Whispers in the Sand (35 page)

“Good.” Serena looked up and smiled. She drew in a deep breath. “The reason I don’t blast him, as you put it, is because he gets to me quite badly, and sometimes he makes me so angry with his cheap jibes and sarcasm and bullying that I’m terrified I might just snap and say something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.” She paused. “And I could do him some serious damage, Anna. Believe me. I know enough what you call invective to do that!”

There was a long silence. “This is all real, isn’t it.” Anna rubbed her face with her hands. “Just because most people can’t see or understand, it doesn’t mean it’s not there.” She sighed. “And one can’t make it go away by saying it doesn’t exist. Not in the end.” She looked at Serena. “I’m afraid.”

Serena leant across and took her hand. “I’ll be there for you. Whenever you want me.” She glanced up and shook her head wearily. “Look, the others are coming back. It must be time to go. We’ll talk about this later.”

On the bus, Anna sat next to Ben. Andy seated himself at the very front and bombarded Omar with questions. Serena, across from Anna, said very little. She appeared to be deep in thought and when they returned to the boat, she disappeared at once towards her cabin. Anna stared after her thoughtfully, then, making her way towards her own cabin, she picked up the phone. It was several seconds before Serena answered. “I wanted to talk to you some more.” Anna said quickly. “Can you come here, to my cabin? That way we won’t be interrupted again.”

Serena gave a quiet laugh. “By dear, oh so attentive Andy? All right, my dear. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be with you.”

Anna did not check to see if the scent bottle was there. Nor did she allow herself to look over her shoulder or into the mirror. If the priests were real, then she had to decide quickly if Serena could help or if her interference would merely exacerbate the situation. There was, she reminded herself, one final remedy for the situation which would end things once and for all: the river. And next time she would make sure there was no one there to see her throw the bottle in. She bit her lip suddenly. Suppose she did throw it in? And suppose that merely made the priests angry?

She took a deep breath. Don’t think about it. From now on, her mind was closed. All she had to do was to keep it that way, and if she was strong enough and made a tremendous effort and refused to give in to her imagination, there would be no more visitations; she would allow herself to imagine nothing; anticipate nothing; fear nothing. And there was another thought to cling to. The possibility that Andy was right and she and Serena were wrong. That the shadowy visions which had invaded her mind were no more than the febrile imaginings of an overheated brain.

Sitting down on the bed, she pulled open her bedside drawer. There was no harm in glancing at the diary until Serena appeared. Even if Louisa were writing about the priests and her own visions, it would still distract her. She pulled it out and sat for a moment looking at the worn cover. Had Phyllis had any idea, she wondered suddenly, what a time bomb she had unleashed on her great-niece when she had passed over the diary, and years earlier, the little scent bottle, a romantic present for a small, acquisitive child?

She sighed. Refusing to so much as look up and glance round the cabin, she opened the diary and began to turn the pages slowly, looking for the marker she had left between them, the postcard she had bought which showed the temple of Edfu against a blazing sunset.

Louisa spoke to the
reis
in private, begging him to give a message to Hassan, but he merely shrugged and shook his head. The friendly smile, the twinkling eyes of their captain had gone. He looked at her with cold reproach, and his politeness was formal and curtailed as he turned away about his duties. Louisa climbed onto the upper deck and leant against the rail, her parasol shading her from the heat of the morning sun. She stared across the Nile at the moorings on the far side. The Fieldings’
dahabeeyah
was deserted. That of Lord Carstairs just beyond it showed only one man, sitting cross-legged on the afterdeck, stitching a sail. Miserably, she crumpled the note she had written to Hassan in her hand, then she let it drop into the water. It floated for a while then grew water-logged and slowly sank out of sight.

Some time later, the squeak of oars nearby made her glance up, and she saw with a sinking heart that Lord Carstairs was being rowed over towards them. She watched, unsmiling, as he raised his hand in salute. Feigning not to notice, she turned away and walked across to the other side to look instead towards the town. Augusta had gone ashore with the Fielding ladies earlier that morning to visit the bazaar. Louisa had declined to go with them. She had no heart for shopping.

It was only a short time later that she heard a step on the deck behind her.

“Mrs. Shelley. I feel I owe you a deep and heartfelt apology.”

She did not turn round. “You do, Lord Carstairs. And you owe an even greater one to my dragoman, who has been dismissed, thanks to your interference.”

There was a moment’s silence. Seeing that she did not intend to turn and speak to him, Carstairs moved over to the rail and leant on it beside her. “My motives were entirely honourable, I assure you,” he said softly. “Will you allow me to try and make amends? I understand they will start to take us up the cataract this afternoon. The
Ibis
is to go first, I believe. Will you allow me to escort you on a picnic on the rocks so you can watch her as she starts her journey upriver from here? It would make a wonderful subject for your painting. I have heard that the Nubians take to the water like fish as they pull on the ropes. Their children join in. It will be a wonderful spectacle.”

They were staring out across the water, side by side. In the distance, she could see the horse-drawn garis on the Corniche, the donkeys with their assorted riders, several boats pulled up on the sand near the quay. He watched beside her in silence, content to have planted the idea, perhaps aware of the struggle she was having with her conscience. Half of her wanted desperately to accept his invitation; the chance to draw the boat from the rocks was too tempting to ignore. On the other hand, she was still furious with him, still intensely aware of the disloyalty it would show to Hassan.

“Think of your paintings, Mrs. Shelley. It would be a shame not to show the cataract in all its aspects.” The soft voice beside her was persuasive. “It is the least I could do to try and make up for your loss.”

She looked at him sharply. He was still staring into the distance. He did not turn.

