The Shape of Sand (11 page)

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Authors: Marjorie Eccles

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

BOOK: The Shape of Sand
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“She ought not to be allowed out in daylight,” remarked Daisy, joining them.
“Oh, Daisy!” scolded elder sister Vita, but laughing, unable to hide her amusement. Then, “Ah, there's darling Dolly!”
“In that case please excuse me,” Harriet said, rolling her eyes. Dolly Dacres was Vita's dearest friend, who was to be one of her bridesmaids and who was to be married herself, to a rising young man in the Foreign Office, a month after Vita. “With the two of you together talking weddings, there'll be no
getting a word in edgeways.”
 
“I haven't seen you all day, where have you been hiding yourself?” Beatrice asked Kit.
“Oh, I borrowed Wycombe's motor and took myself out for a spin. I couldn't stand all the fuss going on here.”
“And he allowed you to? You surprise me.”
“Oh, he'll do anything for me,” Kit said carelessly. With an odd little smile twisting his lips he glanced to where Wycombe was standing, for the moment alone.
Beatrice conceded, reluctantly, that this was true. She said rather sharply, “Well, it was too bad of you to disappear, on my birthday, but did you get my note about the lilies? Thank you, my dear, a perfectly charming present.”
“Not as charming as the recipient,” said Kit. “You look like a lily yourself tonight.”
Beatrice smiled, deciding to accept the flattery for what it was worth. She knew she was looking her best in the new oyster silk crêpe-de-chine from Paquin, with a black velvet rose tucked in where the deep vee neck met the high, self-embroidered waistband. She had to glide, rather than walk, a gracious white swan, for the skirt of the dress was fashionably narrow at the ankles, with only a kick of short pleats in a triangular godet to one side, a necessity to enable her to move at all. She carried a black silk fan, her sculpted, silver-gilt hair gleamed, and Clara Hallam had skilfully used the new hair ornament to anchor a cluster of black feathers into it to further show it off. The garnets glowed like fire against her voluptuous bosom.
“Should you like some more strawberries?” Kit asked.
“No, thank you. I
should
have liked to have gone with you when you took Wycombe's motorcar out, though. There's been no peace here today.”
“I wish I'd known. We could have driven off into the wide blue yonder and never come back,” said Kit, fully aware that he had drunk one glass of champagne too many and was perhaps going beyond what was acceptable.
Apparently not. “What fun!” Beatrice laughed. “But Harriet would never have forgiven us.”
Suddenly, the banter had vanished. They were skating on the edge of very thin ice indeed. “Where is Harriet?” Beatrice asked abruptly.
“I don't know. She's got her sights on me to help with this entertainment they're getting up. Oh Lord, there she is, I must go.” He raised her hand to his lips, blue eyes gazed into blue for a full half-minute. He was not quite sure whether he heard, or imagined, her whisper, “Later,” for she had already turned her head.
 
Halfway through the festivities the daughters of the house disappeared and presently the guests were urged to assemble under the trees whose leaves trembled in the hot, breathless evening, in front of the folly, down by the lake. There, little gilt chairs had been set out in rows before a curtain, looking suspiciously like the one from the old nursery, which had been rigged up between two elms. From behind it issued muttered whispers and smothered laughs, until Marcus started up his gramophone and the curtains parted.
 
Later, Harriet wrote in her notebook:
 
We managed to get through the tableau without disaster, despite my fears. Daisy looked fresh as a flower and Vita perfectly lovely, though nothing could make any of us look like a goddess. Vita in particular is too warm and too – well, earthy, and her eyes danced at Bertie all the time we kept up our pose, which we were in fact able to do for several minutes before Marcus started his gramophone and Vivaldi's ‘Spring' began. This was the signal for us to come to life, and we danced in a circle, as gracefully as we could manage, until Kit and Marcus drew the curtain on us, to a storm of applause and shouts of “The ‘Three Graces'! Bravo!” Gratifying, even though it was mostly out of politeness. Mama was looking so happy, smiling and clapping, with the lovely garnets Papa had given her glittering against that gleaming oyster silk.
 
