Every Whispered Word (24 page)

“Amelia knows everything about me. And for some reason I cannot fathom, she loves me anyway.” Jack grinned at his brother, who in that moment looked utterly ridiculous with a monkey on his head, a bird on his shoulder, and a snake slithering over his feet. “Which leads me to believe there must be hope for all of us wayward thieves, Simon.” He glanced at Camelia, who was lying quietly on the bed. “Her retching seems to have subsided a bit, which is good. Don't give her any water yet—just keep her warm. I'll be back in a while to see how she is.” He left with Will, closing the cabin door behind him.

Simon stood in the center of the cabin, watching as Camelia's trunks and the chair at her small writing desk slid across the floor. Rupert hastily slithered out of their way, while Oscar bounded to safety on top of the desk, which was fastened to the floor. Harriet flapped her wings and tightened her grip on Simon's shoulder.

“Think of it as an adventure,” he advised them, grabbing the wayward chair. “Something you can tell all the other monkeys and birds and snakes once you are back home.”

Oscar frowned and vehemently shook his head.

“You're probably right—they wouldn't believe it. I know I bloody well wouldn't if someone tried to describe it to me.” He planted the chair firmly beside Camelia's bed, then sat down. Pouring fresh water from the pitcher into the washbasin, he rinsed out a cloth and began to gently sponge her face.

Her skin was ashen, and crescent-shaped bruises had formed beneath her eyes. Her brow was creased and her lips were drawn in a tight line, as if she were still fighting the nausea coursing through her. An unfamiliar feeling of protectiveness welled within him as he slowly washed her face and neck. He dropped the cloth in the basin and laid his hand against her forehead, trying to determine if she was growing feverish. Her skin was cool. Remembering that Jack had told him to keep her warm, he rose to fetch the blankets that young Will had unceremoniously dropped on the cabin floor.

He returned to her side to find her watching him.

“You left me,” she murmured softly. She seemed to struggle to form the words, as if it required great effort to speak.

“Only for a moment. I just went to get you these blankets.” He carefully laid them over her.

“I'm dying, Simon,” she whispered. “I'm sorry.”

“You're not dying, Camelia. Although having just experienced something close to what you are currently going through, I realize at this moment you may not find that particularly reassuring.”

She frowned, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “I'm not dying?”

“No.”

“Zareb said the dark wind had come.”

“I thought you didn't believe in curses.” His voice was faintly teasing as he seated himself beside her and began to rearrange her sheets more to his liking.

“I don't.” She stared at him, her eyes glazed with despair. “But I feel like I'm going to die.”

Simon reached out and tenderly drew his fingers down the cool silk of her cheek. “It's dark, Camelia, and there is definitely a wind out there. And that wind has churned up the ocean, which is making this ship rise and fall like a bouncing ball. If you think you're sick, you should see poor Wickham,” he quipped, smiling. “Right now he's probably hanging over the railing, debating whether he should just end his misery and jump in.”

“And Zareb?”

“Unfortunately, he's sick, too. And I believe Oliver is right beside him.”

“It's my fault,” she said miserably.

“I don't think you can be held responsible for the weather, Camelia.”

“They are here because of me.”

“We are all here because we have chosen to be,” Simon corrected her. “There is a difference.”

She closed her eyes, too exhausted to debate the matter any further.

He sat beside her a long while, focusing on the pale weariness of her beautiful face as the cabin rose up and down and her trunks slid back and forth. He thought about how small and fragile she looked as she lay there, which was so at odds with the determined young woman who had marched into his laboratory unannounced and insisted that he should build a steam engine for her. She had traveled across this very same ocean to come into his life. Now she was finally going back to the land she loved. No dark winds or evil curses or mortal threats could keep her from going home to Africa. She would return to her site and clear it of water and resume digging, and either find the ancient tomb of which her father dreamed, or die in the process. If there was one thing he understood about Camelia, it was that she never gave up.

She fought with the heart of a warrior.

Her breathing had deepened slightly, and the lines on her brow had eased, suggesting her nausea was finally lessening. Simon thought he should probably fetch some of the ginger tea Jack had mentioned. When Camelia wakened, she should be encouraged to drink a little. He would also get her some biscuits, just in case she was hungry when she finally stirred. He rose and began to adjust her blankets so she would not grow cold while he was gone.

“Do not leave me,” she murmured, her voice barely audible against the crashing of the ocean as it rocked the
Independence.

“I'm not leaving you.” He brushed a strand of sun-kissed hair off her forehead. “I'm just going to fetch you some tea.”

