The Twelve Rooms of the Nile (28 page)

The Nubians shrugged and abandoned the topic, still pitying Marian Lewis, Flo thought, who was the last person in the world to recognize pity when it was directed at her.

• • •

“I gather you disapproved of her,” Selina said on the boat ride home. She swatted at a wayward insect swept up in a current of air. The men had unfurled the sail, and the boat was moving at a clip, combing the water into patches of green corduroy. “As did I. That she should brag about owning a fellow human being!” Selina frowned and shook her head.

“Awful,” Flo said. “I think she’s a brat.”

“Do you?” Selina yawned.

“Yes. She has too high an opinion of herself, and quite apart from what others think of her.”

Selina didn’t seem to be as enraged about Marian Lewis as she was. In another moment, she nodded off, her cheeks a tawny pink in the fading light.

Sweet Selina, compassionate Selina. Remarkably, when it came to people like Marian Lewis, who were spoiled rotten and oblivious to their own flaws, she kept an open mind, while Flo detested Mrs. Lewis’s complacency. No doubt, privately Marian Lewis set herself above the likes of Selina and Flo, Selina because of her age and faded beauty, Flo because she was a spinster seven years older than she. Most frustrating, it was impossible to impress Mrs. Lewis, as she wasn’t interested in anything she didn’t already know.

Something beyond mere disapproval irked Flo. Why was she
so
enraged? The anger was akin to the way she sometimes felt toward Fanny. With Fanny, the intensity of feeling made sense: Fanny had the power not only to block her ambitions, but also to withhold her love. Marian Lewis’s greatest offense was that she was sickeningly content, immune to what people like Flo thought of her. Also, she had accomplished something Flo had not: she had found her place in life and was reveling in it.

It disgusted Flo finally to realize that what she felt was pure jealousy, and of someone she did not admire!

• • •

The next morning, the post arrived shortly after breakfast. Flo had two letters, one from Fanny. Nothing yet from Gustave, but it was
only Wednesday, and she calculated that he was still in Aswan, perhaps performing obscene acts. She found herself hungering for his unique company. He didn’t shy away from topics many people considered impolite. She no longer gave a fig for polite conversation. She much preferred to be unconventional.

Fanny’s letter was full of cheerful reportage and advice. Flo decided to put off answering it until she had completed the Philae letter. She wanted to explore further the parallels between Osiris and Christ. Had Osiris not died for his people, too? In the seventh room, he was a fearsome presence, though she was convinced that, like Jesus, his terrible death had made him a compassionate and loving god.

She recognized the handwriting on the second letter. “It’s from Clarkey,” she cried out to Selina.

“I can’t wait to hear the latest from Paris,” Selina trilled.

Mary Clarke’s letters were generous and stylish and, most of all,
funny.
She had a knack for inventing words that sounded half French and half English, but made perfect sense. She “trigged up” her apartment when it was dirty, and now so did Flo and Selina. The entire Clarkey circle had adopted the term.

The stationery was a somber tan instead of Mary’s usual peach. Flo flipped it over and saw that she must have borrowed it; Julius Mohl’s name appeared on the back flap.

February 11, 1850

Chère Pup,

I received your letter, posted from Cairo, with the wondrous description of your boat ride up the canal on your way to the Nile. Now I picture you, Selina, and Charles scampering up the great pyramid, scratching your initials on the ceiling of a secret passage known only to pharaohs. I know you are having a splendid time and will write me your adventures in detail.

I’ve been sitting on a secret for three long months because I wanted to be able to change my mind up until the last minute.
Personally, I don’t give a snap for surprises, so before I tell you my news, I hope you’ll accept my apology for waiting too long to share it with you. I believe you shall be happy for me. For I am happy, despite my indecision beforehand.

Julius Mohl and I were married three months ago. (Espoused “before men and angles,” as Smollett said—I think in
Humphrey Clinker.)
I was so unsure of this decision that when we published the banns, I paid a poster boy to plaster over them immediately. Other than Herr Mohl and me, no one knew of the engagement.

Married life suits me. Julius has moved into my apartment and installed his gigantique library. I write this surrounded by Ninevah and Ur in all their glorious dust and gold.

