Daughter of the God-King (21 page)

The following day Hattie and Bing made their visit to the foreigner’s cemetery, a bleak enclosure located in the area behind the government compound on the east bank. The cemetery was no larger than the one at the church in Cornwall, only it was many levels more forlorn—consisting of grave sites that were nothing more than gravel and sand; as there were undoubtedly few visitors, there was little point to more than a cursory maintenance. Fortunately, due to its proximity to the Nile, there were several spreading willow trees that provided a measure of welcome shade and made the entire aspect a little less desolate.

As had been arranged, the two women met Drummond from the British consulate at the gate, and Hattie looked for his associate, hoping to verify the scar across his hand for Dimitry. The other man was not in evidence, however, as Drummond offered his sincere apologies for the consul’s failure to be made aware of the burial. “We believe their deaths were an accident, and those who may have been involved were too frightened or too remorseful to come forward.”

Frightened, concluded Hattie—the porter at the worker’s village was too frightened to tell her where they were until she did a little frightening of her own. Aloud, she assured him, “It makes little difference, Mr. Drummond—at least the mystery is solved.” And she privately held out cautious hope that no one would ever discover their misdeeds or their infamous bargain to take in an inconvenient child from the wrong side of the blanket. That she was someone lesser than she thought she was still stung, and it was fortunate that Dimitry had provided her with another role altogether to ease the shame of it.

Footsteps could be heard on the gravel path and the three looked to see another man approaching. With no little surprise, Hattie observed Baron du Pays, the French vice-consul whom she had last seen in her drawing room in Paris. Not a fortuitous turn of events, she decided—that he should reappear at this juncture and in this place. She dipped a graceful curtsey to hide her concern.

“Mademoiselle Blackhouse.” He greeted her, the pale eyes assessing her behind a cool facade. “We meet again—much to my delight.” He did not relinquish her hand and continued, “I deeply regretted the circumstances which required your immediate departure from Paris.”

“It was a sudden decision,” she agreed. “You are acquainted with Mr. Drummond?”

“Of course—we were reacquainted last night,” the Baron said with a show of affability, “—and shared the latest news from the congress over an excellent bottle of port.”

“What is the latest news?” asked Bing with keen interest. “We have not been able to keep up.”

The Frenchman shook his head in consternation. “Prussia seeks Saxony; Austria insists on Italian territory and Tallyrand—who was the Emperor’s man—now represents the new order and happily pits each participant against the other like the puppet-master he is. Almost, one cannot blame him—the situation is ripe for exploitation.”

“If they are not careful, the former emperor will be emboldened,” warned Drummond as he nodded in agreement. “There is far too much uncertainty.”

Bing displayed mild alarm at the tenor of the conversation. “Surely no one believes Napoleon will escape his captivity? Why, I understand both French and English ships guard the harbor.”

“Never underestimate the audacity of the man,” cautioned Drummond with a grave expression. “It cannot be an easy thing to be demoted from Emperor of Europe to Emperor of Elba.”

Her color high, Hattie changed the subject and made a gesture toward the cemetery, hoping to hint that the others should take their leave. “We have discovered my parents’ graves, Monsieur le Baron, and I have come to pay my final respects.”

To her chagrin, the Frenchman only used this announcement as an excuse to take her hand again. “I have heard the sad news; my sincerest condolences, Mademoiselle Blackhouse—a deplorable attack. I hope you will allow me to advise you in this difficult time?”

“Thank you.” She did not mention she was just as likely to take advice from the Elban prisoner himself.

The Baron continued, “And recall we had made plans to tour the sights in Paris which—regrettably—had to be canceled. Now that your sad charge is completed, perhaps I may be allowed to raise your spirits by taking a tour of Thebes. To this end, you and Mademoiselle Bing”—here he bowed toward Bing—“may be more comfortable at my consulate’s guest quarters. I can send servants to transfer your belonging this very afternoon, if that is agreeable.”

“Mr. Tremaine,” murmured Bing behind Hattie.

