The Sacred River (3 page)

Harriet closed the book and inhaled its odor of dust and gravitas, felt its familiar weight and heft in her fingers. Along with the elation prompted by Dr. Grammaticas’s words, she felt another, more mixed, emotion. All the while traveling to Egypt had been an impossibility, she’d been certain that she wanted more than anything to go there. Now that it had become a possibility, she felt a sense of apprehension that was new to her.

FOUR

“Yael! What a pleasant surprise.”

Louisa hadn’t expected her sister-in-law. She’d been upstairs in the old day nursery, looking at the globe, when the girl had announced Yael’s presence in the drawing room. It was late for calling and the smell of roasting beef was escaping from the kitchen downstairs.

“What does Blundell wish to see me about?” Yael said, glancing at the nearest of the several clocks that ticked at discordant intervals. She removed her gloves. “I’ve a meeting to attend but he said in his note that it was urgent.”

Louisa felt further taken aback. She had no idea that Blundell had summoned his sister, or why.

“Father, probably,” she said, tugging the thick silk tassel on the end of the bell pull. “I hear he hasn’t been well.”

“He has a sore throat from the atmosphere. He refuses anything for it but whisky and hot water. I don’t think whisky right, in the mornings. But I don’t suppose that’s what Blundell wishes to discuss.”

Yael discarded her bonnet on the chesterfield and lowered herself onto a chair, its upholstered velvet arms a snug fit around her hips. Her hair, silver since she was thirty years old, was wound into the customary coils over her ears and she was dressed in the muted grays and lavenders and mauves that she’d adopted since her mother passed away ten years earlier. Louisa found such prolonged mourning an affectation. Yael had refused outright her suggestion that she could consult Mr. Hamilton, discover whether the late Mrs. Heron might come through with words of comfort.

Louisa reached for her workbag. She’d made her decision, sitting on the omnibus the previous evening as it swayed back over the river, while a man walked in front of the horses ringing a hand bell. Despite the motion of the bus, she’d had a sense inside herself of stillness. The advice from her mother was clear. For Harriet’s sake, Louisa must take the risk and make the journey. She would travel to the ends of the earth, if need be. She would not allow her daughter to die.

The maid appeared in the open doorway.
Mary
. That was it. “A tray of tea, Mary. We’ll have Earl Grey. The silver pot.”

Her mind made up, Louisa had wasted no time. After dinner, when Harriet went up to bed, she’d reported to Blundell the doctor’s advice, then immediately given her own opinion—that they should waste no time in arranging the journey. She hadn’t mentioned her visit to Mr. Hamilton. That her mother had confirmed the need for the voyage could be enough for Blundell to deem it unnecessary.

Blundell had remained silent for some time, sighing occasionally. They were still in the dining room, sitting next to each other along two sections of the octagonal oak table, under the light of the gasolier, the curtains tightly drawn, the fire low. Waiting for her husband’s decision, Louisa felt the deep comfort of her home. She looked around her at the darkly gleaming sideboard, the Japanese wallpaper behind it, the set of Crown Derby dishes arranged face forward in a glass-fronted cabinet lined with soft green velvet that made her think of moss.

They’d moved to Canonbury from the house in Wren Street when Harriet was barely two years old, following Blundell’s promotion at the bank. He’d paid a thousand pounds for a ninety-nine-year lease and Louisa had felt an abiding satisfaction at the prospect that she would see out her days in the Georgian crescent.

Blundell gave another sigh.

“If the doctor recommends it, she must go.” He reached for her hand and patted it. “And you with her, of course. I’ll find a means of releasing the funds immediately. My chief concern is that I cannot come with you, Louisa. The country’s in a wretched condition, by all accounts.”

“Thank you, Blundell,” she said, relief and alarm coursing through her in equal measure. “I knew I could rely on you. We will set off after Christmas.”

“I shall miss you most terribly,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it. “But that hardly needs saying.”

Louisa met his eyes, unable to speak. She couldn’t allow herself to think about leaving Blundell behind. If she did, she might change her mind.

