Amanda Grange & Jacqueline Webb (11 page)

“And those over there, German,” said Elizabeth, joining in the game. “And perhaps those people by the jewellery stand are Italian.”

“No, I would say Spanish. What do you think of that group?”

“Most definitely English, my dear.”

“Agreed. And over there—oh!”

Darcy stopped and stared at a stall in the distance where two Alexandrians in full white robes were arguing ferociously. Seeing his face, Elizabeth leaned forward.

“What is it, Darcy?”

“The most extraordinary thing,” he replied, still searching the bazaar with his eyes. “Just for a moment I could have sworn I saw George Wickham.”

***

Sophie and Edward had stopped at every stall in the huge bazaar, and still it seemed Edward had not yet had his fill of the place. At last Sophie halted by a coffeehouse tucked in the corner of the market. The smell of coffee and sweet, sticky cakes made her almost faint with hunger. It seemed to have been a long time since breakfast.

“Forgive me,” said Edward apologetically, noticing her glance at the café. “I have indulged myself too much at your expense. Come, let us sit down and rest for a while.”

Gratefully, Sophie nodded and they sat down by a rather rickety table. The waiter who served them spoke no other language than Arabic, and so Edward found himself forced to try his hand at the few words he knew and a great deal of sign language. Eventually two cups of coffee appeared, along with two glasses of what looked like milk.

“
Laban
,” the waiter kept repeating in response to their expressions of puzzlement before walking away in disgust.

Edward smiled wryly.

“I am not sure exactly what I asked for,” he admitted, picking up the glass and examining it warily. “It seems to be milk, but perhaps it would be wise not to take the risk.”

Taking his lead, Sophie picked up the other glass.

“If we both took a little sip, it couldn't do us much harm, could it?” she said. “After all, what is the point of travelling if one does not take a chance occasionally?”

Edward looked at her with admiration. “Bravo, Miss Lucas, you are quite right. Shall we?”

He lifted his own glass in a toast and after a slight hesitation, Sophie nodded and they each took a small sip.

“It is milk,” Sophie said. “Only very sweet, with a flavour I do not recognise.”

“And thicker than milk should be. Do you know? I recall reading somewhere that a French king in the sixteenth century was miraculously cured of some disease after eating a fermented milk drink sent to him by an Arabic doctor. Perhaps this is it. However,” he added, as Sophie took another sip, “I would counsel some caution. This is only our first day here; we should be prudent in our experiments.”

Sophie agreed and turned instead to the tiny cup of steaming black coffee in front of her. It was rich and thick, copiously sweetened, and very refreshing. “Most invigorating,” she said.

“I am glad you are enjoying yourself.”

“How could I not?” she said. “It is hard to believe that only a few short months ago I was languishing in Meryton, and all I had to look forward to was decorating the church with Mama for the harvest festival. It was a good notion of yours to come to Egypt.”

“I have dreamed of this trip all my life,” he said, and all his enthusiasm and natural good spirits were in evidence. “And now I am here, I am determined not to waste one single moment. There is so much to do and see that at times I almost feel overwhelmed by the thought of it all. When I woke this morning and smelled the jasmine in the air and heard the strange chatter in the streets below, I could scarcely believe that I was at last here. And this adventure has barely started for me. When we arrive in Cairo, there will be much to see and do. You will be entranced, S… Miss Lucas. There are the pyramids, and then there is the sphinx, which is a wonder to behold—or so I am told. And after that the beauty of the Nile and then down into the Valley of the Kings with all its splendour—” He stopped, suddenly aware that he was monopolising the conversation. “Forgive me, Miss Lucas, I am afraid that when I start talking about Egypt I find it hard to stop, but I know not everyone finds it as fascinating as I do. How are you feeling now? If you are rested, we should perhaps continue with our shopping.”

He was making a special effort to drag himself away from the topic which intrigued him, and Sophie smiled.