Hattie demurred prettily, bringing her dimples to the fore. “I will discuss this idea with Mr. Tremaine, but I must warn that it is unlikely he would agree to such a plan—he has stood as my escort and advisor on the journey and I imagine he would like to keep me close to hand. I do thank you for the invitation, however.”

Taking the refusal in good part, the Frenchman bent his head in acquiescence but persisted, “In any event, please assure me you will dine with me this evening—along with Monsieur Tremaine, if he will join us; I assure you my chef does not disappoint.”

“With pleasure,” Hattie agreed, feeling she had no other polite option. To rid herself of him, she decided stronger tactics were needed. “If you gentlemen do not mind, I feel I should reflect and pray by my parents’ graves for a time.”

Bowing, the two men took their leave but invited the women to tea at the British consulate after their visit. After making an equivocal response, Hattie reached to push open the wrought iron gate with some impatience. “God in heaven, Bing—he makes my skin crawl. Think of a plausible excuse to forgo dinner, if you please.”

“Perhaps you should make him aware that your feelings are otherwise engaged,” Bing suggested as they entered the cemetery.

“I don’t think that it would much matter to him.” And there was something else, she thought with a small frown; I wasn’t paying attention and he said something important—now, what was it?

She paused before they headed toward the far corner of the cemetery and turned to Bing. “You will not be insulted if I send you away, Bing; I’m afraid there may be equal parts praying and cursing and I’d rather not have a witness.”

“Small blame to you,” was her companion’s only brisk reply. “I shall take a tour of the Temple of Karnak while I have the chance.” Bing indicated the nearest set of ruins, which, to Hattie, looked very much like any other set of tedious ruins. To each his own, she thought as she made her way over to the two unmarked mounds, the cemetery quiet and the occasional stirring of the willow branches in the breeze the only movement. Dry-eyed, she contemplated the raw, graveled graves for a moment, unable to muster up much grief. You have gotten off lightly, the both of you, she thought with some bitterness. No one will know of your perfidy, and as for me—I will have to bear this terrible burden you have placed upon me, this secret that makes me ashamed to show my face and ashamed for the honorable man I married—

“Miss Blackhouse.”

Hattie looked up in surprise at hearing the whispered voice, and beheld Drummond’s associate, standing against the willow tree at a small distance, his hat in his hand—she had not heard him approach but this was not surprising, as he was some sort of hackney driver
cum
spy. Before she could fashion a response he continued in a low tone, “I must apologize for this intrusion but I must take the opportunity—I have been commissioned by a certain gentleman to speak to you.”

Wondering for a startled moment if he referred to Dimitry, she decided this seemed unlikely. “Which gentleman is that, sir?”

“The eighth of August.”

Hattie stared at him. The date was her birthday. The gooseflesh rose on her arms and the nape of her neck, and she bowed her head to contemplate the graves, her mind racing—this must be the reason Dimitry didn’t trust the British consul; apparently it was infested with Napoleon’s supporters.

The man’s voice continued, “The gentleman sends his sincere desire that you depart from this area with all speed and return to your home in England—it is not safe here. I have been commissioned to make immediate arrangements.”

“I see.” It was an echo of the comte’s warning—only at that time she hadn’t realized her true heritage; hadn’t realized that she was regarded as some sort of perverse princess by those who sought to destroy England even as they urged her to return there, to a corner in Cornwall that was well away from the anticipated destruction. Furious with her parents—all of them—Hattie could hear her heartbeat in her ears and had to caution herself to keep her composure, not to let this man know that she would not fall in with their despicable scheme. Instead, she should find out what she could and tell Dimitry, although he almost certainly already knew who this man was; it must be the reason he had shown such an interest in him.

The man bowed. “That is all. I am sorry to have disturbed you at this difficult time.”

“Wait.” Hattie turned to him, trying to think of something she could ask that would assist Dimitry.

Shaking his head with regret, the associate cautioned, “I can answer no questions.”