Harriet’s dog began to bark downstairs. Louisa glanced up to find that, from behind her spectacles, Yael was regarding her. Her sister-in-law snapped shut a tin of peppermints.

“Is something wrong, Louisa? You look drawn.”

“I’m quite well, thank you, Yael. You?”

Yael nodded.

“Nothing to complain of, dear.”

Louisa took a needle from the little silk pouch that Harriet had made for her, more years ago than she cared to remember. She and Yael shared neither the ease nor the heartfelt quarrels that Louisa had with her own sisters and she didn’t feel inclined to discuss the events of the last two days.

The dog’s bark intensified, the front door opened, and from the street the sound of turning hooves floated up the stairs. Blundell’s voice preceded him into the room.

“Has my sister arrived? Ah, there you are.” He poured himself a measure of gin and pulled up a chair in front of Yael’s. “I expect Louisa’s told you what’s afoot?”

Louisa shook her head.

“Not yet, Blundell. There hasn’t been the opportunity.”

“I won’t beat about the bush, Yael,” he said. “Harriet’s no better. Grammaticas prescribes a trip up the Nile.”

“I see.” Yael looked startled. She sat straighter on her chair, her bulk lightly balanced. “It sounds an extreme measure.”

“Extreme measures are called for,” Louisa said. “Harriet is failing.”

“Poor girl,” Yael said. “I shall pray for her.”

Blundell got to his feet again.

“I have something to ask of you, Sis.”

“What might that be?”

Yael’s tone was wary. It was unfair, Louisa thought privately, that the care of their father fell entirely to her sister-in-law. Blundell paid the bills but it was Yael who sat with the old man morning and evening, listened to his complaints, read the newspaper aloud from cover to cover. Blundell barely sat down when he visited; he stood at the writing desk issuing checks and totting up accounts. He was speaking again.

“Louisa is ill equipped on her own to go halfway across the world,” he said, neutrally, as if he was relaying a known fact.

“What on earth do you mean, Blundell?” Louisa’s hand ceased stitching.

Yael was staring at him through the thick glass spectacles that seemed to serve the purpose of enabling others to see her more clearly, by the way they magnified her gray, serious eyes. Louisa had been unable to escape the realization, years earlier, that Harriet had her aunt’s eyes.

“It will only be for a month or two,” Blundell said. “Three at most, the doctor says.”

“Who will care for Father?”

Blundell put down his glass, lowered his hands toward the flames rising from an ash log.

“Mrs. Darke knows his routine better than anyone.”

Yael levered herself up from the seat, gripping the arms with her hands. “You wish to entrust our father to a housekeeper?”

Blundell spoke gently. “He barely knows who you are, Yael. He won’t suffer from your absence. Harriet needs you more.”

The girl had arrived with the tray and was fiddling with the teaspoons. Louisa dismissed her with a look and went to the table, carefully filled the first cup; the best pot had always had a dribble down the spout. She couldn’t imagine embarking on a journey with Blundell’s sister. She and Yael had no common ground. Louisa had time for neither charity work nor Bible study, and Yael took no pride in her appearance, nor was she interested in the spiritual realm.

Yael had retrieved her bonnet. It hung limply in her hand, the tips of the old gray feathers brushing the rug. Like a dead thing, Louisa thought, with a silent, internal shudder.

“Louisa?” Yael said. “What is your view of this fandango?”

“For Harriet’s health, I will do what I must.” She couldn’t think properly, felt as if the season had invaded her head. “I’m sure we shall manage perfectly well alone. Do take a cup of tea, Yael.”

Yael stared at her, then turned back to her brother.

“I have never believed Harriet ought to be encouraged in her strange ideas, Blundell. I would have thought the Holy Lands a more suitable destination. But I hope I can always be relied upon to do my duty.”

A moment later, the front door slammed again. Louisa went to the window and drew back the lace curtain. The house appeared to float in an ocean of fog and Yael had vanished. Resuming her seat, trying to gather her thoughts, Louisa held up the eye of her needle to the lamplight.

