by more. Tossing her wrapper onto the chair where her
notebook had been placed, she decided she would tend to
her writing in the morning. She went to one of the windows
in the bay and slipped past the heavy draperies. She raised
the window a hand’s breadth.
This was another matter that vexed her grandmother.
Lady Kincaid believed night air was not healthy for anyone,
for it was damp and chilled. Darcy had never been able to
give up her habit of sleeping with a window partially open.
Or she had not wanted to, for one of her fondest memories
of Egypt was when Jaddeh had tucked her in for the night
and thrown open a window near Darcy’s bed that had been
draped in netting so the stars took on an extra twinkle.
Darcy started to turn from the window, then paused
when she saw stars. Not in the sky, for clouds still
concealed those stars and the moon. These stars were close
to the ground, flickering in the gentle breeze. They moved
slowly toward a dark mass she guessed was a wood. One
by one, they vanished.
What was that? Was someone poaching on the
Rosewood Hall property? No, for poachers would not carry
torches to alert someone to their presence. Who would be
out on such a dreary night when the grass must be soaked
from the rain?
Maybe it was nothing more than bog gas lighting up
the sky. There must be bogs on the moors beyond
Rosewood Hall, and the darkness was misleading her eyes.
Pushing back from the glass, she laughed quietly as
she said aloud, “You aren’t going to get any answers by
conjecture, especially when you’re exhausted.”
She drew aside the covers and climbed onto the high
bed. She realized she had not arranged for anyone to
awaken her. She started to slip out of bed to ring for the
housekeeper, then paused. At this hour, Mrs. Pollock might
be asleep, and surely the sunlight coming through the
windows would rouse her in time. Or should she ring for
the housekeeper? She was too tired to make even that
simple a decision.
After braiding her hair, she plumped the pillows and
then reached up to turn the gaslight down until the flame
was not much longer than her fingernail. She nestled down
into the pillows and waited for sleep.
It did not come, although yawns did until her eyes
watered. Every word spoken since she arrived at Rosewood
Hall played through her head.
She closed her eyes. She might have been a surprise
for Dr. Garnett, but the truth was Dr. Simon Garnett was
not what she had expected. When he spoke of his work,
he was as excited as a child with a new toy. Otherwise, he
acted like a dictator, assuming she would obey his orders
without questioning them. And when he touched her, he
set off an explosion of sensations she should not be feeling
along with thoughts she should not have.
Slowly she opened her eyes. She smiled when she saw
a warm light within her room. She had not been certain it
would follow her from London, although it had been her
companion since before she left Egypt.
What it was, Darcy had given up trying to guess. As
she gazed up at the small ball of light hanging—as
always—at the point where the wall and ceiling met, she
relaxed into the pillows. She once had thought that gentle
glow was just her imagination saving her from the darkness
she feared. Each night, when she was somewhere between
waking and sleeping, her light appeared. A comfort and a
reminder of what had been when she was a child in Egypt
and what she hoped would be again. It reminded her of
Jaddeh and the tales that had been told before her
grandmother bid her good night.
She had made the mistake of mentioning the light to
someone she had believed was a friend at school. The girl
had run to Miss Mumsey, who punished Darcy for lying.
That one lesson had warned her never to speak of it. Maybe
someday she would solve the puzzle of the lights—both
in the garden and the special one here.
As she finally surrendered to sleep, she was certain of
only one thing. She must figure out how to deal with Dr.
Garnett so he would not send her from Rosewood Hall.
~~~ Meskhenet rose as she was caught by the
stranger’s mysterious eyes. His height was no illusion she
discovered when she stood. He was at least a full head
taller than her brother the Pharaoh, he who before whom
all the world must bow in awe.
“Do you seek someone?” she asked.
The breeze off the river rustled the trees and bushes,
but he did not speak. He might have been one of the silent
statues raised in Ra’s temple.
“Tell me what you wish, stranger,” Meskhenet said.
She was curious to discover if his voice was as deep and
lush as the secrets hidden behind his stern eyes.
He raised a hand toward her, palm up. She took a single
step in his direction, then stopped. She was the daughter
of a Pharaoh and a Pharaoh’s beloved sister. Although she
would not be the wife of a Pharaoh, for that honor went to
her beloved oldest sister, the blood of gods flowed through
her. Only the man her brother selected for her should be
here offering his hand to her.
Who was this man? Man, or was he one of the gods
incarnate? Foolish was the mortal who did not offer
welcome to a god who came to walk among those whose
lives were weighed upon the scale of Thoth before they
could enter the eternal life of the underworld.
