CHAPTER FIVE
Charlotte
From the corner of the doorway, I can’t see past the sea of black-clad gentlemen.
At least thirty scurry like ants and climb on ladders around the latest Assyriological discovery.
Unearthed from the desert sands nearly a year ago, the colossal statue has voyaged by caravan and ship, finally reaching England’s shores.
For weeks now, I’ve spent my time pouring over the journal of the explorer, Sir Gilead, memorizing the swashbuckling, daring adventures of the baronet and how he came to find the monster.
But even from a distance, I can tell that his drawings failed to represent the majesty of the carved, ancient creature.
Anyway, it’s one thing to learn something through pen, ink, and paper. It is another to experience the something for oneself.
Those wings. The detail is incredible. Even from a distance, each feather is recognizable. And the beard—a wealth of hair covers the human face. I’d love to see what he looks like without it. Judging from the sharp thrust of his cheekbones, his chin might contain a dimple.
I draw back around the doorframe at the ridiculous thought. Bad enough the ancients tippled too much sherry and dreamed of a creature with a human head, lion body, and wings. I shouldn’t want to shave him.
I pop back to where I can view the activity.
He’s… magnificent. A groan of frustration leaves my gritted teeth as I bob up and down, though to no avail.
It’s a woman’s lot to suffer at the predispositions of men, and the men don’t wish a woman’s input on Assyriological finds when they’re busy congratulating themselves on the discovery.
I’ve never appreciated strictures, and yet, I’ve always been subject to them.
“There you are, Charlotte. Whatever are you doing?” My friend, Lady Mary Caller, approaches from the adjacent room that houses artifacts from Egypt.
She’s as mad for Egyptology as I am for Assyriology. Happily, our interests often overlap, and our discussions fuel hours of lively conversation.
“I’m bemoaning the view.”
Swishing up beside me, she looks over my shoulder. “Of the gentlemen or the giant statue?”
“I’m bemoaning the existence of the gentlemen. I can’t see nearly enough over their inconvenient presences.”
Mary purses her lips. “Isn’t that Sir Gilead? And isn’t this room closed?” She glances back at the standing sign that I’ve skirted and ignored.
“Yes to both. Now do be quieter. If they’re alerted to our presence, they’ll send us packing, and I really wish to view the monster.”
“Phooey.” Without missing a beat, she wraps her hand around my arm and propels me into the room. “Gentleman, what have you unearthed?”
Lady Mary, daughter of the Duke of Covington, trespasses at her leisure and without rebuke. Plus, she’s lovely, all plump perfection and shining golden locks, blue eyes to melt the hardest heart, and a dowry to tempt the most miserly inclinations.
Actually… daughter of a duke. That alone suffices so that her foibles might be ignored.
“Lady Mary, a pleasure.” Amidst all the bowing and kowtowing that ensues, Sir Gilead steps forward. He kisses the air over Mary’s glove, holding her hand the slightest bit too long even as he bobs a cordial chin toward me.
I’m the parsley garnish people barely notice unless they’re attempting to clear up a case of sour breath.
Astringent, too spicy by half, and not worth the effort at consumption.
Given I’m penniless and without prospects, I can’t blame anyone for pushing me to the side, though right now, I can’t help feeling peeved.
Sir Gilead has been my crush for ages, even though I’ve only met him a handful of times in recent weeks.
But I’ve read his journals, been impressed by his handsome face, and dreamed long before I knew him.
Though, truth to tell, he’s turned out to be a bit of a bore in real life.
Unfortunately. And he clearly prefers Mary.
She insists she doesn’t care for him at all, and I would believe her except for the fact that I find myself chaperoning too often as he stops by for tea and writes his name on her dance cards.
“Sir Gilead, you do remember Miss Charlotte Butters? She’s waxed positively loquacious over your talk at The Woman’s Guild last Thursday.
What happenstance to find you here, as I’m sure she has several questions about this monstrous part of your discovery.
” Mary, who knows of my crush as I’ve been regularly swooning over the brown-haired baronet despite his boring personality, practically pushes me toward him.
Fine. She probably doesn’t like him much. Though she’s quite set on avoiding marriage for herself, she’s also keen to see me settled. Perhaps she hopes to become my companion.