“She’s a brick,” Blundell said.

“But she didn’t agree to it,” Louisa interrupted.

“She didn’t disagree. I’ll see the shipping agent in the morning. The bank has a villa in Alexandria you should be able to use.”

“I cannot picture your sister in the tropics,” Louisa said, her tone measured.

“It isn’t the tropics. It is the Near East.”

He sounded distracted.

“Even so,” Louisa persisted, “it will be hot.”

Blundell sat down and leaned back in his chair, rested the glass on his chest.

“Yael has always been fond of Harriet.”

Louisa pulled the end of cotton through the narrow eye. It was true. Yael took more interest in Harriet than Louisa’s own sisters did, giving her prayer books with pages edged in gold leaf, a copy of Bunyan’s
Pilgrim’s Progress
, tracts on the condition of women. Only Louisa’s younger sister, Anna, kept in regular touch with Harriet, writing long letters from whichever far-flung part of the world she found herself in, sending gifts. Louisa suspected Anna of fomenting some of Harriet’s eccentricities.

Blundell was on his feet again.

“The truth is that Egypt is bankrupt,” he said. “It isn’t the best of times but I don’t suppose that will affect you.” He looked around at her. “Don’t fret, Louisa. Yael will manage things. She always does.”

•  •  •

Lavinia sat at Louisa’s dressing table with her back to the mirror. “ ‘Opera glasses,’ ” she said. “ ‘Twine. Smoked spectacles.’ However will you transport it all?”

Louisa shrugged. Lavinia had thrown herself into the idea of the trip to Egypt. Earlier in the day, she’d helped Rosina drag the two trunks up from the cellar, set them to air in Louisa’s bedroom, their lids thrown back on their necks. She’d commandeered the guidebook Blundell had brought home and was poring over the list of necessities.

Lavinia lifted the book again, held it close to the candle, and raised her voice.

“ ‘Gentlemen ought to take their firearms for hunting with them. Both weapons and shot are difficult to procure.’ ”

“We are not gentlemen,” Louisa said.

It was Boxing Day, three o’clock in the afternoon, and the sky beyond the window was as thick as porridge. It was a pity to be aggravated by her sister, when they met so rarely. Louisa had thought she might confide her worries to Lavinia, but all through the first two days of the visit, busy with preparations, with a pair of geese and innumerable puddings and pies, with welcoming her sons and Tom’s new wife, who was still—as far as the eye could tell—not pregnant, Louisa hadn’t been able to get Lavinia alone. Now that the opportunity had arrived, she found herself unable to speak her fears aloud.

Lavinia closed the book.

“Must you go, Louisa? If you don’t wish to?”

“The doctor believes the dry climate will be beneficial. And Harriet desires it, more than anything.”

Louisa studied the pattern of pink roses on the rug. She wouldn’t mention the instruction she had received. Like Blundell, Lavinia was opposed to Mr. Hamilton. Louisa wondered sometimes if her sister envied her, because their mother could speak to her from the afterlife. She shivered, at the memory of her voice, the words she’d uttered.

The sound of coughing floated down the stairs and Lavinia put down the book on the dressing table. She looked at Louisa, her head tilted to one side.

“We all pray that it may help Harriet. But is it wise? For you, I mean. You’ve always been so . . .” Lavinia looked up at a watercolor on the bedroom wall of a baby crawling among the daisies on a clifftop. “So careful.”

Louisa pulled out a plain linen shirt from the heap of garments on the bed. The shirt was old; she’d worn it summer after summer for picnics on the beach at Boscombe. Holding the collar under her chin, Louisa began to fold the sleeves across the back, turn the shoulders in on themselves.

“I ought to be able to travel with my daughter without fear, oughtn’t I? After all these years.”

“Yes, you ought. I wasn’t saying otherwise.” Lavinia hesitated. “I often wonder, Izzy. Do you ever hear anything . . . from those days? Anything of her?”

Louisa shook her head.

“Nothing at all? Not a word?” Lavinia persisted.

Louisa glanced at the closed door of the bedroom. Shook her head again.