Chapter 12
Late that night
Once Madame Auvray’s maid had helped her undress, Onora observed through the voile curtains, waiting.
The men were seated in the courtyard, lingering over cigars, but when they’d drifted away to their beds, she slipped out.
Avoiding the garden’s main path, she walked where the planting was dense.
Not that she expected anyone to be following her; the hour was far too late for that.
The breeze shivered the palm fronds as Onora approached the water, and light from the low-hung moon rippled silver on the slow-flowing river.
The night air was fresh, the stars violently bright, and it was a relief to be alone, with no small talk to make or smiles to give, away from her aunt and the others.
Away from Seton.
How long had she been having second thoughts about this marriage?
Since their journey south from Cairo, or before?
Thinking back, even some of his letters had made her feel uncomfortable, but she’d pushed those feelings aside, knowing that she shouldn’t judge until they met in person again and she came to properly know him.
Her younger self, in the days before her father’s death, could not be trusted for any opinion. Seton was a great deal older than herself but, by any standard, he was handsome; the silver at his temples added to that attraction.
Instinct told her to fly. The hourglass was not yet empty, and she had means of support, if she were careful with her father’s legacy. She might never marry at all, but there would be compromises.
Seton’s wealth and position would guarantee a certain lifestyle, and enable her to remain in beloved Egypt—although even her feelings about that had grown confused. The image of the statue, the goddess Qadesh, fearsome and alluring, troubled her.
Those eyes!
Seton had been transfixed.
What was it she was really afraid of? Not a statue, surely? Nor Seton…for she couldn’t believe he would truly harm her.
Through dinner, he’d been solicitous, affectionate even. Aunt Clodagh had recovered her spirits and joined them, narrating a lively tale of her encounter with the cobra, including the valiant assistance of Mr. Jack Balfour.
That man!
He was irritating in the extreme, but he’d been there twice when she’d needed him. He really wasn’t bad to look at either, if you didn’t mind a man having dust in his hair and a physique that betrayed him indulging in more labor than was fitting for a gentleman.
She’d noticed, too, that his hands bore callouses. How would it feel to have him place those hands on her waist, firm and strong?
What if he did more than span my waist?
Her mind indulged in fantasy…imagining them in his tent, Jack Balfour undressing her, his gaze languid with desire.
Dipping a cloth in a bowl of cool water, then caressing her neck, her breasts, the curve of her hip.
Kissing his way across the landscape of her body, sinking to his knees as he pressed his mouth to her belly. His hands, cupping her behind.
An ache took hold, demanding that she touch herself, to push her fingers inside, to…
“It never grows old, does it?” A masculine voice tore her from the reverie. “I could look upon this sight for an eternity and still gape at its beauty.”
Jack Balfour was standing right there.
“It flows through old hush'd Egypt and its sands,
Like some grave, mighty thought, threading a dream.”
Heat rushed up Onora’s neck. Defensively, she crossed her arms. She was, at least, wearing the thicker of her two dressing gowns. “I beg your pardon?”
He cast her a sideways glance. “The awe and mystery of the Nile. Leigh Hunt’s poem sums it up perfectly. That great unstoppable force, surging onward, bringing life to the land. I take it that’s what you were pondering.”
She couldn’t be sure, but she’d an inkling he was laughing at her.
Intensely annoying!
He certainly didn’t deserve to have been doing any of the things she’d been imagining.
Did he somehow know? Had she given herself away with some expression or some small sound—a moan or something equally mortifying?
God forbid she might have murmured his name!
How long, exactly, had he been beside her?
“It’s inappropriate, don’t you think, creeping up on a person. I ought to be able to take the air without being forced into unexpected conversation.”
“Easy there, tiger!” Mr. Balfour held up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I was taking a stroll and saw you standing. Thought I’d come and check on you; see if you were all right.” He took a step back.
“Don’t go. Please. You…caught me off guard.
” She hated herself for being so bristly around him.
She was never this rude to anyone and, of all people, Jack Balfour didn’t deserve to be treated this way.
“I don’t usually wander around in my dressing gown.
It’s just that there’s something special about the desert at night.
