Lady Emily's Exotic Journey (12 page)

It was worse this time though. Grandpère was dropping hints that Lucien was dead. It was preposterous, of course, but grandpère was threatening to go to court. He would doubtless be able to bully some poor attorney into handling the case. The problem was that Lucien might have to return to testify on his own behalf.

Why did he have to be the sacrifice? Surely Bouchard could find some way out of this mess. He was a canny lawyer. The notaire must be able to find a way for Lucien to escape the chains of La Boulaye.

Julia sat on the side of the fountain, watching the ripples caused as the water from the upper basin trickled down into the lower pool. Letting her fingers float just on the surface of the water, she could feel the movement, barely disturbing it. The rhythmic sound of the constant splash was soothing, not quite obliterating the sounds of the servants moving about at their tasks, but softening them.

The marble of the fountain was cool, even through her petticoats, and the leaves of the orange tree filtered the sun. A fragment of poetry drifted into her head—“
Annihilating all that's made / To a green thought in a green
shade.
”

She drifted too, not into but away from thought. Sounds, sensations, sights—she allowed them to make thought fade away. So much so that when David appeared beside her she was startled enough to create a small splash.

He quirked a smile at her. “Did you not expect me?” he asked.

She could not speak for a moment. He was dressed very formally, in a black frock coat, gray trousers, and a subdued vest—the perfect clothing for the perfect gentleman. The perfectly handsome gentleman. Not just handsome. Beautiful. She could not imagine greater perfection in a man. If only she could look at him forever.

He almost looked assured, but she could see that he clutched the brim of his top hat so tightly that he was crushing it. That gave her courage.

“Please sit down.” She waved him to the cushions strewn on the bench against the wall of the courtyard.

He ignored her gesture. “Lady Julia, I…”

“No,” she interrupted. “Before you say any more, there is something I must tell you.”

He staggered back as if she had struck him. She could see the color drain from his face. “My family—you—” He could barely speak.

Horrified, she lifted her hand. “No. You misunderstand. Your family is admirable. You love and honor them, and they are entirely worthy of that respect. Any woman—anyone—would be honored to be asked to be part of such a family.”

He was beside her in a moment, raising her hands to his face. “Julia—”

She pulled her hands away and turned her face. “No, please, you must let me speak.” After a moment, he stepped back, and she could feel the loss of the warmth his nearness had given.

She took a deep breath, then another. “Do you know anything of my family?”

He seemed startled. “I know that your father is dead, and the current Earl of Doncaster is your brother. I know that he is married to Lord Penworth's oldest daughter. I realize that my birth is far below yours…”

A bitter laugh escaped her. “Then you know nothing of the Degraded de Vaux. My brother, my sister, and I share a mother, of that much we can be certain. But who fathered us? Not even our mother will—or can—say. It seems she was not simply unfaithful to her husband, she was unfaithful to her lovers as well.” She looked at him then. “You have told me that your parents live in Cairo, that they have always lived in this part of the world.”

He was looking more than a bit taken aback, but still managed to nod. “Except when I was at Oxford. They visited me there once, that must be ten years ago.”

“Then you are not my brother. Do you realize how unusual it is for me to be able to say that?”

“Julia!” He stared at her, appalled. “My dear, sweet girl. Have you had to think about such dreadful things?”

“Everyone I have ever known is well aware of such things. It is my cowardice that has kept me from telling you about my family.”

He took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet, his expression ineffably tender. “Well, you may stop worrying about them, now and for all time. I can assure you I care nothing about your family.”

“You should. Were you to marry me, you would forever be encountering people who do know my family or who know about my family. English society is full of people who cast knowing looks in my direction, and it is full of men who think I am bound to follow in my mother's footsteps.”

“The more fools they.”

“No,” she cried out impatiently. “You must listen. You have a career to make in the diplomatic service. Sir Henry spoke highly of you, and Lord Penworth also thinks highly of you. But what will happen if you appear with a scandalous wife?”

