Mr. Impossible (The Dressmakers 2)

“When I am well again,” she said, “I shall box your ears. In the meantime —” She winced. “Perhaps I will take a drop of laudanum. But only a drop. Now go away.”

He didn’t go away. He mixed the laudanum with honey and water and watched her drink it. He wet the cloths and wrung them out and laid them on her forehead. He rubbed her back. He distracted her with humorous family anecdotes. He did not leave until she fell asleep.

MILES’S CAMEL JOURNEY ended at Dendera, at the Temple of Hathor.

He’d heard of the place. He’d seen pictures in the Description de l’Egypte. He’d read travelers’ tales. Daphne had talked about it as well. But as he and his captors entered the sand-and rubbish-filled space that constituted its courtyard, he was interested mainly in the shade it would offer deep within.

After nine days’ journey across the desert on a hostile camel, after the sandstorms’ repeated batterings, he only wanted to lie down and die someplace out of the sun and the hot, gritty wind.

The men led him inside, and he stumbled wearily along with them. Now and again he glanced up at the massive columns. Daphne would be thrilled, he thought. The place was covered with hieroglyphs.

He wondered what she’d think of the famous Hathor, the Egyptian counterpart of Aphrodite. Miles found her singularly unattractive. She had a low forehead, close-set eyes, and wide, fat cheeks. Cow’s ears stuck out from the sides of her head like jug handles. She looked more like a gargoyle than a goddess, he thought. But then, not being in the best of humors, he mightn’t be able to appreciate her properly.

The men took him through a great vestibule, through a door into a smaller hall — though it was still immense — along whose sides he perceived narrow openings into dark chambers. His escort never paused. They led him on, straight ahead through more chambers, and at last into a narrow, enclosed, and profoundly dark space. Even the candles could illuminate no more than the lower portions of the relief-covered walls.

They had no difficulty illuminating the man within, however.

“Noxley?” Miles said, half-disbelieving what his eyes told him.

Lord Noxley came forward and clasped his hand. “My dear fellow, how relieved I am to see you!”

“Not half as relieved as I am to see you,” Miles said. “Not to mention happily surprised. I had hoped my sister would go to you once she realized something had gone amiss with me, but I’d little hope of seeing you so soon.”

“It was a near thing,” Noxley said, releasing his surprisingly strong grip. “The consulate was inclined, as always, to drag its feet. But Mrs. Pembroke took matters into her own hands. As a result, I was able to set out after you not three days after you were captured. But we can talk at length later, when you have rested.”

He addressed Ghazi. “Have you anything else for me?”

“Soon,” Ghazi said. “A few days.”

“Duval is not here,” said Noxley. “None of his people are here.”

Ghazi smiled. “Perhaps they heard it was not safe.”

“We’ll need to find him,” said Noxley. “But the other thing first.”

“The other thing first, yes,” Ghazi said. “Unless you require me, I set out now.”

“That would be best,” said Noxley. He withdrew a small bag from his coat and gave it to Ghazi. The bag chinked.

The man took it with thanks, bade them farewell with his usual suave courtesy, and departed, taking his associates with him.

“You’re shocked, I daresay, at my choice of employees,” Noxley said. “In England that man would be a common criminal.”

“Not at all common,” Miles said. “His manners are beautiful, and he has a charming way of offering to kill innocent bystanders if one doesn’t cooperate.”

“Alas, without men like Ghazi, one can get nothing done in this barbaric place,” Noxley said. “When in Rome, you know.” He smiled disarmingly. “I could never have found you so quickly without those fellows’ help.”

“It’s not their fault we didn’t arrive sooner,” Miles said. “We’ve been nine days coming from Minya, thanks to the sandstorms.”

“Wretched for you, I don’t doubt,” Noxley said. “But otherwise you should have arrived here days ahead of me. The winds slowed those of us on the river as well.”

He led the way out of the narrow chamber. “By gad, I am happy to see you,” he said, lowering his voice. “This has turned out to be a nasty business, indeed. The curst French…” He paused and looked about the dark temple. “They are taking away the zodiac ceiling, the swine. The pasha has given leave, you see. They will carry it to Paris — and I can do nothing until this other wretched business is settled.” He shook his head. “But never mind the French. You’ve had a filthy time of it in the desert. You’re longing for a bath, I daresay, and clean clothes and proper food. And I — if I stay here much longer, I shall be tempted to do murder.”