This seemed evident; she was not going to discover anything of interest because this man was probably as maddening as Dimitry when it came to withholding information. In fact, he and Dimitry were probably sworn enemies, which meant she had one more worry to add to all the others as she was forced to leave the arena—

Suddenly, Hattie was struck with the realization that—all in all—she held the whip hand in this situation and there was no reason she shouldn’t put her miserable heritage to good use. Lifting her chin, she commanded, “I will return a message to the gentleman.”

Surprised, the man considered this for a moment as he met her gaze. “Say it, then.”

Returning her gaze to the graves she continued in a level tone. “I travel with a man—Monsieur Daniel Berry. I have married him in secret.”

She could sense his surprise, although she did not look at him. “You have
married
the Count Leczinska?”

The Count? Dimitry was a Count? Was there no end to the irony? In her best imitation of a countess, Hattie continued smoothly, “Yes—Dimitry; I wasn’t certain you were aware of his true name. As I said, he is now my husband.” If nothing else, she could keep him safe; based on the strange respect they all afforded her it was unlikely they’d murder her husband. And besides, she thought a bit grimly; it was past time to call in a favor from at least one of her miserable parents.

But the associate was plainly confused. “Surely you do not request that he be allowed to leave with you? The work he does for the gentleman cannot be duplicated by any other.” His tone was respectful but held an underlying thread of scorn, the scorn that warriors reserve for fearful women.

Hattie stood very still for a moment, then by sheer force of will overcame the paralysis that had settled within her breast. With some steel she said quietly, “I only ask that the message be relayed; I do not ask for your opinion.”

“Your pardon; I shall do so.” He hesitated for a moment, then pointed out, “The desire is that you return to the English countryside—it would be best to avoid Poland at this time.”

“I shall consider your advice,” she replied through stiff lips. “You may go.”

Hattie stood silently for some time, staring at her erstwhile parents’ graves without truly seeing them. Why is it, she thought, that just when I am coming to grips with the latest crisis, another one presents itself? Although to be honest, she couldn’t be overly surprised; Dimitry had been willing to marry her, after all, and in the back of her mind she had wondered—and more than once. He pretended to be French, and hid his true nationality. He had searched the British consul’s office, and inveigled a safe passage document from them—only the one, as though he wished to assure his own escape, should it be necessary. He worked closely with her parents who were themselves working for the enemy, and knew of the missing disk and the senet board when everyone else thought it was a strongbox. And then, most damningly, he had summoned the hackney driver that first night in Paris—the hackney driver who was a double agent for Napoleon, posing as an Englishman. Too many things didn’t add up, and she had been foolish to turn a blind eye. Small matter to him that she was illegitimate—she was the daughter of the emperor, god-like to his followers. And Poland had been Napoleon’s ally in the war. With some bitterness she acknowledged that she had been a bit dazzled and—truth to tell—starved for affection in pretending that all of this was not as ominous as it actually was. Love was truly blind—or at least it was overly optimistic and now she had yet another competing allegiance to sort out, because she loved Dimitry, and he was her husband.

After taking a steadying breath, she left the graves without a backward glance and went to find Bing.

Hattie walked out the gate and toward the ruins where Bing was seated, watching for her. The movement helped—with each step Hattie felt less frozen with horror and more inclined to turn over various options in her mind. When she arrived to stand before her companion, she had decided on what she hoped was the best course. “If you don’t mind, Bing, I would like to visit the Coptic chapel across the river; I would like to arrange for prayers to be said.”

“Very well, Hathor.” If Bing thought it strange that Hattie sought prayers from a foreign church, she made no comment. Perhaps she believes I am hedging my bets, she thought—I only wish I could.

As her companion rose to her feet, Hattie added in a low tone, “I am concerned that we may be followed. Keep a sharp eye out, if you please.”

Bing paused for only a moment, then took Hattie’s arm as they headed to the river, giving her charge a quick, assessing look. “For whom do we watch?”

“Anyone who in turn appears to be watching us—I am afraid I do not know more.” They walked in a leisurely fashion to the quay and boarded a
felucca
while Hattie remained silent, her mind busy, thinking. She finally emerged from her reverie to remark, “It is so difficult, Bing, when you cannot go back, nor around, and your only choice is straight forward.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” agreed her companion with a nod. “One is called upon to marshal one’s courage, whether one wishes to or not.”

