she had let him, why she had invited him in, why she had shown him the bottle. Why she felt more comfortable with him than she did, she now realised, with Andy. In spite of Andy’s accusations, accusations which, she acknowledged thoughtfully, she never had for one moment believed!

He looked up suddenly. “Here. Look. This seems to be a good bit. See, the writing is springy and even and the picture is cheerful. Can I read it to you?”

Shrugging, she sat down on the stool.

Hassan had returned the day they moored at Philae.
The Scarab
had moored a stone’s throw from them, and the Fieldings’
dahabeeyah
a few yards beyond that.

With quiet dignity, Hassan had accepted Sir John’s explanation that it had all been a misunderstanding, and he had slipped quietly back into the life of the boat as though he had never been away, except that now, Louisa knew, the Forresters must have guessed that her relationship with him was more friendly than any of them chose publicly to admit.

It was dark when Louisa crept out on deck to find Hassan waiting to row her ashore. “I have told the Forresters that I wish to paint the river in the moonlight,” she said quietly. They no longer try to stop me, and I believe Lord Carstairs is aboard the
Lotus
, discussing the taking of photographs with Mr. Fielding, who has brought a camera with him, so we should be undisturbed.”

“Save for the baksheesh boys.” Hassan smiled. “They are here day and night.”

“And can be bought off?”

“Oh, indeed. They can be bought off.” He nodded.

A huge moon shone across the water, throwing black shadows across the sand. They walked slowly, taking in the intense beauty of the night. All around them the temple pillars, the distant hills, the dunes, the sand, had turned from gold to glittering silver.

“We will go up on the wall.” Hassan whispered. “I’ll show you.”

Carefully they climbed the worn steps, pitch-black inside the darkness of the stone, to emerge once more into the moonlight. It was cooler up there, and Louisa pulled a shawl round her shoulders. They could see the whole island beneath them with the three moored boats like small toys in the distance. To the north, they could see the islands of the cataracts with the rapids and spray, all silver in the moonlight. To the south, the broad, slowly flowing river curved away out of sight. Immediately beneath them, the huge temple lay silent and mysterious, great pools of blackness interspersed with the silvered columns.

“You wish to paint up here, Sitt Louisa?” Hassan’s whisper was somehow shocking in the silence.

She nodded. “Are we safe here, Hassan?”

He was unsure whether she had meant from Carstairs, or from the spirits. Perhaps from both. “We are safe. I shall unpack.” He began to spread out the rug.

The river was totally silent beneath them. On the
Ibis
, the Forresters were already in their cabin. On the
Lotus
, the Fieldings and their guest, having exhausted the intricacies of the new camera, were sitting on deck, enjoying a sherbet as Venetia read to them from one of the novels of Jane Austen.

Louisa sketched the scene for a long time, every now and then so overwhelmed by the surrounding beauty that she sat spellbound, her pencil at a standstill on the paper. Hassan sat cross-legged a few feet from her. He had seemed reserved since he had returned. Quieter. More thoughtful.

“You think much, my friend?” she said at last.

“I watch the night. And I watch you.” He smiled.

“And I you. Look.” She held out the sketchbook to him. There was a small picture of him; thoughtful, handsome, the wry smile playing round his eyes unmistakable.

“You do me much honour, Sitt Louisa.”

“I show only the truth.” She leant forward. “I told Sitt Augusta that we would sleep in the temple if we grew tired of the moon.”

He nodded gravely. “I have cushions and rugs. Then you may watch the sunrise.”

“We will watch it together.” She reached across and touched his hand—just the gentlest of movements.

He moved closer to her. “When they sent me away, I thought my heart would cease to beat for unhappiness,” he said at last. “You have been my sun and my moon and the stars of my heaven, Sitt Louisa.”