As you know, I planned never to marry, and this conviction strengthened after Claude died, for he was the love of my life—at least so I believed at the time. Julius and I comforted each other for the great friend we had lost. This shared grief brought him closer to my attention and me to his. And though Julius is seven years my junior, I believe we are well matched. As a woman nearing fifty, I dare not call myself a “new” bride; I think of myself as a bride who has at last been brought out of mothballs.

We had no official celebrations. Instead, two days later, Julius and I traveled to Berlin, where we spent three weeks with delightful and elite company. Herr Mohl, the celebrated Orientalist, had spent so many years in Paris that none of his colleagues recognized him on sight!

As you know, for years I favored ardent friendships over romances, for I was not willing to trade a roomful of loving friends for one partner who might become possessive and boring and keep me from the social life so essential to my happiness. In short, the salon continues in full force, Julius being my assistant and constant companion. The only difference is that he no longer goes home at the end of the evening. (Before I forget to tell you, upon our return we had the pleasure of an evening with your friend Richard Monckton Milnes, who is an avid admirer of French literature.
He takes a scholarly interest in the Marquis de Sade, Julius told me after he left.)

Florence, dear, though this interlude in Egypt is only a hiatus in the family wars, I believe that once your ambitions take firmer shape, you shall fulfill them. Ultimately, I know you shall make your way in a world that is often hostile to women like us who break the standard mold.

The next time you visit, though everyone will address me as Madame Mohl, I shall still be your Clarkey (what’s in a name, a rose would smell as sweet, etc.), and eager as always to hear your latest thoughts and plans.

Your loving,
Mary

Flo’s temples were pounding; her face was on fire. Because they always shared their letters from Clarkey, she handed it without a word to Selina, but did not watch her read it. Being married, and happily so, Selina would doubtless be pleased.

Flo, however, felt devastated, betrayed. It could not be! She did not
want
it to be! But she couldn’t say so, even to Selina. It was unkind and rude, small-minded and selfish. It would sound mentally unbalanced. It wasn’t as if Mary had sworn to Flo to remain celibate. Yet Mary had violated her deepest precept. How could she? What had changed? If it were a union of convenience, Flo found it all the more abhorrent.

She could not imagine answering Mary’s letter. Ever. For Mary was no longer Mary, but a stranger. Anyway, what could she say?
I feel wretched about your marriage. How could you?
She didn’t wish to hurt Mary, though Mary had unknowingly cut her to the quick.

Selina finished reading. “Hurrah for Clarkey!” She waved the letter aloft. “Wonderful news! Aren’t you thrilled for her?”

Flo sped through everything she might say that would not give her away, but could only manage, “I am surprised. Aren’t you?” She
could not force an iota of joy into her voice, further proof that deep down she
was
a wretched person, unable to be happy for a friend. She felt sick to her stomach, light-headed. “I’m a bit woozy,” she said, touching her hair.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I think I’ll have a lie down.” She stood and hurried belowdecks without waiting for Selina’s response. Even with her closest confidante Flo was too ashamed to admit how she felt.

She lay facing the row of windows, eyes closed. A sense of dread overpowered her and she trembled. Mary had been her ally; now she was alone. And still she did not regret refusing Richard. She would do it again.

Despite her rational resolve, a feeling of terror began to overwhelm her. Lacking Clarkey’s resources, how could she achieve anything without Fanny and WEN’s consent? What would she do for money and where would she go and what would become of her shadowy sister, Parthe, who yearned always to be by her side, unable to take a forward step on her own? Poor Parthe! Poor Flo, with her sister stuck to her like dock weed to a lamb.

• • •

The sun was high in the sky when Flo opened her eyes. Soon it would be time for lunch. Selina or Charles would mention Mary’s marriage, the thought of which terrified her most for what it predicted of her own future. She would have to feign a headache.

A welcome breeze passed into the cabin through the open windows. Where did breezes come from and where did they go? The Greeks thought the winds slept in caves and in bags carried by the gods. If only she could disappear as the wind did, without fanfare or ceremony or people asking why. She was utterly alone with an ambition that was fierce and truly monstrous, for it could not be satisfied without changing the entire world.

