Chapter 12 #2
“I appreciate the words of support.” He gave a crooked smile.
“Meanwhile, you’ll be here, sharing in the glory.
Things have been on the hush-hush so far—thanks, I suspect, to a bribe to the Director of Antiquities—but Seton is bound to open up the site at some point.
Then they’ll all be here: newspapers, tourists, royalty.
All keen to take a gander at those charming paintings on the sanctuary walls.
You’ll have your hands full, playing hostess to the great and the good. ”
The thought of that made her feel queasy.
She supposed he was right, but planning dinner parties and taking endless tea with curious visitors wasn’t the future she was intent upon.
She preferred to picture herself taking part in the exciting aspects of the dig as they excavated to the north and west of the temple, looking for further parts of the buried city.
In reality, her ability to imagine married life with Seton was becoming more difficult by the day. Lately, it felt as if she’d stepped into a nightmare, with no idea what would next loom up to menace her.
“Haven’t you been tempted to find a bride? I mean, don’t you want to settle down?” She tried to sound nonchalant.
His eyebrows rose. “Someone to ensure my collars are starched and to make sure I eat properly?”
“Something more sentimental, perhaps.” It was her turn to tease. “Happily ever after with a feminine touch. Plus children, naturally. I’m sure your family wish that for you.”
His eyebrows rose even further. “My family?”
“Yes. You have family, don’t you? Back in England?” She hoped very much she hadn’t put her foot in it again. With women, it was easy to tell if they were recently bereft and in mourning but, for someone like Mr. Balfour, who barely followed any sort of code of dress…
“I do. One brother, older. Lectures at Cambridge in Natural History. Visited Egypt once; wasn’t keen. Latest research has been on the migration patterns of the British slug.”
“Do slugs migrate?” She was unsure of whether he was being serious.
“Not really, no.” He squinted, as if trying to recall the details. “Seem to pretty much enjoy staying where they are. Dig tunnels, apparently, in cold weather, using their mucus to navigate back after foraging for food.”
“Fascinating!” Before she could say more, he was ploughing on.
“Father and Mother are in London. He works at the British Museum. Commonly found gluing together bits of Mesopotamian pottery. My mother loves to crochet, embroider and knit. She’s most disappointed that I’m perpetually in a hot climate, since she’d like to be sending me off with a stack of scarves and pullovers and so on in finest merino.
I’ve twelve pairs of socks—all her handiwork. ”
Grinning, he lifted his trouser leg, pointing at the inches of sock pulled up above his boot. “Stripes are her specialty.”
Onora smiled. His family sounded delightful, if eccentric.
“As to the wedded bliss part, I could likely support a wife, but not in any grand style. Family coffers aren’t especially deep.
I’ve some in trust but would rather earn my keep if I can.
” He looked down, toeing the soil around a clump of irises.
“Plus, there’s the matter of never having met anyone I’d want to marry.
Even if I did, I could hardly drag some poor girl out of her London townhouse to traipse around after me out here. Life in the desert isn’t for everyone.”
Onora stared out across the water, watching as a nightbird raised its wings and flew off to the opposite bank. “It shall be for me.”
Several beats of silence followed, before he spoke again.
“Endure a full archaeological season before you make up your mind. It might be different now you’re, well…
ah…you’re no longer a child.” Mr. Balfour pushed one hand roughly through his hair.
“I ought to be getting back. It’s late. You, too. Ought to…ah…be in bed. Your bed.”
“I wish you weren’t leaving!” There it was, tumbling out.
“I don’t mean right now; naturally, you need your sleep.
” She swallowed. “I do feel safer, knowing you’re close by.
The other night when you came to help us, what were you doing really, in the library?
Were you…?” She was too self-conscious to spell it out, but he saved her the trouble.
“There with the intention of looking out for you? Perhaps. That snake was unfortunate, but I doubt you’ll be troubled again.”
She wasn’t so sure herself but held her tongue. Part of her was pleased he’d been secretly watching over her; the other was worried as to why he felt it necessary.
“You ought to know how to use a gun,” he said suddenly. “I’ll show you if you like. Never know when it’ll prove useful.”
“I don’t think Seton would approve.” She knew for sure he wouldn’t.
“Do you love him?” Mr. Balfour moved to face her.
She was taken aback—by how close he was standing, and by the question.
“You’re too good for him, you know.”
“That’s a ridiculous thing to say.” She laughed nervously.
His eyes flashed…with displeasure or exasperation, she wasn’t sure. Then, his expression closed. “I won’t keep on at you about it. You’re capable of making up your own mind.”
“Mr. Balfour! Jack!” Onora grabbed his arm, imploring him to look at her, to see something of what she was feeling.
She couldn’t say the words: that she wished they’d met long ago. Six months ago, even, before she was so far down this road with Seton that she couldn’t see a way back.
It would be so easy to love you.
If only he would put his arms around her, making her feel safe and chosen.
Thinking about it, she wasn’t sure why Seton wanted her.
He did cast certain looks at her now and then, which made her believe that he desired her, but he was just as often critical of how she presented herself.
And yet Seton had pursued her, of all the women he might have taken.
Her father had been delighted with the proposal, had trusted Lord Seton with Onora’s future happiness.
Her father: what would he say if he could see her now?
Abruptly, she released Mr. Balfour’s arm. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t be here, talking to you like this.”
Alone with you.
Wanting you to hold me.
Wanting you to want me.
Carrying on would bring humiliation, or some action on her part so awkward he’d never be able to think of her without embarrassment.
He’s going to leave, and this will be nothing but a distant memory. He’ll forget you, and that’s as it should be.
You should forget him too.
Except that she knew she wouldn’t. She’d never forget Jack Balfour.
She refused to look back as he called after her.