“I have spent so much of my life listening to my brothers talk of nothing but hunting and shooting and my father talking of his presentation at St James's that it is a pleasure to hear a man talk of something more interesting for a change. And you speak this strange language, too, which is something most of us have not even considered.”

“Only a few words,” Edward said, but Sophie shook her head.

“Nevertheless, we would not have managed without you today. Perhaps when we return to the hotel you might teach me some phrases.”

“It would be my pleasure, Miss Lucas,” he said warmly, looking at her with new respect. For a moment neither of them spoke—then Edward stood up. Leaving what he hoped was enough money on the table, he leaned forward to take Sophie's hand. “We really should be joining Elizabeth and Darcy now.”

They began to gather up their purchases as the waiter came over to them. When he saw the small fortune that had been left, he was almost in paroxysms of delight.

“There, Mr Fitzwilliam,” said Sophie, her eyes twinkling with amusement as the waiter showered them with “Allahs.” “You have made a new friend at this coffeehouse today.”

He looked at her warmly and said, “I hope I have made two.”

She smiled in answer. He offered her his arm, and as they set off toward Elizabeth and Darcy she felt lucky she had discovered that there was more to life than deciding on which hymn to practise for the Sunday service and that feckless young men did not have the right to destroy her life. There were other young men in the world, interesting and courteous and chivalrous young men, who, perhaps in time, might be trusted. And then, who knew what might happen?

***

Paul Inkworthy looked at the camel driver in front of him. He tried to keep his mind on his subject as he sketched the man's long, flowing robe and characterful face, instead of letting his thoughts wander to the far more interesting subject of Miss Sophie Lucas.

Sophie had come to occupy his mind far more than was wise over the past few weeks. It had been impossible to escape her on the sea voyage, despite his noble intentions to stay away from her, as he knew full well that a poverty-stricken artist had nothing to offer a woman whose father was a knight. But now that they had arrived in Alexandria he knew that he must gradually withdraw his attentions, which had been more marked than they should have been, given that he was not in a position to support a wife. And so he had set out early that morning in order to remove himself from temptation.

Reminding himself that he was on the trip as the Darcys' artist, he forced himself to pay attention to his work. He had promised Mr Darcy a faithful representation of all the varied scenes of Alexandria: the boats coming and going along the river, the little boys driving donkeys, the camels with water jugs on their backs, the men with their copper faces and their long robes, the women with their black hair and eyes—all the noise and confusion of a busy Egyptian port.

He finished the sketch of the camel driver and then flicked back through his sketchbook, marvelling at the opportunities that had come his way since setting out from England.

The earliest sketches were of the Darcys in their London home: Darcy standing in front of the fireplace; Elizabeth walking in the garden, with the wind whipping her skirt about her ankles; the children at work and play. But these soon gave way to a collection of drawings and paintings of the sea voyage, which had provided him with a chance to produce character sketches of the sailors as well. It had also given him an unprecedented opportunity to perfect his rendering of tall sailing ships as well as to capture an endless array of seascapes, from calm to storm. In addition, the ports they had visited had given him a chance to sketch places as varied as Southampton and Malta.

And now he was in Alexandria, where the light effects alone would provide him with a year's study as he sought to capture the way the air shimmered in the heat and the way the water dazzled under the full glare of the sun.

He picked up a half-finished painting and put it on his easel, returning to the scene he had abandoned half an hour earlier and, newly inspired, captured the heat haze that had defeated him before.

He stood back to look at his painting when he was done, squinting against the bright Egyptian sun.

“Exceptional,” came a voice at his shoulder. “I have seen many artists at work here, and they have all captured the scene in front of them to great effect. But you have caught the wind in the sails, the movement of the water, the bray of the camels, and the scent of the spices. I have long been searching for an artist to record my travels and I have been on the point of making arrangements with three of them, but something always held me back. I was looking for something more, though I didn't know what that something was. But now I know. Whereas other artists will bring Egypt into my living room, you, dear sir, will transport my living room to Egypt.”