Sometimes, I can’t stay in bed. I need to look at the sky and breathe it all in.
” Abruptly she stopped, wishing she was better at thinking before rambling on.
She also rather wished she was wearing the other dressing gown—the one that had a lot more lace. She’d thrown it over the cobra, and Kareem had arranged to have it washed.
“I’m the same.” Mr. Balfour appeared to accept her half-formed apology. Resting his hands in his pockets, he perused the stars. When he spoke at last, he said, “You went to the temple this morning. What did you think?”
I hate it in there!
There’s something grotesque about that statue, and I want nothing to do with it.
She couldn’t say any of that, of course. He’d think her deranged.
“It’s impressive. Unique!” She tried to sound nonchalant.
“Something odd about it, I think.” He frowned. “That statue alone is enough to give one bad dreams.”
Bad dreams? If he knew!
Onora bit her lip. “Seton showed me the text on the side of the High Priestess’ sarcophagus—about the goddess summoning worshippers to her, making them obey her and so on, all for some bestowing of vitality, or well-being.”
Mr. Balfour pulled a face. “Those hieroglyphs read more like a curse than a promise of reward.”
A curse! Exactly!
She’d never believed in curses, although it was hard to deny such a thing might have power if someone believed it true.
He carried on, “I was only permitted to enter the sanctuary a handful of times; supposed to be recording the hieroglyphs and replicating the friezes, but I made some disparaging remark about their lewdness. Seton didn’t mince his words. Made it clear I was no longer welcome down there.”
Lewd?
Those peculiar positions…was that what they were doing?
“Pardon my bluntness. There’s no reason for a young woman to know of such things,” Mr. Balfour added hurriedly.
“Apart from the fact that young women become young wives,” Onora replied curtly. “They deserve to know what’s expected of them.”
He rubbed his chin. “What might be observed in the average marriage bed has little to do with the cult of Qadesh, I can assure you. Its practices were cruel—live sacrifices and…uh…other things, sending initiates into a frenzied state. Small wonder they believed themselves possessed by the goddess.”
She appreciated that he was attempting to speak frankly with her, even if he was skirting around some of the facts.
Returning to the less controversial aspect of their conversation, she said, “Perhaps Seton will relent in letting you work on the site. You are his nephew, after all.”
Mr. Balfour blew out a long breath. “More like he’s waiting to get rid of me, but I’ll save him the bother. I’ve applied for work with Flinders, south of here. Rowed down yesterday with a letter offering my services. I’ll work for nothing, if necessary, for the chance to learn from him.”
She felt deflated, thinking of him leaving.
As if it has anything to do with you. Be reasonable, Onora!
“I met him once!” She blurted out, needing to say anything but what was really in her mind. “Flinders Petrie, that is. My father was at school with Lord Amherst, who’s been funding some of Mr. Petrie’s digs.”
“You’ve a passion for all this yourself, then?” Mr. Balfour looked approving.
“How could I not, growing up out here?” It seemed obvious to her. “I’ve studied formally, too: ancient and modern history at Lady Margaret Hall. I was hoping to go up to London, to begin a study of Egyptology at University College.”
He looked thoughtful. “Why didn’t you apply? Women are permitted upon the course.”
“Oh…various reasons.” Onora felt ashamed to say.
“Nothing to do with Seton then?” He was focused upon her, waiting to hear what she had to say.
Something made her want to be honest, even if doing so made her look…what, exactly?
Weak, or purely conventional?
Neither sat well with her.
“My aunts pressed me. The engagement was arranged years ago by my father. It was always said I’d come out here to join Seton, once I was of age.” She hugged herself tighter. “Not that I regret anything. Learning in the field is worth most of all, don’t you think?”
It was a lie.
A whole degree devoted to the study of ancient Egypt! Who wouldn’t want that?
“As for yourself, you’ll get where you need to be through dedication and hard work and, eventually, you’ll have your own dig.
There are plenty of licenses to apply for, all over Egypt, and patrons willing to fund, if you prove you’re the right man for the task.
” She meant every word. There was something about Mr. Balfour that made one believe he could accomplish anything he set his mind to.
Staying here, under Seton, is doing him more harm than good.