14

TOOTHACHE

A
t first, Flo ignored Trout’s guttural sounds. It was just past dawn. So often now, she suspected Trout of testing her. “What is the matter, for heaven’s sake?” she finally asked, lacing up her boots. It seemed she might be dressing herself unaided today.

“Toothache.” Trout’s voice was muffled by the pillow, which, Flo saw as she leaned closer, was wet with drool and flecked with blood. “A bad one.”

“Do you have all your teeth?” Flo realized as she asked it how rude and irrelevant the question was. She knew very well that Trout had front and side teeth. Fanny would not have hired a maid with a gapped smile or a mouth like burned-out ruins.

“Yes, mum. My teeth are good. So said the dentist.” Trout’s words were gluey and ill-formed, as if she had dumplings in her mouth. Obviously, talking was uncomfortable.

Flo was surprised. “You have visited a dentist?”

“Yes, at Hanover Square. You, mum?”

“Of course.” Flo had had two wisdom teeth pulled.

“A nice gentleman,” Trout recollected. “I asked was he willing to fix the teeth of a servant.” Trout paused and swallowed carefully.
“‘Don’t you worry,’ he said. ‘I can fix your tooth in no time.’ Then he said he guessed I weighed about eleven stone and gave me a tonic.”

“Eleven stone you weigh?” The number was higher than Flo would have expected.

“Eleven stone and three.”

This seemed to be a point of pride.

“I think I’m half man, my arms are so strong.” Trout turned slowly, keeping pressure on her jaw with one hand. “Thirteen and three-quarter inches, I’ve been told, at the bicep.”

Flo wondered at Trout’s use of
bicep,
and who would have measured her muscle, and why.

“The dentist stopped my tooth with that stuff.”

“Gutta-percha?”

“That’s it. Oh, ouch!” Trout’s hand flew to her right cheek and she burrowed her face into the pillow.

“Shooting pains?”

Trout nodded. “What am I to do? I cannot think as they have dentists in these parts.”

Florence bent over, pausing for assent before she gently pressed her hand on Trout’s forehead. The skin was cool and damp. Trout’s body gave way under her touch, like a brick wall suddenly crumbling into a heap.

“Thank you,” Trout whispered. “You are kind.” She adjusted her position in the bed.

“I’m sorry you are not feeling well.”

“I’m sorry I’m a bother to you. Egypt is doing me in.”

“It’s all right. It’s not your fault.” At last, Flo thought, Trout had decided to trust her. Flo felt so much better being kind than being strict with her.

Though Flo had never suffered a toothache, she’d watched WEN and Fanny and Grandmother Shore endure them. She was certain Trout’s was genuine and that she hadn’t called it forth by dint of her hypochondriacal nerves. “Will you let me help you?” she asked.

“Yes, mum. I’d be grateful. I can do nothing with this pain gnawing at me.”

“I shall try my best to cure you, then,” Flo said. Her mind was churning, for when it came to ague and catarrhs, wens, rashes, and simple fractures, she had experience. But of teeth, she knew nothing except what to do for any swelling or inflammation.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “Could you take some sopped bread or soup?”

“It don’t seem right you serving me.”

“We cannot choose our illnesses.” Flo stepped away from Trout’s bed. “No more than we can choose our station in life. I shall be back shortly.”

Flo felt a sudden infusion of purposefulness, a welcome sensation. She went on deck and asked Charles for some whiskey, which he readily poured into a teacup. She instructed Paolo to prepare tepid broth with bread.

Back in the cabin, Trout lay flat on her back, her eyelids drooping, and the right side of her face puffy. Flo poured out a jigger of “medicine” (Trout eschewed spirits), which Trout downed in one swallow. Tea would be good, too, Flo thought, the accompaniment at any sickbed. She went back upstairs and ordered a pot.

Trout was dozing when she returned. She decided not to awaken her. She opened her medical chest and removed cotton wool, swabs, bandage gauze, and a few vials. She began a log in her journal book:
Trout,
7
A.M
.:
Swollen jaw, painful tooth. No apparent fever. Patient fully cognizant.