“What nonsense, Julia. You hear Lady Bulwer talk about filthy Arabs. Do you think that was the first time I ever heard such remarks? Do you have any idea how often I hear comments about ‘a touch of the tar brush'? If that doesn't bother you, how can you think I would care about your mother's misbehavior? Do you really think the Ottoman pashas care two pins for the scandals of London society?” He laughed, which only served to anger her.

“The Ottoman pashas may not care, but I assure you that there are many in the Foreign Office in London who will care.”

He laughed again, a gentle chuckle, and pulled her into his embrace. “My dear, I know more about this part of the world, I know more people in this part of the world, than any dozen men in Whitehall. They need me, I do not need them to make my way. Marry me, and forget that gossip. If you like, we can live out our lives without ever setting foot in London.”

Melting into the safety of his arms, she leaned into his embrace until she called herself to reality and started to pull away. “No. You must think about this.”

He pulled her back. “What is there to think about? I love you, and you love me. Can you deny it?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

“Well then…” he said.

“No. I insist. You must consider what I have said. Three days.” She backed away. “You must think about this for three days.”

With an exasperated sigh, he shook his head. “You cannot possibly think that will make a difference.”

“Three days,” she insisted. “You must consider the damage my family could do to your career. Do not come near me for three days while you think on it.” She turned and fled.

* * *

Emily found her mother sitting in the inner courtyard at a table that had been set up in the loggia. She had her watercolors out and was making a sketch of the fragrant flowering plants arrayed in pots by the fountain. It was an idyllic scene, completely unsuited to Emily's mood.

“Hello, dear. Are you feeling at loose ends?” asked Lady Penworth. “I know your father and Mr. Oliphant are off somewhere trying to make arrangements with boatmen. Those carvings of M. Carnac are occupying an excessive amount of everyone's attention. I almost wish we had never seen them.”

Emily made a noise that could have been construed as indicating agreement, and it drew a sharp glance from her mother. It did not, however, draw a question.

That was one of the more annoying things about her mother. She rarely asked questions. Emily's friends were always complaining about how their mothers quizzed them about every little thing—where they had been, who they had seen, what everyone had been wearing, what everyone had said. And those were the impersonal questions.

Lady Penworth never asked about such things. She never asked why you were upset. She waited until you told her, and she seemed to always know whether you told her or not. It was quite infuriating.

“Julia has told Mr. Oliphant about her mother and insisted that he think about it for three days before he comes to see her again,” Emily said abruptly.

Lady Penworth nodded. “I see. Are you surprised?”

“Well, yes. She's utterly miserable with worrying, and, as far as I can tell, it's completely unnecessary. Anyone can see that he's mad for her.”

“Mmmm.” Lady Penworth frowned at her sketch, washed off her brush, and tried another color. “Why do you suppose Mr. Oliphant took you all out into the desert to meet his mother's family?”

Emily blinked. Was that a change of subject? She considered. No. It wasn't. “Julia—none of us, really—had ever met any of the desert Arabs. He wanted to be sure Julia knew what they were like. Is that it?”

Lady Penworth smiled slightly as she concentrated on her sketch.

“But that's ridiculous,” said Emily. “No one would judge him on his family.”

Lady Penworth turned a skeptical look on her daughter. “Really? Aside from Lady Bulwer, I can think of at least half a dozen families in London that would hesitate to let him through their doors.”

Emily flushed. “Well, all right. I do know that. But Julia isn't like that. How could he think she is?”

“I am not, of course, privy to Mr. Oliphant's thoughts. However, I imagine that he wants Julia to know precisely what his situation is before she commits herself, recognizing that she would be too honorable to cry off afterward. Hence the visit to his Arab relatives.”

“Well, yes, but…”

“Julia, in turn, wishes to be completely honest about her own situation. They are both far too honorable to mislead someone they care about. It is that very sense of honor that doubtless drew them to each other in the first place.”

Emily slumped back in her seat. “You're probably right. But I still think he should say something to her. How can she be expected to know what he thinks if he doesn't say anything? Why are men so hesitant to say how they feel?”