Hattie watched the waterman maneuver their vessel across the Nile and thought, I am heartily tired of being buffeted by shocking news, and I wish so much weren’t at stake. But I do trust Dimitry—against all reason, even if he serves the enemy. Besides, she thought fiercely, if he wishes to do me harm, I may as well let him—life would hardly be worth living. “On the way to the chapel we will make a stop so that I may leave a message for—for Monsieur Berry.”

And so it came to pass that Hattie stood before the innkeeper at the Osiris Inn, who gazed at her from behind his desk with no sign of recognition. “Hallo again; I must speak to—to Dimitry, and as soon as possible. I am not certain where he is or how to send for him.” Her eyes strayed for a moment to the icon on the wall. “I shall return in an hour.”

If Bing thought the entire situation strange, she made no comment and asked no questions, instead accompanying Hattie to the chapel in supportive silence. That is the difference between Bing and me, thought Hattie, hiding a smile; I’d be demanding answers and throwing things. Forced to possess her soul in patience, Hattie spent the greater part of an hour sitting in the Coptic chapel beside Bing, contemplating the gilded altarpiece. “Do you think we were followed, Bing?”

“I do not believe so, Hathor—although many of the children look alike.”

“No,” said Hattie. “It would have been a man. Or more than one.”

“Who is Dimitry?” asked Bing deferentially.

“Monsieur Berry is Dimitry,” Hattie replied absently. “Has it been an hour?”

But before her companion could consult her watch, Dimitry himself slid into the pew beside Hattie. With a glance that did not conceal his concern, he assessed her quickly and she felt a pang that she had alarmed him, then caught herself—he deserved every moment of anxiety visited upon him, the wretched,
wretched
Pole.

“What is it, Hattie?” he asked, and Bing moved away to light a candle, although Hattie knew she wasn’t popish. Small matter, she thought; I would light a candle myself if I thought it would help.

Taking a breath, Hattie confessed, “I may have torn it, Dimitry, but I am not certain, and I need your advice.”

He watched her profile for a moment, his own expression grave. “Tell me.”

With a mighty effort, she kept her voice level. “Mr. Drummond’s associate—the one with the scar—”

“Yes,” he said.

“He works for Napoleon.”

“Yes.” He waited, knowing there was more to come.

“He seems to think you do, also.”

There was a pause. “What did he say to you?”

She bit her lip for a moment, then decided there was nothing for it. Unable to face him, she continued to speak in an even tone, looking toward the altarpiece. “He carried a warning from—from the prisoner, who wishes me away from here and back to Cornwall.”

He was quiet, and she concluded after a breath, “I’m afraid I mentioned that we had married.”

“Did you indeed?”

“I wasn’t thinking—I am worried that I caused you trouble, by telling him.”

“No matter, Hattie.” He took her hand and after the barest hesitation, she folded her hand around his. Perhaps she could rehabilitate him—he needed only to see the error of his imperialist ways; surely there was hope for it, he was a good man—he
must
be.

Suddenly, she realized what had caught her attention. “I think that the Baron du Pays—from Paris—remember? I think he killed my parents. He let slip that they had been attacked, but everyone else thinks it was an accident.”

“Yes, although the assassin was Monsieur Chauvelin.”

She looked up at him. “I see. I confess I am not surprised; he’s a nasty piece of goods. The Baron is here—do you know?”

“Yes.”

She assimilated his quiet comment. “He wanted me and Bing to stay at the French consulate, but I declined the invitation.”

They sat together for a moment or two. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed, clinging to his hand and wishing the two of them could walk away from all of it, forever.

But Dimitry began giving instruction in a low voice. “It is important that you be away, and quickly. You must return to the
Priapus
; I will see to it that the others from the consul’s offices are kept busy this afternoon. A boy with a boat will ask for you; you will leave with him. Take no luggage, and Mademoiselle Bing must stay behind to say you are ill in your cabin. The boy will take you to Clements’s ship. Tell Mademoiselle Bing you will need at least five or six hours’ head start.” He squeezed her hand. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She took a ragged breath. “You should leave with me.” Turning to meet his eyes she continued, “I cannot allow you to go through with this.”