Sir Gilead is not to be guided in my direction. “Miss Butters. Pleasure to see you, er… again?” He doesn’t even turn his gaze in my direction, all of him captured by Mary. If she was less kind, less altruistic, I might grow to despise her. “Lady Mary, come look at the beast.”
“We would love to see more of him. Miss Butters and I have been discussing the article published just yesterday entitled, Artifacts of a Godless Age.”
He preens before reclaiming himself. “Er, yes. The publication from the Society For the Betterment of Womanhood, isn’t it? I feel honored they should waste ink on my discovery.”
“Not in flattering terms—uh,” I grunt as Mary steps on the outer rim of my toes.
“Er—quite.” But he offers Mary his arm, which she accepts, keeping me locked upon her other.
The three of us approach the statue of the lamassu.
The rest of the gentlemen scurry away after bobbing like corks in Mary’s direction.
Ladders are left in place, along with canvas tarps, but it’s easy to see the monster, even with wooden slats blocking parts of him.
He's enormous, half again as tall as the tallest gentleman in the room. He must stand near nine feet tall. Ten, perhaps. Sculpted muscles ripple along his form, as if he was once a living being, frozen into stone as he exhaled.
Wings, yes, a grand expanse, longer than I am tall, and dragging on the ground just behind his rear paws.
A long tail also brushes the ground, unexpectedly delicate.
Around his neck, he wears a cord ending in a medallion the size of both my hands cupped together, though, against his enormity, the necklace doesn’t appear overwrought.
A system of presumably leather trusses wraps around his chest and over his back to disappear under his wings and reappear across his lower back.
Lion body, human head. I simply cannot credit him. He’s magnificent, true, but also strangely magnetic. Surely it’s my imagination, but I can’t help but think he’s studying us as we study him.
“He’s so lifelike. So unlike the other sculptures that have been discovered,” I murmur, unable to take my eyes from him.
“He is indeed different,” Sir Gilead agrees. “If I hadn’t found him buried so deep, I would have said he was a Renaissance sculpture, he’s so realistic.”
Sir Gilead continues to drone, but I’ve stopped listening.
I have read it all before and heard it at the talks he gives.
Releasing Mary’s arm, I venture a turn around the side of the beast facing the wall.
Odd, isn’t it, how he’s carved all around?
Other lamassu carvings have been discovered attached to entrance walls.
They’re flat on the interior side. The creatures always guard gates, yet not this monster.
I bet if he could talk, he could explain his differences.
No sooner does the thought venture through my brain than I chide myself for my foolishness. I’ve always been a bit of a dreamer, at least I was until life yanked away my ability to dream.
Sir Gilead raises his hands and points to the beast’s face. “You’ll notice, Lady Mary, the creature’s misery. See how his lips purse and turn downward, as if he’s facing a future set in stone?”
“Why, that’s quite poetic, Sir Gilead,” Mary agrees. “Miss Butters is similarly beset by a literary tongue.”
I am? Once upon a time, perhaps, when my only occupation was the finding of a husband, which didn’t require all my attention.
In between that and immersing myself in the discoveries of the ancient world, a passion I shared with my father as well as with Mary, it’s true that I read a great deal of poetry.
Lord Tennyson, Elizabeth Barrett-Browning, Christina Rossetti.
Their words gave me courage to face a future as some boring lord’s wife.
Of course, once my parents died, the dearth of suitors darkening my door made such literary pursuits unnecessary and impossible. I don’t want to dream. I want penny dreadfuls and articles on Assyriology to take me away while my feet remain glued to my responsibilities to Mary.
But Sir Gilead fails to take the bait Mary lays for him on my behalf.
I listen with half an ear to his discussion of the dig that revealed the monster as I circle the statue again.
The beast does look sad—heart-wrenchingly sad, as if he’s lost all his family and friends.
More than that, there’s an element of surprise in the lift of his brows.
Human head, lion body, and wings. Perhaps life itself betrayed him.
I’m still circling and studying as the others move to the tables that have been set up at the edges of the room. The British Empire would stop any employment for a dish of tea, and the exhilarating presence of Lady Mary would be enough to halt the entire isle.
“Coming, Charlotte?” Lady Mary pauses before sliding down onto the chair Sir Gilead has pulled out for her.
My gaze locks back on the monster. “In a moment.”
Sir Gilead laughs. “She’s enamored of our monster. Be careful, Lady Mary, lest you lose your companion to a statue.”