“You are speaking of Mr. Oliphant?”

“Yes, of course.” Emily could feel herself blushing. Of course she was speaking of Mr. Oliphant. She certainly wasn't talking about Lucien. Was she? She snuck a sideways glance at her mother, who was looking quite uninterested. At least she wasn't smiling.

Without missing a beat, Lady Penworth redirected the conversation. “What is Julia doing now?”

“She is going over fashion plates with Mélisande, trying to convince her that what is suitable for the Empress Eugénie and her ladies is not suitable for a schoolgirl.”

“That should provide Julia with a distraction. I hadn't realized Mélisande was visiting us again. She seems to be here quite frequently.” Lady Penworth was frowning, probably at her sketch.

“Yes, M. Chambertin brought her over a while ago.”

“Ah, M. Chambertin. Is he here as well?”

“No, he left almost at once.” Emily tossed her head with an air of indifference. “He seemed to be suffering from a fit of the sulks as well.” Why that should bother her, she could not imagine. Lucien, M. Chambertin, had not had any private conversation—had not even made any effort to have any private conversation—with her since their visit to the Nineveh excavations. Not that she cared, of course. He was an adventurer, not at all the sort of person she should be thinking about. Not the kind of man who should be making her think the kind of thoughts she should not be thinking. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Lady Penworth raised a brow at her daughter. “You cannot order other people's lives for them, no matter if you think you can do a better job of it than they are doing themselves.” Ignoring Emily's look of outrage, she returned to the contemplation of her sketch. “Something is seriously wrong with this.”

With an irritated sigh, Emily got up to look. “You've drawn the pots a bit lopsided,” she said, “and you made the front one much too big. In your picture it's taller than the fountain.”

“You're right. My draughtsmanship leaves much to be desired. Oh well, it will suffice as an
aide-mémoire
when I look back over our visit here.” She began to collect her paints and brushes. “And Mélisande, is she at least cheerful?”

“Hardly. She is distraught because her father has said she will not be going to school in Paris because he will need all his money for his excavations.”

“Pshaw.” Lady Penworth shook her head in disgust. “I do not know which is more tiresome, the daughter with her histrionics or the father with his myopic selfishness. If that find of his were not so truly extraordinary, I would never let your father have anything to do with him.”

Her mother's departure left Emily alone with her thoughts. They turned to Lucien. Her thoughts turned to Lucien whenever she was alone and in an uncomfortable fashion. She didn't want to think about him, at least not this way. It would be fine if she just thought of him as she did of any friend. That was all he was. Soon they would all be leaving Mosul. She would continue on the journey with her parents, on to Baghdad and then Cairo. He would go off to Samarkand or wherever.

This unfamiliar heat that flooded her body whenever she thought of him—it should not be happening. She should not feel this longing. This yearning sensation should not keep overpowering her. She should not let it happen, but she did not seem to have any control over it.

She must keep reminding herself that soon they would all leave and she would never see him again.

Why did that thought hurt so much?

* * *

Lucien had spent the best part of the day—or the worst part, given the increasing heat—pacing about the town, downing innumerable cups of coffee, and visiting the waterfront where the rafts were being collected to transport Carnac's finds down the river to the port at Basra. Usually he enjoyed watching people go about their business, chatting with them, listening to their conversations. Today he simply felt like a stranger, an outsider.

Well, that was what he was, wasn't it? That was what he wanted to be, the outsider who observed but was never drawn in to the point where he had any obligations in a place. If that meant that he never belonged anywhere, that there was no place that he could call home, well, that had been his choice, had it not?

He had made friends in many places. Not friends, perhaps, because friendship carried with it obligations that could not be fulfilled by someone who would soon be leaving for another place. But if he had not made friends, he had at least made friendly acquaintances.

This place was different. Perhaps he had been here too long. Down along the waterfront the boatmen and captains had kept hailing him and asking him questions. Expecting him to know the answers. How soon did Carnac expect to be finished? What did Penworth think of the arrangements? Was Oliphant pleased with the packing? Would he be sailing with them?