And then, as the music continued, Daisy danced off the ‘stage', waving her arms about, followed by Vita and me, and we all went quite mad. The guests joined in, even Teddy Cranfield danced with – or rather dragged around – poor, lumpy Selina Horsley, and Miss Jessamy, who had been sitting a little to one side, doing
sketches of people, was pulled to her feet by Marcus. She barely comes to his shoulder. I would have loved to see those sketches she'd been doing, but when I asked, she said, quite politely, that they were only for her own amusement. Bertie, of course, danced with Vita, and Daisy danced by herself until one of the Houghton-Vesey boys beat his brother to claiming her after only a moment or two. I wasn't surprised. She looked ravishingly pretty. Mama had better look to her laurels when her youngest daughter is launched into society.
Kit whirled me around for a while and then went off in search of more champagne, though he'd already had enough, and I was very much afraid I was going to be paired off with Mr Iskander. Oh, misery! as Daisy would have said. He was the spectre at the feast tonight, looking bored and sulky, except when I had caught a glimpse of him near the backstairs, deep in conversation with – Hallam, of all people.
How very odd, I reflected, until I remembered that Hallam had been with Mama on that Egyptian tour they had taken, so they would be acquainted. Perhaps they were talking about Egypt. He is rather a bore on the subject of his own country and its proud civilisation, but it is the only thing which one can find to talk to him about, and the only time he becomes animated. Although I cannot find it in me to like him, he is such a fish out of water that I can't help feeling a little sorry for him – though not when I think of those eyes, which can be so – merciless, is the word that comes immediately to mind. Is that why Mama sometimes seems so uneasy in his presence, and avoids him whenever she can? Possibly he and Hallam were commiserating with each other – he was obviously not enjoying himself, and she had taken umbrage at being detailed to be on hand with smelling salts for any of the ladies who were overcome by the heat, and a needle and thread ready in case of small, necessary repairs.
I escaped and went across to Papa who was standing a little apart, in the dusk, his eyes on the dancers. “You look very solemn, Papa. Why don't you dance with Mama again?”
“Wycombe does it so much better than I. They make a very handsome couple, don't you agree?”
That was true, but neither looked as though they were enjoying themselves. “Won't you dance with me?” I asked, tucking his hand beneath my elbow.
He smiled and began to shake his head. He does not really care
for dancing at all, but then he looked at me and I suppose he thought I had asked him because I felt left out – a wallflower! “And save me from Mr Iskander,” I added, rather quickly.
“That's a fate I would not wish upon anyone,” he said, after a moment's pause for thought. Papa does not often make jokes – and when I looked at him I saw he was not smiling. He was in a very strange mood tonight. Then he did smile, and bowed very gallantly and took my hand and escorted me to join the others.
 
Lord Wycombe and Beatrice waltzed politely, holding themselves carefully apart, as if they'd be glad when their duty was over. They spoke little, and avoided looking at each other. Perhaps they had nothing to say, or perhaps they were afraid of what they might say if they did speak.
Then suddenly he said, abruptly, “What was Kit saying to you? Was he telling you how he inveigled me into letting him borrow my precious Silent-Knight?”
“Inveigled? Does that mean blackmailed?” She smiled. “But what hold could he possibly have over you?”
He almost missed a step, held her a little tighter until they regained the rhythm. “That was not what I meant,” he answered stiffly. “No, he threatened to get in the way and disrupt proceedings if I did not, which you know he's perfectly capable of doing.”
“He means no harm. It's just a lot of silly talk because he's not sure of himself.”
“Then it's time he was, at his age,” his Lordship said sternly, his eyes resting for a moment on Kit, who was leaning against a tree, part of a group, but not joining in. Despite himself, his expression softened, and he sighed. “He's allowed too much rope. A spell in the army would have knocked all that out of him.”
“You sound just like Amory!”
“That's hardly surprising. We think alike on most things.”
Their glances met. Hers was the first to fall. “Oh, Beatrice!” he exclaimed wearily, under his breath. After that, they danced in silence until she was claimed by someone else.
 