She frowned and reached for his hand, clasping it weakly within her fingers. “Do not leave me,” she repeated, slower this time, as if she were struggling to make him understand. “Please.”

He stared at the paleness of her slender fingers clinging desperately to his own. Her hand was small and soft against his, like the velvety petals of a flower. He remembered the feel of that hand caressing him, touching him and holding him until he thought he would go mad from it. He had felt as if he had lost himself to her on that night, lost some deep and secret part of himself that he could never reclaim, however desperately he might try. And he had tried, in the weeks that had followed. He had done his best to avoid her, to focus on his work, on the details of arranging this trip, and, for the past few days, on the overwhelming challenge of just surviving the misery of this bloody ship.

But as he stood there holding her hand, he found he was lost once more.
Do not leave me.
She meant only for that moment, while she lay sick and vulnerable and afraid. Yet somehow the words wound their way into the deepest recesses of his soul, binding him to her in a way she could not possibly understand. She had stolen a part of him. He understood that now. She had not meant to, but it scarcely mattered. She had taken a piece of his heart and his soul, and when he finally left Africa and went home, she would keep it with her.

He knew he could never convince her to return to London with him. Camelia belonged in Africa, with its sun-washed mountains and its wild animals and its mysterious bits of bone and shells. A banal life with a forgetful, distracted former thief in a crowded town house on some rainy, soot-veiled street in London could never compare to that.

And unlike Elliott, Simon cared enough about her to not try to convince her to live a life in which she could never be happy.

“I won't leave you, Camelia,” he murmured, seating himself in the chair once more.

She squeezed his hand weakly, then sighed and turned her head, finally allowing herself to slip into sleep.

And Simon sat and watched her, his hand resting against hers, guarding her against the dark wind while his heart began to tear in two.

Y
e take the stomach an' wash out the blood, then soak it for ten hours in cold salt water. That makes the pluck nice an' salty.”

Zareb regarded Oliver in confusion. “What is ‘pluck'?”

“Sheep's pluck,” Oliver explained, plunging a raw stomach bag into a bucket of water. “The heart, liver, lungs, and windpipe.”

Zareb regarded him doubtfully. “Windpipe?”

“'Tis more for the coarseness it adds than the taste.” Oliver cheerfully bobbed the stomach up and down in the bloody water as if he were washing a pair of stockings. “I like my haggis nice an' rough, with a good strong pinch o' pepper an' allspice.”

“Do you just put the pluck in and then add the spices?”

“First ye boil 'em up 'til they're nice an' tender,” Oliver continued. “Then ye chop 'em fine—not too fine, mind—ye're nae makin' puddin'. Then ye mix it with toasted oatmeal, a good cup o' suet, some chopped onions and yer spices, an' ye stuff the lot of it into the stomach an' sew it up.”

“And then you eat the stomach raw?” Zareb looked revolted.

“Ye boil it,” Oliver replied. “Three hours in boilin' water on a low fire. Then ye serve it up hot with plenty o' whiskey an' smashed potatoes.” He pulled the glistening stomach out of the bloody water and dropped it into the bowl of cold salt water. “I tell ye, there's nae like a big plate o' haggis to put some hair on yer chest!”

Zareb's eyes widened. “This will put hair on Tisha's chest?”

“'Tis only an expression,” Oliver assured him, wiping his hands on a rag. “None o' the lassies in Scotland have hair on their chests, an' they start eatin' haggis as soon as they're fit to take a spoon.”

“Don't trust him on that, Zareb,” warned Simon, his head bent over the crate he was using as a desk to work on some drawings. “It's highly unlikely Oliver has actually seen the chests of all of the lasses in Scotland.”

“Here now, that's enough o' yer snash,” Oliver scolded.

“The Khoikhoi only eat sheep's meat after they have been slaughtered for a ritual,” Zareb reflected, wholly unconvinced of the merits of Oliver's haggis. “We keep sheep and cows mostly for their milk.”

“What sort of meat do ye eat, then?” asked Oliver, curious.

“Whatever we hunt. Zebra, rhinoceros, antelope, buffalo. Ostrich meat is very good. We also eat some insects. You should try some while you're there—they are very tasty.”

Oliver frowned. “What kind o' insects?”

“Different kinds. Termites, locusts, mopane worms. There are many there that make fine eating. Good for the digestion.”

“I'm nae sure I'm braw enough to try that!” Oliver chuckled and heaved the bloody water from his bucket over the railing.