Chapter 17

THOUGH DAPHNE TOOK THE LAUDANUM IN small doses, it helped a great deal. She was grateful indeed to Mr. Carsington for insisting, as she told him at the first opportunity.

Privately, she marveled at his taking the trouble over her monthly misery. But then, he was a marvel to her. For the two days she spent in bed, she thought about him, and all the ways in which he surprised her.

Though the drug made her mind rather foggy, this much was clear: He was not at all the lout she’d first supposed him. Instead, he made other men seem loutish, especially Virgil. Her late husband had made her feel defective, even monstrous at times. He’d left her with a great fortune and very little self-confidence.

In the weeks she’d spent with Rupert Carsington, her confidence had steadily grown. That day and evening in Asyut, she’d lived through the fear and danger and passion and one trial of endurance after another. And never before had she felt so alive.

Despite the fogginess, she was well aware of his large, capable hands laying the cool, wet cloths on her forehead or gently rubbing her back. She was aware of his deep voice, tinged with laughter now and again as he told an amusing story.

She was also aware that, like laudanum, he could easily become a dangerous habit.

By the morning of the third day the violent spasms of pain had faded to an occasional twinge. She was able to sit up and take note of the world about her and puzzle over how sick she’d been. It could not have been her menses alone, she decided. It always made her tired and cross, and was often painful, but never so much as this. Never before had it so completely incapacitated her.

But then, her life had never been so tumultuous before.

She decided that dyspepsia or some other stomach ailment had aggravated matters.

Whatever it was seemed to be gone because she woke with an appetite. It was Nafisah who brought the ewer and basin as soon as Daphne was sitting up.

“You feel better,” Nafisah said, smiling. “I see it in your face.”

“Much better,” Daphne said. After washing, she noticed the baby was nowhere about. “Where is Sabah?”

“In the front room with the master and the boy Tom,” Nafisah said.

“His name is Udail,” Daphne said automatically.

“He wishes to be Tom,” Nafisah said. “He says he is the slave of the master and will go with him wherever he goes because the master has saved your life.”

“I was not dying,” Daphne said. “You know the ailment isn’t fatal.”

“He saved you from the sandstorm as well. I, too, gladly serve such a master, who shows such kindness to his hareem, and waits upon her like a slave.”

The word hareem made Daphne Mr. Carsington’s property: a woman who belonged to him, who was part of his household. She squirmed at the term yet saw how unwise it would be to correct Nafisah. The girl would not understand. In her view, all women belonged to one man or another. In any event, it was unwise to encourage the servants to speculate too much about the relationship between the “master” and their mistress.

The relationship between Eur

opean men and their women baffled many Egyptians anyway, although the majority accepted it philosophically. Practices Egyptians normally regarded as improprieties they often explained and excused with “It is their custom.”

The crew and servants were well aware that Daphne’s maid shared her cabin, that Tom shared the “master’s,” and that the cabin Nafisah and Sabah now shared with various domestic supplies stood between the two.

If this arrangement changed, everyone aboard would know. Daphne had no idea whether the men would think less of her or would disregard it as an alien custom. She had no doubt, however, that Miles would eventually hear of it. Depending on how talkative her people were, gossip and speculation might travel up and down the Nile.

In England she lived a reclusive life, and others’ opinion of her mattered not at all. She had never made a scandal, though. Miles was all the family she had left. She could not disgrace him.

What had happened in Asyut must be the beginning and the end of all intimacy with Mr. Carsington, she told herself as she dressed. For a time they had been cut off from the world and its rules. They were back in the world now, and must live by the rules. And she must return to reality, to facts, not fantasies.

She and Mr. Carsington had no future together. This was for the best. Circumstances had thrown together two people who could not have less in common.

To emphasize her resolve to keep him at a distance, she donned her widow’s garb. She looked down at herself and recalled the expression on Mr. Carsington’s face when he’d gazed at her naked breasts. She remembered snuggling, naked, in his arms. She felt a pang.

Telling herself to be sensible, she went out to the front cabin.

The Egyptians therein welcomed her in the usual extravagant fashion: Tom launched into a long speech of rejoicing, his hand on his heart. The baby managed a few staggering steps in her direction before collapsing on the rug, laughing and clapping her hands. Even the mongoose darted in from wherever she’d been, and ran around Daphne’s ankles, sniffing.

Mr. Carsington said nothing, only gave her a slow survey, head to toes and up again.