Paul turned to see an English gentleman who was well dressed and whose attire made no concessions to the heat. He was wearing a tight tailcoat and breeches together with a frilled shirt and a starched cravat. On his head was a tall hat, and he carried a cane.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the gentleman. “Here, my card.”

He handed it to Paul, and Paul felt the quality of it even as he read the name,
Sir
Mark
Bellingham, Bart
.

“Of the Shropshire Bellinghams,” said Sir Mark.

“I don't know the Shropshire Bellinghams,” said Paul awkwardly, feeling his lack of status.

“My dear sir, I would be surprised if you did,” said Sir Mark, amused. “But you will, I hope, become further acquainted with this one. I am looking for an artist to travel with me through Egypt, making a record of my journey and providing me with a number of finished paintings to hang on my wall when I return to England. You have just the talent… no,” he said, looking again at the paintings clustered haphazardly round Paul's feet, “the genius I am looking for.”

Paul was flattered by the praise and the offer of employment, but he said, “I am already engaged.”

“Whatever your patron is paying, I will double it,” said Sir Mark, unconcerned.

“I think you would regret the offer if you knew the cost,” said Paul with a sudden smile. “Besides, I cannot abandon my current patron in the middle of his journey.”

“I admire your loyalty, if regretting its consequences. But can we not share you? If you will accept a commission for three paintings of Alexandria from me—”

Paul shook his head.

“We will only be in Alexandria for a few days. After that, we travel to Cairo.”

“That is no difficulty,” said Sir Mark, waving away the problem. “I will be going to Cairo myself next week.”

“But we will not be long there, either,” said Paul. “We will be travelling down the Nile shortly afterward.”

“I, too, will be sailing down the Nile,” said Sir Mark. “Whereabouts will you be staying?”

“We will be joining Sir Matthew Rosen's dig.”

“Ah,” said Sir Mark. For the first time he acknowledged the problem.

“I believe Mr Darcy had a certain amount of difficulty in persuading Sir Matthew to accept his presence,” said Paul. “I am not sure Sir Matthew would welcome another…”

“Dilettante?” suggested Sir Mark. “Well, perhaps not. But you will not be working for Mr Darcy forever. Perhaps you will be good enough to keep me informed of your progress, and when your present patron announces his intention of returning to England, you will find another patron waiting for you.”

“That is very good of you,” said Paul. The thought of continuing employment was very welcome. “But I believe I must return to England with the Darcys.”

“Must you?” asked Sir Mark. “But why?” His eye, which had been travelling over Paul's collection of sketches and paintings, came to rest on a portrait of Elizabeth. “Ah!” he said. “It seems there is a lady in the case. Your patron has a daughter, and a very lovely one. I understand now your reluctance to leave him.”

“That is not his daughter; it is his wife,” said Paul.

“Indeed,” said Sir Mark with a quick glance at Paul. “A beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she is,” said Paul.

Sir Mark looked at him appraisingly for a moment then looked again at his paintings, letting his gaze wander over them until they came to rest on a sketch of Sophie.

“And who is this?” he asked.

“That is Miss Lucas, a friend of the Darcys,” said Paul, blushing as he said it.

Sir Mark smiled.

“I see. A family friend. A young lady who is well-connected and therefore above a poverty-stricken artist with his way to make in the world. But not above an artist with a wealthy patron and a handsome income, I think. Keep me informed of your whereabouts, young man. True artists are hard to find, and I believe you could make my reputation as a serious patron of the arts. In return, I could make your fortune.”

With that, he tipped his hat and walked away.

Paul watched him go and then turned the card over in his hand again. Sir Mark Bellingham. A wealthy baronet with a love of art.

Visions of a rosy future opened up in front of Paul. He saw himself paying court to Sophie, winning her hand, and then settling in some splendid home, thanks to Sir Mark. There would be London exhibitions, fame, fortune, success…

A camel bumped into his easel and the painting fell, still wet, toward the sand. Leaping into action, Paul managed to catch it before it hit the ground, while the camel driver shouted at him in rich, colourful language and the passing throng laughed, brought together by the comical scene, before moving on.