“When we get to the camp at Pumulani, I will prepare some for you,” Zareb insisted. “It is good. You will see.”

“You will see what?” asked Camelia, stepping up onto the deck from below, with Oscar following.

“Zareb is trying to convince Oliver that he should eat bugs while he is in Africa,” Simon explained, rising from his makeshift seat on a crate as she approached.

Over two weeks had passed since that terrible night when her illness began. Her recovery had been slow. Simon had cared for her for nearly four days, while Zareb, Oliver, and Elliott had all lain groaning helplessly in their cabins. During that time Simon had remained by her side, trying to encourage sips of water, biscuits, and dry toast into her, and holding the chamber pot for her when her body rejected what little he offered.

Jack had kept assuring him that the length of Camelia's illness was entirely normal, but Simon had been worried nonetheless. When he would check on Zareb and bring him some drinking water and biscuit, Zareb would insist it was the curse that had made them all ill, and that he needed to light more fires in Camelia's cabin to protect her. Simon told him it was not a curse that had reduced them all to such a miserable state, but Zareb was unconvinced. He instructed Simon to smear Camelia with
buchu,
a fragrant African plant, to protect her, and was most annoyed when Simon flatly refused.

After four days the worst of it was over, but the illness had taken its toll upon her. While the men seemed to recover their strength within a few days, a frailty had fallen over Camelia, enveloping her in a weariness she couldn't seem to overcome. The violet crescents beneath her eyes refused to fade, and her skin had lost its lovely sun-washed luster. She seemed cold all the time, and had taken to wearing a shawl wrapped around her even when the sun was bright and warm. Her clothes hung limply on her slender frame, and although she still talked about her site and her plans for when they finally arrived, Simon worried that in her current condition she would have trouble enduring the physical demands of her work.

“How are you feeling, Tisha?” Zareb's brow was furrowed with concern as he studied her.

“I'm fine, Zareb,” Camelia assured him. “I'm feeling much better today.”

“I'm makin' ye somethin' special that'll put some meat on yer bones and hair on yer chest. Only in a matter o' speakin', of course.” Oliver cast Simon a warning look.

“What's that?”

“A nice, spicy haggis,” he told her proudly. “I'm just soakin' the stomach now. By tonight it'll be stuffed an' cooked an' ready to eat.”

Camelia regarded the bobbing yellow stomach in the bowl uncertainly. “I don't believe I've ever had haggis.”

“It's windpipe and lungs.” Zareb gave her a warning look. “Chopped up with animal fat.”

“It sounds worse than it actually is,” Simon interjected, wondering if the sight of the sheep's stomach would make Camelia queasy. “But you don't have to eat it if you don't want to.”

Oliver regarded him in bewilderment. “Why wouldn't the lass want to eat it? Any lass who's accustomed to chewin' on bugs an' worms canna be frightened by a wee bag o' good Scottish haggis.”

“Actually, I've never eaten any bugs or worms,” Camelia told him. “And while I'm sure your haggis is wonderful, Oliver, I'm not really feeling that hungry just yet.”

“Wait 'til ye see it piled on yer plate with a fine hill of smashed tatties smeared in butter. Ye'll think ye've died an' gone to Heaven.”

“Or you'll be wishing it,” Simon quipped.

Camelia stared at the glossy raw stomach and swallowed hard, fighting the queasiness threatening to overcome her. “Does one actually eat the stomach, or do you just eat what's inside?”

“Don't worry, Camelia. If you don't like it, I'm sure Simon, Oliver, and I will make short work of it,” Jack said, smiling as he joined them on the deck. “When we were lads we loved Eunice's haggis.”

“Aye, an' when they came to Miss Genevieve ye'd nae seen a scraggier pair o' cubs,” Oliver added. “Filthy an' half starved, an' lookin' like they could be blown away by a puff o' wind. Then we filled them up with haggis an' tatties an' hotchpotch an' pudding, an' ye can see for yerself how big an' swack they've grown!”

“No matter how much Doreen and Eunice served him, Simon was always hungry for more.” Jack glanced with amusement at his younger brother. “Ten minutes after breakfast he'd be wondering about lunch, and right after lunch he'd be asking Eunice if it wasn't time for tea. Then when we'd have tea, he was always bartering with one of us to give him one of our biscuits or buns in exchange for something else.”

