Chapter 15
Her dreaming that night was the most lucid yet.
Seton came to her door and, this time, Onora made no effort to rebuff his advances.
Instead, it was she who led him within. They were not man and woman but creatures of flesh, bestial in their desires, and there was no end.
All the while, a presence filled the room: something which exalted in their frenzied mating, feeding on the scent of their bodies and their abandoned moans.
Please, stop! I beg you.
Onora jarred awake, her heart pounding. Bolting upright, she clutched the bed sheet, scouring every corner of her chamber. There was no one, but a sense of someone lingered.
A familiar call through the door made her jump. “Morning, dear.”
Taking up her dressing gown, Onora made herself presentable.
“Goodness! You’ve slept late.” The Reverend’s wife bustled in with a breakfast tray. “The others wanted to wake you, but I insisted you must need your rest. It’s the heat, don’t you think? Turns one peculiar, and you’ve a lot on your mind, no doubt.”
Onora could hardly meet the other woman’s eye. Did anything remain in her face that might give away her carnal thoughts? She was certainly glad of the tray. Presenting herself for the inspection of the others was beyond her at this moment; nor did she wish to see Seton.
Mrs. Griffiths motioned for Onora to sit but showed no sign of leaving. Instead, she pressed Onora to take a bowl of fresh fruit and creamy white yogurt with honey drizzled on top. She poured from the coffee pot, adding the cream and sugar as Onora liked it.
“We heard something last night, and Wilfred said to me that it sounded like a to-do. A lover’s tiff, perhaps?” The Welshwoman gave her a knowing look.
Onora almost choked on the spoonful she’d swallowed. How much had the two of them heard? She dreaded to think.
Seton’s language had been foul.
Was everyone aware? No one had come to her aid, except the duplicitous Monsieur Auvray.
It was too mortifying to contemplate.
“Now, don’t you be worrying. Men do say things in the heat of the moment, and then regret them after.
Lord Seton was most concerned at breakfast and gave me this note to pass to you.
It will be some sort of apology, I’m sure.
” Mrs. Griffiths held out an envelope from her pocket.
“If you need a listening ear, you know where to find me.”
Once alone again, Onora read.
I cannot recall half of what passed between us last night, but Auvray tells me I overstepped the mark.
I must blame the digestifs, of which I consumed more than is usual, and an over-eagerness on my part.
If I shocked you, I beg you will forgive.
Once we are married, nothing shall hold us back from what is natural and pleasurable.
Yours,
Seton
In distaste, Onora folded the elegant notepaper, returning it to the envelope. It was a poor apology and hardly set her mind at ease. Seton had indeed shocked her, though there had been signs all along of his nature. As to finding what he’d attempted ‘natural and pleasurable’, she begged to differ.
And yet…
It was not the thought of consummation that disgusted her, despite Seton’s forwardness, and her dreams causing her distress. The acts she performed in her sleep were disturbing because they seemed beyond her control.
The whispered conversations with her friends at Lady Margaret Hall had not prepared her for these awakened feelings, brought on by the knowledge of her imminent marriage.
As for Seton’s behavior, part of her had rebelled, but she’d begun to go willingly into his arms. Despite all, she might well have given herself to him.
Had the strange, entrancing spell not been broken.
Onora shuddered. Time was running out, and she had to decide what to do. Was it possible to tame a man like Seton?
I need to get out of this room. To clear my mind. To think.
The others were gathered down by the river, and Onora did not feel ready to engage in small talk, so she took herself farther, setting up her easel in the shade of a bottle palm toward the outer edge of the gardens, where the sands began.
With her back to the villa, she began by sketching the familiar shape of the cliffs and their cragged shelves, dotted with shadows where tombs riddled the limestone.
She kept her gaze determinedly from the direction of the sunken temple and the tent encampment not far off.
Before long, she was ready to apply the first wash of paint.
She dipped her brush into the pot of water clipped upon the easel frame, then perused the tray of solid paints sitting uppermost in her box.
Needing ochre, which was in the layer below, she lifted out the first tray, then the second, and was met by the items she’d secreted: the ankh, given to her by Tariq, and the scarab.
She drew back, not wanting to touch either. The scarab was an inanimate thing—a decoration and no more—but it represented an act that would forever smear her. She’d taken it when she had no right to do so, and she’d hidden the evidence.
“Spot of art, eh? Mind if we take a look?”
Onora snapped the paintbox closed.
The Colonel had crept up on her, accompanied by Dr. MacGregor.
