Every Whispered Word (21 page)

Camelia looked at him in surprise. His expression was utterly indifferent, as if it mattered not a whit to him whether she stayed with him or not. But a shadow veiled the clear blue of his eyes, masking whatever emotions may have been roiling within him.

She studied him a moment, taking in the paleness of his face, the dark bruises beneath his eyes, the wild red tangle of his unfashionably long hair. This was a man who had driven himself to the point of complete exhaustion to build her the pump she so desperately needed. He was a partner in her dig, and therefore he had a financial interest in helping her return to Africa and complete her mission. There was also the fact that until he supplied her with a pump and trained her men to use it, he couldn't go back to working on his other inventions. But Camelia sensed this was not the reason he had locked himself up in his dining room and toiled like a man possessed for the past week.

“It is better for me to stay here, Elliott,” she said suddenly.

Elliott regarded her in disbelief. “Why?”

“That way I am available to Simon, should the need arise.”

“What need?”

“In case Simon needs to ask me something.” Camelia glanced at Simon. “You know—about the pump.”

“Ah, yes, the pump.” Simon nodded. “Pump questions do arise, Wickhip. I'm afraid it's rather inevitable.”

“Well then, since I cannot convince you to come home with me, Camelia, I will not impose upon you any longer. Before I take my leave, let me give you this.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a stained, weathered envelope. “It seems the postman has been trying to deliver it to you for several days now. When I saw it was from Trafford, I knew it would be important, so I convinced him to give it to me, assuring him I would find you and give it to you promptly.”

Camelia reached out and reluctantly took the envelope from Elliott. She had all but forgotten about Zareb's warning.

We cannot fight that which we cannot see.

Her chest tight with trepidation, she opened the envelope and quickly scanned the letter within.

Simon watched as Camelia's face paled. “What is it, Camelia?”

“There has been another accident at the site,” she murmured. “An explosion.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Elliott. “We don't use explosives.”

“Apparently someone did. It was set off during the night, while most of the workers were sleeping. One of the men keeping watch was killed. The remaining workers are convinced the explosion was caused by the curse. About ten of them deserted the site that night, and Mr. Trafford says more are leaving every day. They believe I am too far away to have the power to protect them from the curse anymore.”

Simon frowned. “What curse?”

“The natives believe Pumulani is cursed,” Camelia reluctantly admitted. “That means whenever anything goes wrong, whether it be the weather turning against us or some part of the site collapsing, they blame evil forces, when in fact these are normal occurrences on an archaeological site.”

“An explosion that kills a man doesn't sound like a normal occurrence,” Simon reflected. “Have there been other accidents?”

“There are always accidents on a dig. It is, unfortunately, part of the job.”

“But I take it the native workers don't share that view of them.”

“I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than Camelia is describing,” Elliott interjected. “The land on which Lord Stamford chose to dig was believed to be an ancient burial place for a tribe that settled there hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of years ago,” he explained. “About sixty years ago it was settled by a Boer family, who farmed it for barely two generations. But it was difficult—the land was dry most of the year, which made crop farming almost impossible, and the sheep and cattle they attempted to raise grew sick and died in the fields. The natives believed this was because of the curse. When Camelia's father came along and offered to buy the land from the Boers, the family was extremely eager to sell.”

“And what was it about the land that so interested Lord Stamford?” Simon asked.

“My father had been working on a site where he had discovered a number of extraordinary cave paintings,” Camelia explained. “These paintings depicted a very active tribal society that obviously spent a great deal of time in the area. After speaking with the elders of a nearby tribe, my father learned that the ancient tribe had practiced elaborate rituals in celebration of death, and that there was a place in which their tribal kings were believed to be buried. The area appeared to be on the Boer family's farm.”

“You mean there is a tomb there?”

“Not a tomb like one finds in Egypt or China,” Camelia qualified. “The African people do not tend to build grand structures in which to place their dead. But the elders described a ‘Tomb of Kings,' where numerous kings had been laid to rest, along with articles they would need in the afterlife.”