“Me an' Eunice couldna believe one small lad could eat so much, so we were convinced he was hidin' the food in his napkin for later,” Oliver added. “His sisters Annabelle, Grace, an' Charlotte would do that when they first came, as they didna quite trust there'd be another meal on the table in just a few hours. But every time we checked, Simon's napkin was clean. Then Doreen thought he was squirrelin' it around the house, but she never found so much as a crumb. Finally, we decided the lad had been born with hollow gams, an' no matter how hard we tried, we never could fill them up!” Oliver slapped his knee and laughed.

Camelia watched Simon smile as Oliver and Jack told their story. He was dressed in his usual rumpled white shirt and dark trousers, with his sleeves shoved carelessly up to his elbows and his shirt unfastened at his neck. Somehow the casual outfit seemed entirely natural on the sun-drenched deck of the ship, even though it did not fit within the standards of appropriate public attire. The ocean breeze was playing with the red-gold waves of his hair, which had lightened during the voyage, and the sun had turned his skin a healthy bronze. He seemed utterly relaxed as he stood with his sketches strewn around him, surrounded by the sea and sun and fresh air, with his brother and his old friend teasing him about his youth.

She had worried about him on those first few days of the voyage when he had been too ill to venture from his cabin. But not only had he fully recovered from his bout of seasickness, he actually looked stronger and more invigorated than she had ever seen him. Simon's life in London was spent largely indoors, she reflected, forever buried beneath mountains of books and papers and dozens of inventions. When he was working on something he often lost track of time, sometimes for days, as he had the day she marched into his laboratory. Until Eunice, Doreen, and Oliver had gone to stay with him, Camelia suspected there were many times when he actually forgot to eat. Yet in that moment he looked wonderfully strong and handsome and relaxed.

“The fresh air agrees with you,” she remarked, moving closer to him.

“It does now that the sea has grown calmer.” Simon moved his sketches off his crate desk and gestured to it. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Thank you.” She drew her shawl tighter around herself as she sat and stared out at the endless expanse of sparkling sea. “It's beautiful, isn't it?”

He kept his gaze on her. “Yes.”

“I think we are getting close to the coast,” Camelia mused, tilting her face up to the warm rays of sunlight.

“How do you know?”

“I can feel it. I know that's not very scientific, but it's really the only explanation I have.”

“Many scientific discoveries begin with little more than a feeling,” Simon assured her. “Sometimes our intuition is the only thing we can trust. What do you feel, Camelia?”

She closed her eyes, absorbing the soothing heat of the sun, the scent of the ocean, the extraordinary feeling of the ship gently moving up and down as it carried her closer and closer to her home.

“I feel warmer,” she began, enjoying the sun pouring its hot rays over her. “And the air smells sweeter, somehow—not the same salty crispness that it has out in the middle of the ocean. But most of all, I feel my heart is starting to beat slower. There is a sense of calm that I feel in Africa more than anywhere else. It's as if when I am home, nothing bad can happen to me.” She opened her eyes to find him staring at her.

“There is still a dark wind blowing, Tisha.” Zareb's expression was sober. “This I know.”

“It seems there is always a dark wind blowing.” Camelia pulled her shawl tighter around herself and stared at the horizon. “If it is still there when we return to Pumulani, then I will simply deal with it, Zareb, as I always have.”

“I'm afraid it may be different, this time, Camelia,” Elliott reflected, appearing from below.

Unlike Simon, Elliott had made a point of being fashionably attired at all times during the voyage. That morning he had chosen to wear a pair of well-cut charcoal trousers, a yellow-and-cream-striped waistcoat, and an immaculately tailored slate-colored coat. As befit any gentleman, he was also wearing white gloves and a round charcoal felt hat.

“With all the accidents that have been occurring at the site,” he continued, “we may well arrive and discover there are no more natives left there to dig.”

“There are many men who have stayed with me because they loved and respected my father, Elliott,” Camelia pointed out. “I do not believe they will be easily frightened away.”

“Not easily, no. But if the accidents continue . . .”

“If the accidents continue and everyone is frightened away, then I will continue to excavate the site by myself,” she insisted stubbornly. “You know as well as I do that my father always said you could never discover anything unless you were willing to put your heart into it, Elliott. My heart is in Pumulani.”

“Set a stout heart to a steep hillside, an' ye're sure to set the heather on fire,” Oliver mused approvingly. “I may be old, lass, but I can still pick up a shovel an' a pickax, if ye need me to.”

“Thank you, Oliver.” Camelia smiled at him fondly. “Although I don't think it will come to that. Not all of the workers are frightened by the idea of a curse.”

“Why don't ye make each o' the workers one of yer special amulets?” Oliver asked Zareb. “The ones ye made for me an' the lad here seem to be workin' fine.”