He did not move as he continued to hold up his hand,
but his eyes warmed. They did not slip along her, as other
men’s had, appraising her curves and the wealth of the
fabric covering them, but sought deep within her. When
his lips tilted in a hint of a smile, she wondered how she
could know he was the one she had been waiting for. It
was a way of knowing that had nothing to do with thought,
but with a feeling older than the ancient pyramids far to
the north.
Even the birds were silent as Meskhenet lifted her hand
toward the stranger. His fingers closed around hers in a
trap of flesh, warm and vibrant flesh. He brought her hand
toward his lips. She wanted him to kiss it, to discover if
the heat of a mortal was upon his lips or the cold caress of
a god.
When he pressed her hand to his forehead and bowed,
astonishing disappointment coursed through her. She never
had known a man’s mouth upon hers. Musicians and poets
spoke of the physical union of a man and a woman. They
called it a gift from Khensu-Nefer-hetep, who bestowed
mortals with love and children. Their songs hinted at
sensations she could only imagine. She wanted to
experience those pleasures herself.
Had she been only deluding herself when she looked
upon him and had this sense of knowing that could not be
explained? Fo
r a moment, she had believed he shared it.
Now . . . the moment was as commonplace as the one
before it and the one to follow.
“Speak your name, stranger,” Meskhenet whispered,
fearing her voice would betray the thoughts that should
not come into the head of the Pharaoh’s sister.
“I am no stranger to you, Beloved of Thoth,” he
answered, his voice as full and powerful as the Nile during
its flood.
“Beloved of Thoth?” No one had ever called her that.
The god, who decided if a soul would ascend to heaven to
spend eternity among Ra and his court, sent his light to
splash across her bed each moonlit night. But this man
was a stranger, wasn’t he? Maybe she had been mistaken.
Maybe he was asking the same questions she was,
questions that had no answer a mortal would understand.
“You speak of things I do not understand.”
“Do you understand this?” His broad hands, which
were as coarse as the sand beneath her sandals, framed
her face. He tilted her mouth toward his and . . . ~~~
***
“Good morning, Miss Kincaid,” came a cheery voice.
Darcy yelped as she was jerked out of the world she
was recreating from her memories.
“Did I startle you, Miss Kincaid?” asked Mrs. Pollock.
The bulky woman’s hair was as black as her unadorned
dress. A hint of white at the cuffs ruined her austere
appearance, but seemed to fit in with her kindness.
Yesterday, when she had escorted Darcy here, the
housekeeper had been anxious for Darcy to make herself
comfortable in this suite of rooms.
“No, no,” Darcy said.
“If you are busy writing a letter . . .”
“I can finish this later.” If it was discovered she was
writing a story based on the tales Jaddeh had told her, she
might be asked to leave posthaste. This was no longer
exactly the story her grandmother had told her.
Darcy looked down at the book. She had not
anticipated it would take this sensual turn when she began
writing it. Maybe she should tear up these pages and begin
anew. She stroked the notebook. How could she destroy
the captivating story of this meeting between Meskhenet
and the stranger who had come into her garden?
“Did you sleep well?”
Darcy stood, placing her book on the marble-topped
table by the French doors. The doors led to a balcony
overlooking part of the expansive gardens surrounding the
house. She had not found the balcony until this morning.
“I can’t imagine not sleeping well when the perfume of
roses fills the room.”
“Eddie, who oversees the gardens, keeps them
blooming until winter.” The housekeeper went to the low
table near a pale green sofa and poured coffee from the
silver pot set there. She held out the cup. “Dr. Hastings
likes to have roses all summer.”
“Dr. Hastings?”
A laugh rumbled from the housekeeper. “‘Twas simpler
when Dr. Simon was just a lad, but now he’s a professor,
too. Wouldn’t be right to call him ‘Mister’ any more.”
“I guess not.” Darcy dropped a cube of sugar into her
coffee and stirred it. She might be able to address the older
man by such a familiar name, but Simon Garnett was her
employer, and it would be unthinkable to use any name
but Dr. Garnett.
“Nash can take your letter into Halyeyn to post it when
you are done.”
“Halyeyn?”
“The village at the bottom of the hill.” Mrs. Pollock
bustled about the room, clearly not willing to leave until
she learned more about Darcy. “It is a charming place, but
nothing like London.”
“It sounds very pleasant. I hope to visit it soon.”
“You don’t like London?”
Darcy had not intended to intrigue the housekeeper
with her trite answer. Setting her cup on the table, she
said, “I can imagine no other place like London, but I prefer
the fresh air of the country.” But not this country, she added
silently. Only in her memory could she recall the odors,
some which were not pleasing, rising from the mud along
the Nile.