“Well, Bayah-tree-chay?”
“Well, Valery?”
“I am still awaiting my answer.”
This had to stop. One way or another. She knew that it would come to the point where she must bow to the inevitable - but would it end there? Tonight she had been so very happy, and because of it, she found a sudden determination, a strength surging in her that she hadn't known she possessed. She would not allow anything to spoil tonight, nor mar her life by regrets that she hadn't taken the opportunity when it arose. So be it. She let her hand rest on his arm. His other hand closed over hers and at the remembered touch, her breathing quickened. “Very well. Tonight, when everyone has gone.”
The celebrations had been a triumph, and social success always gave Beatrice an unusual animation. She felt vibrant and alive, keyed up, aware that the wine, plus the decision to act, at last, had brought a becoming flush to her cheeks, a sparkle to her eyes. At midnight, when the very last of the guests had gone home, or to their rooms if they were houseguests, her senses still felt as tautly-tuned as violin strings. The night could have gone on for ever, as far as she was concerned. While the servants, some of whom had to be up at five the next morning, hurried to clear away the debris of the party and leave the rooms tidy, aching for their beds after their long, hard day's work, their mistress drifted through the rooms where the aromas of cigar smoke, flowers and women's scent lingered, as if reluctant to let it all go, bending her head to breathe in the scent of a bowl of roses, touching this and that, looking out into the blackness of the now still garden while stroking a velvet curtain, as if drawing its sensuous feel into her fingertips. Staring at the ormolu clock on the drawing room mantelpiece, her shoulders tense, then from the portrait of herself above it, painted by John Singer Sargent, to her actual face in the looking glass, suddenly anxious and sad, as if she didn't really know who this stranger was. At last she made her way to the foot of the stairs – but no, it was only to murmur to Albrighton that she'd decided to take a last turn in the garden. A footman clearing the last of the plates from the supper room dared to roll his eyes at the butler, but Albrighton, always correct, pretended not to see. Waiting to lock up, he swallowed a yawn, stretched his eyelids and wished his shoes weren't so tight.
It wasn't until some time later that Beatrice at last went up to her room and sent for Hallam, who must have been dropping with fatigue but wasn't allowing herself to show any signs of it. When the hair ornament and feathers had been
removed and she'd been helped out of her dress and stood only in her shift, her black kimono loosely shrugged on, Hallam stood waiting for her to sit before the mirror.
“Oh, leave my hair!” Beatrice said, suddenly impatient. “I'll see to it myself.”
The other woman paused, hairbrush in hand, her eyebrows raised.
“I'm quite capable of taking a few pins out, Hallam!” she said sharply. “You may go.”
“Very well.” Hallam's eyes flickered, but she put the brush down, bent to pick up an armful of the silk underclothes Beatrice had stepped out of, and left.
Almost immediately, the door from Amory's dressing room opened and he came in just as Beatrice was lifting her arms to remove her hairpins. He had discarded his jacket and replaced it with a red silk dressing gown, and he was wearing his soft, morocco leather slippers.
“I have just come to say goodnight, Beatrice.”
“Oh, it has been such a lovely birthday!” She went to him, and impulsively wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her cheek against his, moulding her soft body against him. She was almost as tall as he.
He kissed her gently on the forehead and held her at a little distance. “A tiring one, for both of us, I'm afraid, but I'm glad you enjoyed it so much.”
“Everyone helped to make it lovely. How clever the girls were with their little tableau – and they looked so charming.”
“We have some very beautiful daughters – almost as beautiful as their mother.” His eyes rested on her with his wonted admiration, but she felt, as always, that his response was detached, dictated by propriety rather than warmth. When what she wanted, what she desired most of all …
‘Save me,'
she longed to say,
‘Save me from myself …'
“See you get a good night's rest,” he finished. “I have a couple of hours' work to do before I go to bed. Goodnight, my dear.”
She immediately withdrew herself and turned away so that he should not see her face. Her voice was flat as she said, “It's very late. Must you work tonight?” It was well after midnight,
there were dark circles under his eyes and his face looked drawn. He worked much too hard. She had never regarded herself as a clever woman, but it had occurred to her more than once that he drove himself too far, striving perhaps beyond the limits of his own competence.
“I'm afraid I must.”
“Goodnight then, Amory.”
“Goodnight, my love.”
After her bedroom door had clicked behind him, she sat staring at her reflection. All the life and animation had drained from it. Her face was paler than the shift beneath her wrapper.
She still had on her jewels and, slowly, she took off the garnet bracelet. It slid like a snake on to the glassy surface of the dressing table. She unhooked the pendant earrings and laid them beside it, then lifted her hands to undo the necklace. Her fingers were not quite steady and she was unable to undo the awkward clasp behind her neck – better to leave it to Hallam's deft fingers, rather than break it. She reached for the bell to call the maid back, but her hand stayed in mid-air. For one horrifying moment, it seemed to her that the necklace encircling the base of her throat was a raw, gaping red wound, and the garnet drops depending from it were gouts of blood.
With a great gasp of despair, she buried her face in her hands. Amory, Amory! Was this, then, the form that retribution, Nemesis, fate, call it what you will, was to take? After all these years?
 
