Chapter 8
They took supper inside, the table lit by several candelabra.
Seton presided, with Onora upon his right and Virginie Auvray to his left.
Monsieur Auvray was upon Onora’s other side, engaging in the usual small talk, asking how she was finding Egypt since her return, if she was keeping a journal, or intended to paint.
Onora did her best to concentrate. Nonetheless, it was a relief when Mrs. Griffiths summoned his attention.
Try as she might, she could not rid herself of thoughts of the arrogant Mr. Balfour.
It was clearly beyond his comprehension that a woman might marry because she respected and admired a man, that she wished for a secure home in which to raise children; that, in fact, she might love the man in question—or at least believe she could grow to love him.
As to whether those sentiments were true for Onora, the point was moot. Her reasons were her own. She appreciated him having taken her into the shade if, as he said, she had momentarily fainted, but that was no excuse for his intrusion on her privacy.
She most certainly had not asked to be laid upon his bed. Though she was certain nothing untoward had occurred while she was unconscious, she wouldn’t put it past him to have considered taking advantage, in some small way or another.
Something simmered beneath her skin, restless and itchy, and she couldn’t put her finger on the cause.
It had absolutely nothing to do with how Mr. Balfour dressed, which she found highly inappropriate.
No man should wander about without his jacket, or with his sleeves rolled up to expose a tanned and muscular forearm.
His shirt had been far too tight over his broad shoulders, and the cut of his britches was hardly better.
It was a wonder he could sit without splitting them at the seam and that really would be… most dreadful!
The temperature in the room was becoming unbearable, with hardly a breath of breeze, though the French doors onto the courtyard were open wide.
She sipped from her wine glass. Although doing her best to abstain, she was very much in need of calming herself.
Seton was clearly in his element, enjoying playing host and answering seemingly endless questions from his guests.
They had all transformed into amateur experts of Egyptology, comparing notes on the latest finds at Deir el-Bahri, on the opposite bank to the city of Luxor, where édouard Naville was excavating the Temple of Hatshepsut.
In what way was Seton’s temple similar? Or markedly different?
What had the Department of Antiquities said about it?
Would it become overrun with visitors, as was fast becoming true of the Valley of the Kings, or would Seton be allowed to keep the site undisturbed?
Holding the firman that allowed him exclusive permission to explore in the vicinity of the find, what plans did Seton have for continued work?
Onora listened with half an ear. That the temple was referred to as “Seton’s” irritated her, though it was always the way of things.
The Egyptian government—on behalf of its citizenship—held authority to grant licenses for excavation but lacked both the expertise and the means to fund the work, which might continue for years without unearthing anything of value.
The Egypt Exploration Society, founded by Amelia Edwards back in London, was doing sterling work in raising donations for the purpose of excavation, but Seton wasn’t the only individual seeking glory through his private efforts.
Young she might be, but Onora wasn’t ignorant of how things worked.
She didn’t doubt that Seton had bribed someone to gain the license for his site, and that a good portion of whatever he’d discovered over the past decades had been spirited away.
She could well imagine wandering Seton Hall one day, when she was installed as marchioness, and stumbling upon a suite of rooms filled with ancient artefacts.
Her father had harbored a far more academic interest, but it would be naive of her to suppose he was unaware of Seton’s intentions.
It was a distasteful subject, although some would argue that the items removed in this way had perhaps a better chance of preservation in the hands of private collectors than they might do here, being stored in far from ideal conditions at the cramped museum in Giza.
As far as she knew, nothing in the temple was of extraordinary value—except perhaps the statue of the goddess in the sanctuary, and the various modest gems within the wrappings of the mummies. The smaller rooms off the hypostyle had been found entirely empty, bar some rather ordinary earthenware.
Platters were now arriving at the table, placed before each guest: steaming rice topped with roasted vegetables and thinly sliced radish, alongside succulent chicken coated in a sticky sauce, with pomegranate seeds and slices of juicy mango.
Onora’s appetite was stirred by the aroma, and there was praise as everyone sampled the dish.
“This is divine! How clever you are Seton, employing a cook with the skill to create such cuisine! It does not escape me that the ingredients have been chosen to inspire a mood of amour.” Madame Auvray gave him one of her provocative, half-teasing looks.
Onora was pleased to see that he didn’t return Virginie’s flirtatious manner.
Instead, his gaze settled upon herself, and he leaned close to her ear.
“Fennel, radish, ginger, honey, mango, and pomegranate; enjoyed since Egyptian times, and known for their aphrodisiac qualities. A man or woman would serve them to the object of their affection, hoping to stimulate desire.”
Onora lowered her eyes, blushing furiously. She had no idea how to answer. How could she, knowing that others might be listening? Thank goodness, Clodagh was at the other end of the table.
“What’s that, Seton?” Monsieur Auvray’s tone was playful. “Whispering love promises to your bride-to-be? Is this the usual English dinner talk? If you continue, I shall have to start wooing ma chère Virginie across the tablecloth, lest she feel neglected, and it may be more than words she demands.”
Onora pressed her napkin to the corner of her mouth, wishing she might cover her face with it.
“You see the heart of it, Auvray.” Lord Seton raised his wine glass in a complimentary toast. This time, there was nothing hushed in his tone.
“We should be celebrating what truly fuels our human experience—the desire for heightened experience, the pursuit of an elevated state of being, in which we glimpse ecstasy.”
Monsieur Auvray laughed. “To ecstasy, mon ami! May we enjoy it to our dying breath.”
His wife immediately lifted her own glass, and the action was taken up around the table. All around, there were resounding cries. “To ecstasy!” Even the Reverend Griffiths was joining in, seeming most convivial.
Onora had never felt more uncomfortable.