“Not much to admire, I’m afraid. I’ve barely started.
” She very much hoped they’d drift off again.
Colonel Harris-Corbet was all very well in small doses, but she really wasn’t in the mood for him.
The doctor was easier company, although he did have a habit of staring at one; a trait of his profession, she supposed.
“Been taking a few shots of the landscape,” the Colonel went on. “Picturesque, in an Egyptian-desert-sort-of way. I say! You wouldn’t mind if I put you in the foreground, would you? Artist at work, with the inspiration beyond. Nice bit of composition! I won’t disturb. You can carry on.”
She could hardly refuse. Opening the lid of her box only as far as was necessary, she extracted the ochre hue. She’d just begun again when she caught sight of Mr. Balfour striding across the sands. With mere moments to compose herself, she focused on washing her paper with a bold stretch of color.
Reaching them, the young man tipped his hat, greeting them all.
Mr. Balfour was dressed in his usual attire but, sometime since she’d last seen him, it appeared he’d shaved. “I heard about your aunt leaving. Unfortunate circumstances. I hope all’s well.” His expression was one of genuine concern.
The way he was crinkling his eyes in the sun’s glare gave some impression of how he might look, ten years from now. More mature and distinguished, though still with an air of being light of heart.
Having thanked him, Onora tried to appear engrossed in her painting. She was feeling too fragile to hide her emotions, tangled as they were.
“I came to see if you’d reconsider.” From the holster beneath his jacket, he brought out a handgun with a short barrel. “It’s one of the easiest to handle. No trouble to set up some targets.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I really have no interest.” Onora did her best to avoid eye-contact.
“A Webley, is it?” The Colonel stepped closer. “Nice piece. Easy to load, and reliable. Mind if I take a closer look?”
Somewhat reluctantly, to her mind, Mr. Balfour passed it over.
“What is this?” The distinctive trill of Madame Auvray carried over. “You’re showing us your weapon, Monsieur Balfour? I have some experience. May I handle it?”
That woman! Is no man safe?
She couldn’t say for sure what relationship the Frenchwoman enjoyed with Seton, but fear of the worst hung over her.
Taking the pistol, Madame Auvray stroked the barrel in a provocative manner. “I should like to see how it performs. The clip holds ten bullets, does it not? Now, what to use for a target…”
Before Mr. Balfour had a chance to intervene, she swung round. Raising her arm perfectly straight, she aimed toward the river, squeezed the trigger and fired a single shot.
As it rang out, there was a great squawking from the water, and several birds flapped in panic, taking to the sky—among them a gray heron.
With a firm hand upon the top of the gun, Mr. Balfour directed it groundward, then removed it from Madame Auvray’s grip. The look upon his face betrayed his thoughts, and they were clearly not charitable.
With a ringing laugh, she let it go without demur. “Most exhilarating! But do not be so fierce, Monsieur Balfour. I am a very good shot. Had I wanted to fell one of those silly birds, I assure you I would have done so.”
Several scathing remarks were on the tip of Onora’s tongue, but she had no wish to draw attention to herself. It was gratifying enough that Mr. Balfour was obviously incensed.
“Harmless fun, eh!” To his credit, the Colonel also appeared somewhat uncomfortable. “Still, best be careful where one lets off a firearm, my dear. Might have been someone down by the reeds. Local chaps. Hard to see from here.”
The doctor also looked disapproving, though he said nothing.
“Causing a stir, as usual, chérie?” Monsieur Auvray had wandered over. “I come on an errand. Maria is making some alterations to your costume for tonight’s party and wishes to know if you will try it. Perhaps I shall stay and watch the dressing up, to give you my opinion on how you are looking.”
To Onora’s consternation, he glanced over, giving a saucy wink.
Mortified, she looked away.
These people! They were so…open, in how they expressed themselves, especially regarding intimate matters.
Thinking of how Monsieur Auvray had interrupted her and Seton the night before, she didn’t know if it was possible to feel more humiliated.
She was grateful, in some respects, but that he should find her in that compromising, crass position was too much to bear.
As to whatever went on between him and Seton and Madame Auvray, it was beyond her comprehension. Though she hated to admit it, a small part of her also rather envied the French couple. The husband was obviously besotted, and neither gave two hoots for what anyone else might think.
As the four wandered away, Mr. Balfour stood awkwardly, as if unsure of whether to approach her. She’d been ungracious, and she regretted it. He’d done nothing to deserve her aloof manner.
Closing her paintbox, Onora stood. “Why don’t you show me one of your cliff tombs.”