Wycombe had joined the party at Luxor, where they had already spent two days in the first class Luxor Hotel, in what seemed like sybaritic splendour after the confines of the dahabeah. It was pleasantly crowded with European society, and Millie had consulted the resident English doctor and been given some medication for her upset stomach. She had availed herself of the laundry facilities and those of the hairdresser, had even found that the hotel served excellent English tea, and was, consequently, much improved in temper by the time Wycombe was due to arrive. She had not yet come down to have breakfast with him and the others, which they were taking in the welcome shade of the hotel's garden, overlooking
the Nile. The fierce heat of the sun had already burnt off the sharp coldness of the early morning and was glaring from the sky on the procession of black-robed and veiled women who walked gracefully down to the river-bank, balancing heavy loads on their heads. The Nile boulevard was white and hot and dusty, and onto it, from the buildings at the side, fell deep shadows, sharp and dark.
“How very nice it is to see you again, Beatrice,” said Wycombe. He added stiffly, “You are looking very well. The journey has obviously suited you”.
She who accepted compliments gracefully, as a matter of course, felt a quick flush warm her cheeks. “Why thank you. I don't believe I've ever felt better in my life.”
After so long in the sole company of Egyptians (Glendinning, at the moment devouring a plate of three fried eggs and several slices of extravagantly buttered toast, scarcely counted), Wycombe's very Englishness was at once a shock and a tonic. He had come by rail overnight from Cairo, but after fourteen hours in what was said to be a train de luxe, the definition of which all depended on your standards of comparison, nevertheless managed to arrive trim, clean-shaven and spruce as always, the epitome of the British army officer.
Beatrice slowly ate some sweet, pink-fleshed melon, and watched a now familiar scene, sharp and clear in the hot sunlight: the busy traffic moving up and down the wide river, a felucca crossing to the west bank, leaning to the breeze, its sail like a curved white wing, while on the quayside further down, a host of dragomen, guides and donkey boys in their galabeyas and skullcaps sat on the ground, gossiping, smoking, one eye out for trade. A steamer had just arrived, and a shrill gaggle of eager, barefoot children in their short, vividly striped shifts chased each other around while waiting to beg baksheesh from the Cooks' tourists who would shortly be pouring down the gangway.
“How long are you able to stay, Myles?”
“I've accumulated some leave, so – nearly three weeks. Then I'll return with Amory, by rail, and leave the rest of you to sail back to Cairo. You've heard from him?”
“Yes. He will join us in a few days at Assuan, as planned,” murmured Beatrice.
Glendinning clapped his hands loudly for the white-turbaned waiter to bring more coffee.
“At once, effendi.”
“Must wait until Jardine arrives before we go to look at the dam, of course,” Glendinning said, rubbing his fiery chin. He had developed a bad case of prickly heat and had forgotten to apply the camomile this morning. “Sort of thing he'd appreciate.”
The building of the great dam at Assuan was an enormous undertaking, its complex of locks, drains and sluice-gates across the Nile, the greatest engineering work, next to the Suez Canal, ever undertaken in Egypt. When completed, it would hold back an immense reservoir of water which would enable the land to be irrigated throughout the summer, and make it possible for many otherwise waste and barren regions to be brought under cultivation, for cotton and the other crops on which the country's life and prosperity so desperately depended. It was the sort of enterprise which was certain to have Amory's wholehearted approval.
“Pity he wasn't here for the rest – missed some dashed good shooting on the way here,” Glendinning added, getting his priorities right.
