Chapter 19
As it turned out, Alexander was quite dreadful, though not as dreadful as he might have been, given how complete their privacy had seemed and how relaxed his swim at the beach had made him.
Still, when he left Saffron for a real wash and to prepare for dinner, which Sir Randolph and the Turkish officials would be attending, Saffron was in as good a mood as possible, given she was still shut up in her bedroom with an aching ankle.
Sitting at the window was agreeable now the sun was set.
The air was warm and fragrant, and she could imagine she could hear the wash of waves from the sea.
She lingered over the memory of Alexander, smelling of the sun and sea.
He would have taken her to the beach, he’d told her, had their afternoon not been interrupted on Friday.
She would have seen him in the water, hair wet and untamed, body splashing in the waves …
A very pleasant daydream was interrupted by a raucous laughter from below. She peered down to see a handful of gentlemen had drifted into the back garden. Cigarette smoke drifted up to her, and wrinkling her nose, she pulled back from the windowsill.
The usual male banter proceeded below. Saffron rolled her eyes when she recognized Wakefield’s stocky form among them.
If he was there, Clark was sure to be down there, too.
She’d just decided to close her window and perhaps put pen to paper to write Elizabeth when she heard a comment that could have only been referencing her.
“Did you see the state of her trousers?” Wakefield guffawed. “Dirt all over her knees. You know why.”
Rowdy laughter ensued, but only for a moment. Wakefield broke off, and the group around him fell quiet. Saffron dared to peer over the edge of the windowsill.
Alexander and Banks had come within earshot of Wakefield’s comments. Banks’s angry face was illuminated by the glow of the house, and Alexander, facing away from the group, stood absolutely still.
Saffron realized her fingernails were digging into the painted wood of the sill, anticipation thrumming through her.
What was Alexander going to do? She wanted him to thrash Wakefield for the slanderous things he’d implied about her—really, she wanted to thrash him herself, but that hardly seemed an option—and yet she also couldn’t stand the thought of anyone protecting her honor. It was hers to defend, wasn’t it?
In a tangle, she watched as Alexander turned to face the group of men. Coolly, he asked, “Why?”
Wakefield shifted on his feet. Was he brave enough to say it right to Alexander’s face?
He was, apparently. He lifted his chin defiantly and asked, “Why what?”
All Saffron could see of Alexander was the farthest quarter of his profile, but she could read the tension in his shoulders. “Why would someone’s knees be covered in dirt at an archaeological dig site, Wakefield?”
Silence spiraled out between them for a beat before Wakefield forced a laugh. “You know, I think the only thing your Miss Everleigh has been discovering down in the storerooms is that assistant’s unimpressive—”
“I’ve noticed your knees have dirt on them regularly,” Alexander said quietly. “Maybe you and Miss Everleigh were engaged in the same sort of activities down in the agora.”
“But wait,” Banks put in, arms crossed over his chest. He put on an expression of mock confusion. “Miss Everleigh was involved in the find of the decade when she helped me identify the graffitied stone. That would explain why her knees were dirty.”
Two of the fellows standing in Wakefield’s circle smothered laughs.
“Well, this certainly explains some things,” came Clark’s voice.
He stepped into the light, clad in work clothing and with a cigarette between his lips.
He took it out and flicked ash before continuing.
“Sharing Miss Everleigh with Linguistics, are you, Ashton? Let Banks teach her how to use her tongue. What a generous wedding gift.”
Saffron gasped, then immediately slapped a hand over her mouth. How dare he—
There was a scuffle beyond the window, and Banks’s low voice saying things she couldn’t make out. When she dared peek over the sill again, he and Alexander had gone. Clark and his cronies remained, laughing.
Fuming, Saffron got to her feet, only to topple over onto her bed. She swore, glaring at her ankle, and rolled over to face her pillows, where she let out a petulant shriek, muffled by their pressure.
She was going to get Clark back for this. This and every other cruel word and horrible and dangerous prank.
It was late by the time Alexander returned to the hotel. Banks had been wise to take him away from Clark and Wakefield’s taunting; after the events of the past week, he was bursting at the seams with frustration.
After Banks had pulled him away, Alexander had walked away from the hotel, willing the darkness of the peaceful, summer-like night to leech his fury away. He found himself at the bottom of the hill, looking up at the pinpricks of light that made up the hotel.
By the time he returned, most of the men had found their beds or other employments. He was tempted to trounce Clark or Wakefield or any of their pals at cards, but he didn’t want to be further goaded, nor did he want his presence to encourage more bad-mouthing of Saffron.
He paused at the landing of her floor, staring absently down the hall at her door.
Damn it all, why hadn’t he realized just how bad things were?
Why hadn’t he anticipated this level of animosity toward her?
He ran a hand through his hair, unsure if it was possible to have predicted this situation.
Clark’s apparent hatred of Saffron was so intense that he ought to have found her someone else to work with.
He didn’t want to admit to himself that he’d hoped this would be a learning experience for them both; give Saffron the chance to further shore up her armor and Clark a chance to see women could and did contribute to academia.
Now Saffron was cooped up in her room, injured and reviled by half the crew.
This was his fault. But he had no idea how to make it right.
Footsteps roused him, and a moment later, Martin Neill came down the steps in a haphazard way that told Alexander he’d been drinking.
“All right, Neill?” Alexander asked him, reaching for the young man’s shoulder to steady him.
Neill blinked blearily up at him, then blanched. “Mr. Ashton—”
“It’s all right,” Alexander said. “Let me help you to your room.”
“Oh no,” Neill groaned, slapping a hand to his face. “Oh no. You’re going to kill me.”
“It’ll be fine. You’ll sleep it off and feel better in the morning,” Alexander said, and he was struck by just how many times he’d said those same words, both to himself and his brother over the years.
“I swear, I’ve never touched her, sir,” Neill babbled. “Never, not even when—”
“Christ,” Alexander muttered. “Shut up, Neill. What room number?”
The young man struggled to walk straight, so Alexander took hold of his lapel and dragged him to his room, taking the key from his trembling hands and shoving the door open.
“There,” he said when Neill had collapsed onto his bed. “Go to sleep. Be ready to work in the morning.”
Neill nodded, eyes already closed, though his brow was pinched.
“And Neill?”
He blinked his eyes open.
Alexander sighed. “Stay away from Clark and the fellows in the card room. They’ll take you for all you’ve got, even if you’re too drunk to sign your name.”
Neill groaned, rubbing his eyes. “I know. I know. Mr. Clark’s got so many of my vowels …”
“Well, be sure he doesn’t get any more of them. We’re here to work, not sit at the card table.”
He wasn’t sure Neill had heard him; he was fumbling for something on his nightstand.
Alexander left him to it, wondering why he bothered to give advice at all. When he was Neill’s age, he certainly wouldn’t have followed it. In fact, he’d done just the opposite of the advice given him and headed straight into a war.
Neill was lucky. He had the chance to turn away from the path before him and try out another. Alexander could only hope he’d heed some of the signposts others had left along the way.