“You have come to the right place then.” Mrs. Pollock
tapped the wall by the door. A brass lamp hung there. “I
was surprised when Dr. Hastings had the house piped for
gas, but he did it because he didn’t want the smell of oil
lamps covering the roses’ scents. Cost him smartly to have
gas piped here from the village. But he is determined to
have exactly what he wishes.”
“Just like his son.”
Mrs. Pollock chuckled. “They are two of a kind. When
they get an idea in their heads, there’s no stopping them.”
Knowing she should not be gossiping about the
Garnetts with their housekeeper, she asked, “Was
something going on in the garden last night?”
“Last night?” The housekeeper’s face closed up as fast
as a slamming door. “Why do you ask, Miss Kincaid? Did
you hear something?”
“I saw what looked like torches going toward the wood
at the edge of the garden where the shrubs have become
overgrown.”
“Oh, my!” Mrs. Pollock turned away.
“What is it? If I chanced to see something I shouldn’t
have, you need only say so.” She could not imagine what
she might have witnessed that would cause the jolly
housekeeper to look so stricken.
“Yes . . . yes . . . Yes, that’s right. You saw something
you shouldn’t have.” Mrs. Pollock’s words came faster
and faster. “Looking out the windows at night on the edges
of these lonely moors isn’t wise.”
“Is there some danger?”
Mrs. Pollock faced her. “More things than one can
imagine. It’s said only fools go out after dark nowadays.”
Darcy’s next question was forestalled by the clock
chiming on the mantel. Eight o’clock. She had dawdled
too long with her writing. Now she was going to be late
for her first day of work.
Pulling on her double-breasted jacket of pink
velveteen, she gathered the ruffles along the side of her
pink-striped skirt as she rushed out of the room. With a
groan and an oath that would have brought a reprimand
from her grandmother, Darcy wheeled about and ran back.
She flashed the housekeeper a strained smile and plucked
her notebook from beneath Mrs. Pollock’s outstretched
hand. She did not want anyone—especially a housekeeper
who clearly had a love for chatter—reading what she had
written this morning.
She hurried along the arched hallway and down the
stairs at its dusky end. She did not pause as she reached
for the banister to the next flight leading to the ground
floor. Taking the steps at an uncomely pace, she gasped
when her foot slipped out from under her. She collapsed
in a flurry of pink ruffles and a jar that ached all the way
to her head.
“Are you hurt?” came a call from the shadows of the
upper hallway.
Darcy looked up to see Dr. Hastings Garnett regarding
her with a puzzled smile as he came around the end of the
staircase and down the stairs. She suspected she had
interrupted his reading because he carried a small volume.
When he held out his hand, she let him help her to her
feet. His hand was as dry as a mummy’s wrap, and she
pulled her hand away. Don’t be fanciful, she warned
herself. She should not be thinking about anything
Egyptian. Getting too caught up in Meskhenet’s story had
made her late.
“I’m fine, thank you, Dr. Garnett.” She clenched the
banister.
Dr. Hastings Garnett must once have had the
distinguished good looks his son possessed. Yet, even the
morning sunshine pouring through the pink glass could
not add a healthy glow to his complexion. His face was
lined in an abstract pattern of wrinkles, and his eyes were
heavy with what appeared to be exhaustion.
“You are in quite a hurry,” he said.
“I was to supposed to begin work at eight.”
“No need to hurry, Miss—Kincaid, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.” She stepped down another riser. “Dr. Garnett
was quite emphatic he wouldn’t abide tardiness.”
“A fine sentiment when he is late in returning from
his morning ride.” His smile sifted through the wrinkles.
“Don’t let Simon intimidate you. The fact you haven’t been
packed off this morning should prove how much he needs
you to prepare that tome of his.”
“Dr. Garnett wishes me to be—”
“Simon is still out of the house. Even if he has returned,
I can assure you that he has his nose in a dozen different
books by this time. Nothing is more important to him than
that damnable manuscript.” A surprisingly boyish
expression wiped the years from his lined face. “Forgive
my coarse language.”
“I have heard it before.”
“Most likely.” He pointed his pipe toward a settle at
the base of the stairs. “Do sit for a moment, Miss Kincaid.”
“I should—”
“You should obey your elders.”
His words were so like her grandmother’s Darcy
almost refused. Then she sat on the wide bench whose
carved back reached high along the side of the staircase.
“I continue to be amazed,” Dr. Garnett continued, “that