It was indeed a shame he had missed so many wonderful things, agreed Beatrice, thinking guiltily of the journal she had started, which she had meant to keep religiously every single day, so that Amory could at least read about the marvels he would unfortunately have no opportunity, in his short stay, of seeing for himself. Her intentions, alas, had proved better than the deed – or perhaps it was because, in the end, what she had confided to her little book was purely for her eyes only. However, she had written regularly to him, letters that were posted at the various stopping places near to the railway, as it followed the line of the Nile – that same railway he would be journeying along in a short time. In her mind's eye she had seen him with her letters in his hand, characteristically pulling his long upper lip and smiling slightly as he read what she had written. She had described, with as much detail as she could
recall, the awe-inspiring monuments to a lost civilisation they had already seen, yes, but very little of the feelings they inspired in her (all that was too complicated, too involved with hidden meaning and her increasingly complex reaction to everything around her, as they journeyed ever deeper into the heart of the ancient world). Instead, her letters were confined to what she saw of the life lived along the banks of the river, in which people washed their clothes, performed their ablutions and carried from it drinking water in pots on their heads. She had described the water buffaloes tended by small boys, and the shadoufs that raised river water in leather buckets to irrigate the fields. She wrote about glimpses of distant minarets, so clear against the sky, of muezzins singing their queer, wailing call to prayer five times a day, and of Moslems kneeling to obey the calls, wherever they happened to be. Of a solitary camel and its rider, silhouetted against the magnificent sunset on a far distant hill. And often she would think: Oh, Amory! and wish intensely that he were with her. And was, for some reason, very glad that he was not. But soon, now, very soon, he would be here.
Spreading jam on a French croissant and pouring more coffee, Wycombe said, “You're right, Glendinning. The dam construction is something not to be missed, but it's only one of many expeditions we must make from Assuan. I'm told the splendid repairs to the temple at Abu Simbel are well worth the effort of getting there. A tremendous undertaking, carried out by our own Royal Engineers – and under dashed difficult circumstances, I might say.”
Millie arrived at that moment, just in time to hear his last remarks. She greeted Wycombe with a coquettish smile, very pleased with herself, quite restored and looking piquantly attractive this morning under a wide-brimmed Leghorn hat, wearing a muslin dress which had been exquisitely laundered and starched, even by her exacting standards. “Just a little fruit, please, waiter,” she said, as he drew out her chair. Then, as he left, “What was all that about? More ruins?”
She was still quite determined to be bored with tombs and temples – and also with donkey rides, which had
quite
lost their appeal – and looked deeply uninterested on being told
about Abu Simbel, rolling her eyes when Wycombe informed her that the great rock temple, originally carved out of the heart of a vast hillside, was yet another conception of that indefatigable builder, Rameses the Second. Now relieved of the three thousand-year burden of sand which had silted over them, as high as their heads, four colossal statues, over sixty feet high, guarded the entrance, each in Rameses' royal likeness.
“In case anyone should be in doubt as to who the builder was,” Beatrice teased her.
“Hmm. That man was vainer than Narcissus – and didn't he fall in love with his own reflection and die of unrequited love? You see, I'm not so ignorant as you think, Beatrice! I do remember something from my lessons,” said Millie lightly. “But when all's said and done, it's just another old temple.”
“Oh come, it's an astonishing experience,” Wycombe chided, though mildly enough, and he said it with a smile. He had grown accustomed to, and sometimes was amused by, Millie's outrageous statements when they were in Cairo. “Like nothing you've ever seen before, you may count on that. I think we may change your mind before then. You can't come all the way to Egypt and fail to see one of its greatest wonders. Meanwhile, you had better tell me what you have been doing since you arrived in Luxor, then we may decide how to expend the rest of the time here before we embark for Assuan.”

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