Wrapped (32 page)
Authors: Jennifer Bradbury
“Tentatively?”
“Quite. His acceptance is conditional on your own.”
“Then we would—I mean to say that—,” I stuttered, afraid of seeming too eager on this point.
“You would continue working with your friend,” my father said, adding, “under the watchful eye of Deacon, of course.”
“It’s far too valuable and productive a pairing to ignore the possibilities of future contributions,” Deacon said. “But I think you’ll find me an uncompromising chaperone. And I won’t be alone in keeping eyes on you. Miss Dimslow will be along for extra security.”
“When do we go?” I asked, finding it impossible and unnecessary to hide my joy. There would be Caedmon. And Deacon. And something to do with knitting needles.
“We’d like you to begin as soon as possible,” Deacon said.
I looked to Father, his head bowed as he studied the glasses on the low table. I sank to my knees in front of him. “Are you sure this is all right with you?”
He sighed. “I can’t think of any man who is happy about sending his daughter into a potentially dangerous situation.”
I nodded.
“But I also can’t think of anyone I’d trust more to do the work than you, darling,” he said. “Besides, it will save me having to shut the flue every time I mean to have a sensitive conversation in my study.”
I blushed, but felt far too excited to be properly ashamed.
“Then I have your blessing?”
“And my admiration, my affection, and my love,” he said, one tear escaping as his voice trembled.
After a long silence in which I held my father, Deacon cleared his throat. I broke off the embrace and turned to face the others.
“Forgive me,” I said, wiping at my eyes. “I find the social rules governing a young lady’s call to military service a bit fuzzy. I forget myself.”
Everyone laughed. I smiled as Father squeezed my hand.
Wellington stood, signaling that the interview had drawn to a close. “Well, Miss Wilkins, I salute your fortitude and courage. I’ve no doubt that the four of you will make quick work of this trouble in Egypt.”
“Egypt?” I whispered, looking quickly to Caedmon’s broad smile.
Wellington nodded. “I assume you’ve no objection. . . .”
He launched into a hurried description of some problem besetting the empire in Cairo. I nodded and tried to appear attentive, gazing at him as he spoke, but I confess I heard precious little. In my mind’s eye, I was already riding camelback beside Caedmon, covered head to toe in a veil. But in my vision, even that veil couldn’t hide the joy I felt as it radiated from me, like the heat shimmering from the desert sands.
And I was sure A Lady could not have crafted a happier ending.
Author’s Note
While Agnes’s adventure is fiction, the seeds for the story sprout from historical events and places. The hundred days, Napoleon’s interest in Egyptology, and even the existence of spies—the British version of which were often known as “Wellington’s Men”—are all part of the historical record. Even the use of heat-sensitive invisible ink—often lemon juice later activated by holding the paper close to a flame—has been widely employed for various military and espionage pursuits since the first century. And though there are tales of cunning female spies and operatives throughout history—from Rahab in the Bible to Mata Hari during the first World War—there are countless women lost to history who engaged in espionage on behalf of their countries. I prefer to think of Agnes like one of these women—a girl whose contributions to her country go unnoticed precisely because she was so effective.
In spite of my efforts to ground the story in historical detail, there are two liberties I have taken that I feel compelled to point out.
The British Museum established its collection of Egyptian antiquities after routing Napoleon’s forces from Egypt in 1798. Several mummies and the Rosetta Stone were among the items the French were forced to surrender to the British—an indignity some scholars say Napoleon never forgave. A great many of these became part of the collection at the British Museum, where they were featured in the exhibits of the Townley Gallery, which opened in 1808 and began fascinating visitors from all over the world. In fact, the Rosetta Stone has been continuously displayed in the British Museum since 1802. The fact that I have the Stone off display for cleaning in my story is, I hope, both forgivable and believable. The Stone was open to the air and the hands of visitors for most of its time in the museum; only recently has it been placed under protective glass. The Stone did require cleaning—even once to remove a bit of graffiti painted on the side by an overzealous British soldier.
Second, mummy unwrapping parties
were
in vogue in England and in other parts of Europe in the nineteenth century. Mummies were in such plentiful supply that they were processed and reborn (perhaps not quite what the ancient Egyptians had in mind) as paper, paint, railroad fuel, and even medicines. And for the adventurous (and wealthy) European traveling in Egypt, the souvenir of choice was often a mummy—one that might find its way into an entryway as a showpiece. The practice of mummy unwrapping parties, however, didn’t become widespread until a bit later than this story’s setting—nearer the late 1840s. I hope that historians can forgive me this liberty and will imagine with me what might have transpired if a mummy unwrapping happened as early as 1815, and concede that a man of Showalter’s means and motives might have hosted such an event as the one I describe in the story.
When I began writing
Wrapped
, I set out to write a book that combined my loves for the Regency period, Egyptian mythology and history, and stories featuring spies and secret agents. I’ve been pleased and spurred along by the way the history provided details for me on which to hang Agnes’s story, and delighted by the space left between the facts to do what all writers love: make stuff up.
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