He tilted his head to touch her forehead with his, the same gesture as the night he took her necklace—the first time he told her that he loved her. “I am not your enemy, Hattie. Can you trust me?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, trying to control a quaver.

“I have not lied to you since Paris,” he continued in an intense tone. “I swear it, Hattie.”

“When will I see you again?”

He squeezed her hand. “I know not. But you will be in my heart, every moment.”

Ducking her chin, she nodded, miserable.

“I will go; wait another half hour before you leave and do not hurry.”

Unable to speak, she nodded again and he was gone. Examining her hands in her lap, she decided she had little choice—she was married to the man and she loved him. She could report to the British consul, but that course seemed fraught with peril since Drummond’s associate was an enemy agent and therefore she probably shouldn’t trust Drummond—or anyone else there, either. She could apply to Robbie, but he would presumably turn the matter over to the authorities, unable to believe they couldn’t be trusted. I hate Egypt, she thought bitterly—it has brought me nothing but heartache. Unbidden, she remembered her unconventional wedding and the blissful afternoon abed with her new husband. It doesn’t matter, she thought with defiance—I
still
hate Egypt.

Hattie raised her head and signaled to Bing, who dutifully approached and slid in next to her. “Bing, would you mind if I borrowed your pistol?”

“Not at all, Hathor.” Bing calmly fished in her reticule, and then taking a look around, slipped it to Hattie, who studied it for a moment. “Do you require instruction?”

“Yes, to refresh me; Robbie taught me but it was some time ago.”

“It can fire two rounds before it must be reloaded.” Bing gave an impromptu lesson and Hattie listened carefully, hoping that it wasn’t a grave sin to be exchanging firearms in a church. Hattie then slipped it into the glove pocket sewn into the seam of her dress. “Now I will astonish you and tell you that I have married Monsieur Berry.”

Bing raised her eyebrows and considered this bit of news. “My best wishes, Hathor.”

Taking her companion’s thin hand, Hattie explained, “I am sorry I did not invite you, but I was not invited, myself.”

Bing glanced at her in alarm. “Never say he took advantage of you?”

Definitely, Hattie thought, but instead she said, “No, of course not—Mr. Smithson did the honors, and you may tell him I give my permission to tell you the story—it is a round tale.”

“Well,” said Bing, leaning back into the pew. “That is a wrinkle.”

“Brace yourself; there are more shocks to come.”

“We are leaving posthaste,” Bing guessed.

“You are half right. I am leaving whilst you defend the fort.” She recited Berry’s instructions while Bing put her chin to her chest and listened.

Unable to make an adequate explanation to her companion, Hattie offered, “I am
wretchedly
sorry, Bing—apparently there are dark forces at play.”

Bing sighed. “Perhaps the treasure is indeed cursed.”

No, thought Hattie; the only curse at work here is ambition—ambition and greed. “I would suggest you think twice before reposing your trust in the Baron du Pays or in anyone at the British consulate.”

“Heavens,” remarked Bing in a dry tone. “You alarm me, Hathor.”

“I am alarmed, myself,” Hattie admitted. “I am sorry to leave you to make the explanations.”

“Never fear—I shall think of something. May I suggest there has been an elopement?”

Hattie considered. “Best not. I’m not certain it is meant to be common knowledge, and I would not be surprised if Monsieur Berry remains here.”

“I understand,” her companion replied, but it seemed to Hattie that this was unlikely.

“I am so sorry, Bing.”

“Hathor,” said Bing, taking her hand with all sincerity. “I have never experienced such an adventure in my life, and I owe it all to you. I would not have missed it for the world.”

Hattie faced the altarpiece again. “Don’t make me cry, Bing—if I start I won’t stop.”

“Very well,” said Bing briskly. “Shall we go?”