“What sorts of articles?”

“Typically they are very simple objects. There would be jewelry made of shells, grindstones, tortoise shells, bored stones, and sometimes ostrich eggshells made into containers.”

“That hardly sounds like extraordinary riches.”

“They are extraordinary from an archaeological point of view,” Camelia argued. “They help us to understand the lives and beliefs of these ancient tribes.”

“And I suppose they might seem extraordinary to the natives of the area, who might not appreciate your desire to dig them up.”

“I am only trying to dig them up so that these things can be studied and preserved, instead of being destroyed by the elements.”

“I understand that. But perhaps there are some natives who believe these things are better left where they are. Don't you think they might be responsible for your recent explosion?”

“No, I do not.”

“Because you believe some rival archaeologist is trying to scare you off your site, in the hopes that he can then dig up these bones and ostrich eggs for himself.”

“That is much more likely.”

“Why?”

“First of all, the natives would not know the first thing about how to go about hiring thugs all the way across the ocean in London to ransack my home and intimidate me. Secondly, they would never resort to the use of explosives—they want to preserve the burial site, not risk destroying it.”

“Compelling arguments,” Simon agreed. “What's your thought on all this, Wickham?”

“Ultimately, I don't really care who is doing it,” Elliott stated flatly. “The natives believe there is a tomb there that has been buried by the gods, and they think the gods are punishing them for trying to unearth it. I don't believe in curses, but I am concerned for Camelia's safety—especially given this recent attack on her home and the fact that she has been threatened.”

“Elliott believes I should abandon my dig and just sell the land for whatever I can get for it,” Camelia added. “Which I will never do.”

“And just who do you propose Camelia should sell it to?” Simon asked Elliott. “If this mysterious rival archaeologist comes along and wants to buy it, I'm quite sure Camelia will feel even more compelled to hold on to the land and continue excavating it.”

“That is absolutely correct,” Camelia hastily agreed, giving Elliott a pleading look.

She did not want Simon to know the De Beers Company had made an offer to buy Pumulani. If Simon learned the diamond company was interested in her land, even though the site had never produced a single diamond, he might heartily agree with Elliott that it was best for her to simply sell it and move on with her life. Then he would be spared the time-consuming task of finishing the pump and making the onerous journey to Africa, which he had never wanted to do to begin with.

“There may be other possibilities,” Elliott allowed vaguely, respecting Camelia's wish to not disclose any information about the De Beers Company's offer. “Unfortunately, Camelia chooses not to consider any of them, despite the fact that her ability to keep the excavation going becomes more and more difficult with each passing day. I devoted an enormous part of my life to excavating Pumulani, and I can tell you there is no tangible proof that the tomb exists—other than the rantings of a few old Kaffirs, who probably despised us whites and were lying anyway.”

“We would not lie to see you dig up the earth, Lord Wickham.” Zareb entered the room bearing a large silver tea tray, with Oscar sitting grandly on his shoulder. “We Africans have more respect for the land than that.”

“I didn't mean you, Zareb,” Elliott qualified. “I meant the natives who first convinced Lord Stamford to dig there.”

“Lord Stamford made that decision himself,” Zareb reflected. “His lordship was not a man who allowed others to convince him of anything he didn't truly believe in himself.”

“Great convictions start small,” remarked Oliver, entering with a plate piled high with oatcakes and cheese. Harriet was perched regally on his shoulder, gazing about like a faintly disapproving queen.

“An' slow fires make sweet meat,” Eunice added, following him with some ginger biscuits.

“Sometimes it takes time to find a dream.” Doreen was the last to enter, carrying a plate of sliced cake. “If Lady Camelia hasna found whatever her father was lookin' for, maybe the meat is nae ready yet.”

“Well, now that Simon has nearly finished building a pump to drain the site and we're going home, I'm sure everything will progress very quickly,” Camelia declared hopefully.

Zareb's expression was guarded. “Are we going home, Tisha?”

