Chapter 6
The afternoon of the following day
Onora gazed mindlessly at the passing scenery, too tired to take much notice of what she was seeing. She hadn’t slept well, dreaming she was unable to move, trapped under the weight of some intangible force. Even now, with the terrors of night dispelled by the searing day, she felt disturbed.
During luncheon her appetite had failed her, and she’d been incapable of any meaningful conversation, though no-one had remarked upon it. Their spirits were too high in anticipation of reaching the dig site.
Most of their party had now retired below, to supervise the packing of trunks and to rest. Seton had spoken much of the residence he’d built, and the celebratory dinner they would enjoy marking their arrival.
There was no doubt it would be a late night, though Onora fully intended to excuse herself before anyone could think to offer her brandy again.
Ever closer came the bronzed cliffs, reaching almost to the water’s edge, scattered openings through the crags marking where the dead had once resided.
Those were the tombs, ransacked in centuries past, where her father and Seton had first concentrated their research; days which seemed almost as distant as those of the pharaohs.
Onora squinted against the sun. Nothing was visible of the temple itself, so low was it sunk beneath the sands, but she made out the villa’s whitewashed walls and the bright-blooming pinks and reds in its gardens, stretching abundant through the strip of green which flanked the river.
“So that is the desert house.” The seductive cadence of Madame Auvray’s voice carried over Onora’s shoulder. “Not so very much to crow about but, in this barren place, even the merest hint of beauty must be praised.”
However she felt about Seton, and this place with its complex associations, Onora disliked Madame Auvray’s casual disparagement. “Not entirely barren; the annual floodwaters see to that. I’m sure the villa will be very hospitable. Seton wouldn’t have it any other way.”
As to beauty, it has many forms. Spend some time in the desert and you may learn that.
“Ah! I have hit some tender nerve.” Turning to place her back to the rail, Madame Auvray was the picture of elegance. Her costume today was striped cream and tan, with the short-length jacket cross-buttoned. Her prettily ruffled shirt-waister was immaculately white.
“It is touching, this defense of your beloved and his work, in this middle-of-nowhere place.” Madame Auvray continued looking at her, though Onora stared resolutely across the sands.
“Now, chérie, don’t tell me you are so sensitive!
” The Frenchwoman’s tone turned coaxing.
“I beg all forgiveness. Seton is a lucky man, having a bride who jumps readily to fight for him. Though whether he deserves it…” Her sigh was theatrical.
“But let us talk of you, ma petite. With your marriage before you, the pink should be in your cheeks, but you look weary. Did you not sleep?”
Against her wishes, Onora felt herself blushing.
“Ah, I see everything!” Madame Auvray smiled—rather smugly, Onora thought. “You are dreaming of your groom, yes? Do not be shy. Your thoughts are wandering to what you know is coming. You leave behind your innocence and—”
“Please stop!” Onora didn’t care how rude she appeared. “It’s not something I wish to discuss.”
Least of all with you!
“Ah! I forget how very constricted you English are—especially the women, not wanting to discuss things which are within every person’s mind, which compel our actions. If you change your decision, I shall never be far off.” The Frenchwoman drifted away.
Onora gripped the rail, inwardly seething. To think she’d once considered the Frenchwoman a possible confidante! It was obvious she liked to stir up trouble, and the best way to deal with that was to refuse to pour oil on the fire.
It was in this mood that she whirled about at the next approach of footsteps. To her surprise, it was the reis of the boat.
“Salam, Lady, I beg a moment of your time.” He gave a small bow, resting his hands within the open sleeves of his blue galabeya.
“Wa alaikum salam.” Onora composed herself immediately, giving the customary response of wishing him peace also.
“I come to pay my respects, and to wish you well. A wedding should be a joyous occasion. Soon it will come, and your life will be bound to that of your husband and master.”
“Shukran, Tariq.” Onora placed her hand over her heart. The reis’s words were well-meant, and she accepted them with thanks. He’d known her in the days before—when Seton and her father had first come.
Seton’s wife, Agnes, had been alive then, and Onora a child, yet Tariq had honored her—giving his time, letting her practice her faltering Arabic with him, and always insisting she use his first name.
He reached through the side seam of his galabeya, taking something from his pocket. Presenting it to her, he lowered his eyes. “It would please me for you to accept this. Keep it close and it shall protect you.”
Onora accepted the small, wooden artefact. Shaped like a cross but with the upper part looped over, she recognized it immediately as an ankh—the symbol of life.
“I will remain with the ship, along with my crew. If you ever desire to leave, we will be at your disposal. Day or night, we are here.”
“Leave?” She was confused. Why should she wish that?
“I mean no trouble, merely to show that I am at your service.” He raised his eyes, and everything within them was sincere. “Ja'al Allah ayyamak kullaha sa'adah. May Allah fill all your days with happiness.”
“Shukran.” Once more, Onora thanked him, then wished him happiness in turn.
Tariq descended the crew’s rope ladder, returning to his duties below, and his final words were uttered to himself rather than to her. “Allah yehannin aleik.”
May Allah have mercy on you.
The villa was everything Seton had described, and more.
Their mooring drew them up to a large landing stage, supported by deep poles driven into the riverbank.
This created a very pleasant arrival, enabling them to disembark easily, following a boardwalk past white and blue water lilies, reeds and lotus plants.
As the ground became more solid, the pathway led through a garden where the fertile soil had enabled the planting to mature at a remarkable speed, with pink tamarisk trees and sun-yellow mimosa growing between palms. A lawn of sorts was trimmed neatly between.