She gave in, in the end. It was, as he said, foolish to throw away the chance of watching, at least for part of the time, from the rocks and getting the chance to record the event. And going with him did not mean that she had forgiven him, or ever would.

Gathering up her painting equipment later that afternoon, she followed Carstairs down into his sandal, intensely aware that on this occasion she would not be able to change into her comfortable dress and would remain fully and formally clothed, even in the river spray.

It was only as they rowed away from the
Ibis
that she noticed Venetia Fielding on the deck of her brother’s boat, watching them. Even from that distance, she could feel the woman’s anger and jealousy.

They landed on an outcrop of rock above one of the narrower gorges between the islands, and Carstairs nimbly leapt ashore. The boatman passed over the picnic, her painting things, and an array of soft tapestry cushions wrapped for dryness in oiled cloth, Carstairs slipped the man a handful of coins in return, and then he waved him away. “This will give us a splendid view as they pull the boat up against the current.” He smiled at her. Holding out his hand, he helped her towards the cushions with effortless courtesy and handed her the parasol. She sat down, wondering how he expected her to paint and hold the thing at the same time.

The rush of water precluded much speech. Leaving her to unpack her paints alone, Carstairs went and stood on the edge of the rock, staring downriver towards the place where the boat would first appear. He stood for a long time seemingly lost in thought, then at last he turned back towards her. Propping her parasol behind her, she had opened a sketchbook and was pencilling in a rough outline of the canyon. The spray from the falls had soaked a corner of her skirt, but she had not noticed.

She glanced up. “Would you be very kind, my lord, and bring me a little water?” She held out her water pot to him and smiled. He took it, and for a moment their eyes met. In the bright sunlight, his irises were colourless as glass, his expression fathomless. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his. She felt for a moment as if she were falling, then, abruptly, she tore her gaze away. As she glanced down at the water swirling round the rock, she caught sight of an enigmatic smile, there only for a second, then it was gone—so swiftly that she wondered if she had imagined it.

She watched as he squatted at the edge of a rock pool constantly filled by spray and quickly swished her little paint pot round, then he stood up again and brought it to her.

She took it with a nod. “I’m afraid you will be bored, my lord.”

He shook his head. “Indeed not. You are quite wrong about my boredom levels. I have infinite patience.” To her surprise, he lowered himself onto a cushion next to her and crossed his legs. She shrugged. Dipping her brush into the water he had brought her, she selected colours from her box, mixed them, and began to brush the resulting shade swiftly onto the paper.

When next she looked at him, the sun had moved slightly. The shadows just beyond her were deeper than before. There was still no sign of the
dahabeeyah
and its escort. He was sitting in exactly the same position as he had been when she had last looked up, his eyes focused on her sketch but, she was certain, not actually seeing it. She stopped painting and laid down the brush softly. He made no move. Pushing the sketchpad off her knees, she rose silently to her feet and stood looking down at him. He still gave no sign that he had noticed her at all.

“My lord?” She spoke quietly in his ear. “My lord? Roger? Are you all right?” His eyes were open, his pupils tiny points of black in the strange clear irises. His back was absolutely straight, his hands resting loosely on his knees. He was, as far as she could see, in some kind of reverie.

With a shiver, she straightened. After watching him for a few more seconds, she turned away. She went to stand by the water’s edge, staring at the rocks, wondering if she should try to wake him. At that precise moment, she saw the first figures appearing at the mouth of the gorge, the ropes over their shoulders. Within a few seconds, the river was a turmoil of shouting, laughing men, as, with a dozen or so on each of the four lines, she saw them dragging the heavy boat up against the torrents of water towards her.

“It’s a splendid sight, is it not?”

She jumped at the voice right beside her. Carstairs was standing close to her, his eyes on the activity before them.

“It is indeed.” She glanced at him sideways. His face was shaded beneath the brim of his white pith helmet, and she could not see his eyes at all.

“Do you wish to make a few quick sketches? I shall unpack our food, and I must find some baksheesh for the boys. The moment they spot us they will want to dive for us.” Suddenly he was all efficiency as she sat down once again with her sketches, unpacking the picnic hamper, laying out the small cloth, pouring the wine.

With a roar of triumph, the men dragged the boat closer, and Louisa could see Augusta and Sir John now, on the roof of the forecabin. As she looked up, they began to wave.

“We’ll rejoin them once they are through the first rapid.” Carstairs passed her a glass of wine. “Then you’ll be able to experience it from the other end of the tow rope, so to speak. Shall we drink a toast?” He held out his glass, and she felt obliged to respond. For a second, their hands touched, then he raised his wine and put it to his lips. “
Saluté
, beautiful lady.”

However hard she tried to resist, she could not stop herself from glancing up to meet his eyes. This time it was more than she could do to look away. She was too tired. She felt herself relaxing back onto the cushions. He had moved closer to her now, bending over her. “Louisa, my dear, shall I take your glass? We do not want to spill it, do we.” His mouth was close to her face, his eyes, holding hers, so huge they were like great whirlpools, threatening to draw her in and drown her. “Shall I move your parasol, my dear, to shade you better? There.”

Her eyes were closing. She couldn’t help it. She could feel his mouth on hers. It was firm, commanding. A thrill of excitement coursed through her veins, and then, suddenly, he was sitting up.

“
Yalla
,” he roared. “
Imshi!
Go away!”

A small boy, dressed only in a loincloth, was standing dripping on the rock beside them.

As she dragged herself drowsily upright, she saw the boy turn. He leapt off the rock back into the boiling, foaming waters. “Oh my God, he’ll drown.” She heard her own voice, shrill and frightened.