When the chink of glasses had ended and cutlery was applied once more, the usual congenial chatter returning, she clearly heard her aunt remark, “What modern thinkers you are! And so dedicated to your…ahem…archaeological interests.”
“Not so modern, if I may say.” Herr Müller’s rich baritone was authoritative.
“It is well-documented among ancient civilizations: the imbibing of mind-altering concoctions, wine and other substances. Think of the Greeks, with their Dionysian Rites, and the Roman Bacchanalias, of frenzied dancing and music making, all with the aim of transcending the normal state, inviting the Divine to possess them. A collaborative conjoining, to enter a state of ecstasy above our ordinary human existence.”
“Well said,” Reverend Griffiths blinked behind his spectacles.
“We might interpret Christian ritual in a similar vein—inviting Christ to enter our bodies through the drinking of wine, which we call his blood, and the desire to lose oneself to the higher calling. The earthly flesh shall pass away, and all that shall be known is the glorious light of divine ecstasy.”
Mrs. Griffiths patted her husband’s arm, her cheeks flushed with what appeared to be wifely pride.
Onora didn’t know what to make of it. There was a certain logic. She’d read of the worship of Dionysus—or Bacchus, as the Romans named that particular god—but it seemed a strange way to view the Christian faith.
As the plates were cleared and dessert was served—a milk custard sprinkled with nuts—Aunt Clodagh’s voice rang out. “Well now, what have we all been reading? I’ve almost finished Frances Hodgson Burnett’s A Lady of Quality. Such a story! It has my heart palpitating.”
Onora sent silent thanks for the change of subject.
“I adored the character of Clorinda! So rebellious, but an inspiration to us women, too often admired for our mild-manners and passivity.” Miss Gardenia Feathermount spoke warmly. “But I must lend you one of mine. It has become a favorite, by Rider Haggard.”
“Oh yes!” The other Miss Feathermount joined in with much animation.
“Perhaps you know it—The World’s Desire?
The story features an Egyptian queen who turns out to be the most marvelous evil sorceress.
She conjures a familiar in the form of a serpent which bears the image of her own face.
Delightfully chilling! The plot is rather convoluted but has a satisfying conclusion, with almost everyone either poisoned or condemned to a fiery end. ”
“Dear goodness!” Clodagh sounded horrified. “Did it not give you nightmares?”
Hyacinth smiled. “I’m immune, I assure you.”
Talk of books carried them through the last portion of the meal until they retired to the drawing room, where coffee was waiting, as well as the usual digestifs.
To her annoyance, Onora found Madame Auvray coming to join her upon the curving chaise, while Seton crossed the room, entering into discussion with Dr. MacGregor and Herr Müller.
“Ma petite, I think I have in some way offended you, but I beg you not to be cross.” Madame Auvray was carrying two tiny glasses of something from the tray. “Here. Drink with me and be friends again.”
Before Onora could refuse, the liqueur was pressed into her hand. Virginie looked expectantly at her.
The brandy’s sudden heat took her breath away, but also filled Onora with resolve. Her earlier caution seemed nonsensical. No harm could come to her and, if she felt overcome, she would retire to her bed. Besides which, she did not wish Madame Auvray to think of her as a sulking child.
“I know something to divert you,” Virginie went on. “Gardenia, dear, you must demonstrate your party trick.”
“First-rate idea!” Colonel Harris-Corbet chimed in. “I’ll fetch the necessaries.”
He soon returned, and the low table on which their beverages had been served was cleared to make way for a brass-framed mirror and a shallow oil burner made of rough clay. Several of the party drew closer.
“Thank you, Edwin. Most kind.” Gardenia Feathermount smiled warmly.
The Colonel then struck a match and lit the taper for her.
“Other sources of light to be extinguished, if we may, or removed elsewhere.” Hyacinth addressed Lord Seton.
At his lordship’s nod, his manservants retreated, taking with them various lanterns.
The single taper threw a soft glow upon the gathered faces, casting shadows about mouths and eyes, making them appear very different to how they had moments before.
“If someone might close the French doors,” Gardenia added. “There should be no breeze to disturb the flame.”
This time, it was the Doctor who rose to oblige.
With the doors onto the courtyard secured, the room felt smaller. Onora was very much aware of the breaths of those around her, of the sharing of a limited portion of air. It felt heavier, repugnant almost, and far too intimate.
Discreetly, Onora shuffled over, away from Virginie whose taffeta-clad thigh was touching hers.
From her reticule, Gardenia presented a small bottle and tipped a few drops into the lamp’s well. With the taper warming the viscous oil, a scent rose up stronger than any woman’s perfume, resinous and woody, with hints of cinnamon, amber and myrrh—an exotic, heady fragrance.
“Miss Sullivan, would you oblige us?” Gardenia rose from her chair, inviting Clodagh to seat herself upon it, directly in front of where the lamp and mirror were placed.
“Oh! I don’t know if I should.” Onora’s aunt clasped her hands in her lap. “It all feels rather…”
“There’s nothing to cause alarm,” Gardenia soothed. “You gaze into the mirror, watching the movement of the flame, and tell us what comes to mind. All of us here have tried it, at one time or another.”
“Well, I suppose I can do that.” Clodagh gave a faltering smile.
Onora had a strong urge to intervene, to say that her aunt should do nothing unless it was her own wish.
However, to object to this parlor game, as she supposed it was, might seem churlish.
Besides which, her aunt was a grown woman, fully capable of making her own decisions.
She did not need Onora to prompt her one way or the other.
She glanced at Seton. Unlike the others, he was lounging back in his chair, seeming almost uninterested. Catching her eye, his gave a small smile, then raised a finger to his lips.
It was a clear sign, asking her not to interfere.