Camelia smiled at him. She knew Zareb was every bit as anxious to return to Africa as she was. “We'll be leaving within a week, Zareb.”

“A week, ye say?” Oliver furrowed his brow, considering. “That'll give me just enough time to buy myself a new pair o' trousers an' boots.”

“You're not going, Oliver,” Simon told him flatly.

“Now lad, ye canna think Miss Genevieve will let ye go off to the wilds of Africa without someone watchin' over ye,” Oliver objected. “Ye've nae been out o' Britain yer entire life.”

“Neither have you,” Simon pointed out.

“Then 'tis a grand adventure for both of us,” Oliver returned cheerfully, rubbing his gnarled hands together. “I'm thinkin' the hot sun will do my achin' bones a world o' good.”

“It'll fry ye up like a pan o' beef collops, more like,” Eunice predicted.

“An' blister ye red as a lobster,” Doreen added.

“Oliver will be fine,” Zareb assured them. “I will get him some robes and a good hat to wear, and he will be completely protected.”

“There now, ye see? Mr. Zareb here will get me fixed up right, an' I'm sure he'll fix ye up too, lad, so that milky white skin o' yours doesna burn to a crisp.”

“I'll be fine, Oliver.” Simon disliked having his skin described as “milky” in front of Camelia. “And you're still not going.”

“I'm thinkin' we should take one o' Jack's ships,” Oliver continued, ignoring him. “I'm sure he must have one that goes all the way to Africa.”

“Maybe he'll even be willin' to go with ye,” Eunice suggested. “I'd feel better about all o' ye skitterin' across the ocean if I at least knew our Jack was at the wheel.”

“Do you mean your brother Jack?” asked Camelia.

Elliott's eyes widened. “The one who beat the warder?”

“Aye—he owns a grand fleet o' ships, our Jack does,” Oliver said proudly. “No doubt ye've heard of North Star Shipping?”

Camelia regarded him incredulously. “The little shipping company that took over the Great Atlantic Steamship Company a couple of years ago?”

“Aye, that's the one.” Oliver was pleased that she seemed impressed. “That's our Jack that owns it, an' he's the finest sailor ye'll find on the Atlantic Ocean or any other. If he sails us to Africa, we can be sure we'll get there safe an' sound.”

“I'll send word to his office manager that we'd like to book passage on one of his ships,” Simon decided. “I'm not sure where Jack is right now—and it isn't necessary for him to actually steer the ship himself. I'm sure all of his crews are perfectly able.”

“But Jack will keep it nice an' steady,” Eunice pointed out, “which will be good for both of ye, since neither of ye have spent more than an hour on the water.”

“I'll manage, Eunice.”

“An' so will I,” Oliver added.

“Oh, o' course ye will—like the time ye both went off for a sail on the lake with Charlotte and Annabelle, an' the lassies had to bring ye both back just a half hour later. Sick as cats, they were, an' Ollie here was beggin' me to dose him with poison, just to put him out o' his misery.”

“I'd had a bite o' somethin' that didna agree with me,” Oliver explained defensively.

“If ye're sayin' 'twas my cookin' that made ye ill, ye can think about makin' yer own supper,” warned Eunice.

“'Twas the lake that didna agree with ye,” Doreen insisted, “what with all that bobbin' and slippin' about—I'm surprised ye both kept yer lunch inside ye 'til ye got back to dry land.”

“At any rate, I'll be packin' ye some o' my special remedy for stomach sickness,” Eunice told him. “If ye take it the minute ye're feelin' green, it'll help keep ye from spewin' out yer insides.”

“That sounds wonderful, Eunice,” Camelia said. “It's a long voyage to Africa, and although I've never been bothered by it, the ocean can sometimes be very rough.”

“Fine, then, 'tis all settled,” Oliver decided, smiling. “That's four tickets to Africa, on the first ship our Jack has ready to sail.”

“I will also need a ticket.”

Camelia regarded Elliott in surprise. “Surely you're not planning on going with us, Elliott. Isn't it far more important for you to stay here in London and take care of your business?”