Seton was obviously proud of the achievement, and rightly so, for nothing of the sort had existed when Onora had last been here.
The villa itself was no less impressive. Though made of simple mudbrick, plastered and white-washed, the facing side toward which they approached was graced by an open-sided veranda, roofed with tiles and graced with potted cypress trees.
An archway led through to an airy courtyard, the floor tiled white and green, and with a cloistered passageway on all four sides, created from a wide pergola.
Bright bougainvillea planted at intervals created dappled shade as the vines scrambled over the latticework of rafters.
Each of the inner-facing doors was painted cobalt blue, as were the shutters mounted decoratively either side of each inner-facing window.
The central portion of the courtyard boasted pots of lemon trees, fig and date, mango and pomegranate. It had a pergola of its own, forming an arbor above a large table of acacia wood with jasmine twining overhead. This was set in readiness for them, with various tea things.
“How utterly delightful!” exclaimed Clodagh, whose praise was immediately echoed by the Reverend and his wife, as well as the Misses Feathermount.
“Thought of everything, old man!” The Colonel added his admiration as Seton urged them to be seated. “Just the right amount of shade, and very fragrant. Puts my garden back in Hampshire to shame.”
Seton accepted the compliments with pleasure and no small degree of modesty.
Having seen his guests partaken of refreshment, their host escorted them on a tour which revealed a library and a drawing room on the northern side, with kitchen and storage tucked in the corner beyond a formal dining room.
Of these rooms, only the kitchen had an exterior door; the rest relied on folding, shuttered doors in the French style, leading onto the courtyard.
Onora calculated perhaps fourteen bedrooms; enough, certainly, that she wasn’t required to share with her aunt, though Seton had been considerate enough to place them in adjoining chambers.
These were simply furnished but luxurious, having deep mattresses upon large-framed beds, dressed in crisp white linens and curtained with gauzy muslin. In addition to a wardrobe, a dressing table, and a nightstand, each had an armchair with a side table.
There were no outward facing windows. Meanwhile, the aperture facing the courtyard was without glass. Instead, there were two frames, covered in fine mesh—cleverly arranged to keep out both insects and scorpions, although able to slide open to admit a breeze. Light voile drapes gave privacy.
Onora’s trunk and carpet bag had already been brought in and were waiting at the foot of the bed.
“I hope it’s to your liking.” Seton watched intently as she perused the room. “Mine has a bathing-suite which you’re welcome to share, or there’s a good-sized tub the staff can bring.”
“Thank you.” Onora wasn’t sure she’d be comfortable bathing in Seton’s own quarters—at least, for the time being.
“I’ll leave you to settle in,” Seton went on. “The gentlemen are eager to see inside the temple so I’m taking them straight over, but I’ll give you and your aunt a private tour as soon as you wish.”
Onora nodded. Hardly a day had gone by without her imagining returning, despite the terror that had gripped her that night five years ago.
The scarab she’d taken had been an act of theft, and her father’s accident had compounded her sense of blame; but she had to remind herself, she was now a grown woman and would not succumb to feeble fancies.
The temple was important to Seton, and she needed to overcome any aversion.
The man was half-way out the door when he paused. “It seems remiss for you to have never been inside, considering the time your father spent working on the site. I’m surprised he didn’t take you down himself.”
It was no casual remark. Did he suspect that she’d been into the temple before?
She feigned a yawn. “I do apologize. It’s exceptionally warm. I may lie down for a while.”
“Of course.” Seton’s gaze flicked to the bed.
“I understand Virginie is presently sharing her maid with you. Most kind of her, but we’ll find someone of your own.
It’s hardly proper for you to be seeing to your own hair and wardrobe, nor relying on your aunt for assistance—no matter what you’ve been used to. ”
The door closed behind him.
Onora unpinned her hat and threw it upon the armchair. Her gloves followed, then her jacket.
She paced the room, wanting something to tear or break. Splashing water on her face helped somewhat but she needed to get out of the room—to escape its walls, even if she couldn’t escape herself.
Snatching up her hat once more, she peeked out into the courtyard and was relieved to find it empty. Hurrying, she took herself through the archway, out onto the veranda, then across the grass, skirting around the edge of the villa heading westward.
Out of breath, she reached the edge of the gardens. Green petered out and golden sand began. The sun had more than an hour before its descent but there was yet power in it, and her body felt weak under its glare.
A cluster of tents sat a few hundred yards off. The subterranean temple was sited upon the other side, close to where the cliffs rose from the desert. A squeezing in her chest brought her up short. Was she really going to go down there again? Could she do it? Not today, but soon?
Onora set off again briskly, wanting to get closer—as if to prove to herself she was unafraid, but her knees lacked strength to hold her upright. With a cry of dismay, she fell forward, her fingers sinking into the scorching sand.
“Hey there! What the devil!” someone called out.
She saw his boots first, stoutly made yet well-worn, rising almost to the knee, then buff britches covering a long length of thigh.
The face that looked down was familiar, though she couldn’t quite place it: a jaw rough-stubbled, firm lips, skin browned by the sun, and eyes as dark as his unruly hair.
“You’re coming with me.” Strong arms lifted her, to her feet then off them altogether, swinging her upward.
Her gaze was level with the open shirt of the man carrying her. A bead of sweat ran from the base of his neck, downward, disappearing beneath the soft linen.
She tried to tell him that she didn’t need help, but the desert heat robbed her of speech, and her eyes closed.