The covered deep, p.5
The Covered Deep, page 5
“Sometimes. Although I don’t think my prose has ever been called charming before. A critic of my last book said the word exhausting, I believe.” He held his hand out to the candle path. “Shall we?”
Their walking was slower than before.
“Your last book? May I ask the subject?”
“The Italian Renaissance.”
She struggled to recall a fact that might please him. It had been so long since she’d read about the Renaissance. “You no doubt touched upon Petrarch, the father of humanism.”
“How could I not? He alone took up one hundred pages. I explored the lives of Castiglione and Machiavelli in the latter section, right after architecture such as the Duomo.”
The room was far too hot. Apparently the English didn’t believe in ventilation. “I’d love to read it.”
“Then I will make sure you have a copy before you leave tonight.”
Bianca allowed herself the liberty of looking directly into his eyes. She was frightened, suddenly, but forced herself not to glance away. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“You’re very kind.” Mr. Emerson turned into another corridor. “Here is Sir Hans Sloane’s collection of seventy-one thousand objects that formed the museum in 1753.” His gaze shifted to the locket at her throat, then back to her eyes. “The Egyptian Room. It’s just this way.”
Bianca took a quick look at his left hand as he slid it along the staircase rail. If only he’d take off his glove, she could end this madness. Not knowing if he was married was causing her mind to fray.
He opened a large door, and they stepped outside into a courtyard. The buildings of the museum surrounded them, the stars a ceiling of ink black-blue. The candle path curved around a circular building, and the flames moved gently in the wind.
“The Reading Room I told you about earlier.”
“Oh.” Moonlight smeared the many windows.
“Was—”
“Have—” She held up her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“No, please. I was only going to ask you if your Atlantic crossing was pleasant.”
“Yes. It was my first time on a ship.” She looked at the ground, realizing how unrefined she must sound. The smell of his shaving soap—sandalwood and citrus—was driving her to distraction. “And I was going to ask if you’ve always been interested in Egyptology.”
“Yes, I have.”
“What fascinates you most about the Egyptians?” Bianca clenched her fan. She must be sweating, but if she used it he’d know.
Mr. Emerson blew out his breath as if trying to decide. He opened the next door, bringing them back inside. “Have you heard of Professor Piazzi Smyth? He’s the Astronomer Royal for Scotland.”
“No.” Bianca shook her head and a curl came loose. The pin tinged on the floor.
“Please, allow me.” Mr. Emerson knelt and looked from stretching shadow to candlelight. He pulled on the edges of his right glove, took it off, and then reached for the pin. He stood.
He was mere inches away. And, oh, what a difference that made. Like falling into the deep end of the sea.
Bianca moved closer, just a step. The candlelight shone on his hair and turned it the color of burnished mahogany. She looked into his eyes and could barely breathe.
“Your hairpin,” he whispered. He placed it in her hand without touching her.
Bianca stepped back, embarrassed, and slid the pin into her hair. “My pins never want to stay in . . . My hair’s much too thick.” She cringed again. “Were you asking me a question?”
“I was wondering if you’d heard of Professor Piazzi Smyth.” He spoke the words like she was indeed a foreigner and translation was needed.
“No.” Bianca raised her hand to her temple and took a deep breath.
Mr. Emerson gestured to the next room. “You asked what fascinates me most about the Egyptians. To answer that, allow me to tell you about Professor Smyth.” He was purposely holding himself away from her, not standing as close as before. “About ten years ago he made an astounding discovery—that the Great Pyramid was located on the thirtieth degree of north latitude, and that its four triangular sides faced exactly the four points of the compass.”
Bianca keenly felt that she had offended him. What had she been thinking, standing so close? “Did he do this by exterior measurements?”
“Yes. And interior.” His scrutiny of her was acute. “Smyth also discovered that when the Great Pyramid was built—around 3500 BC—the descending passage pointed to the star Alpha Draconis, the chief star in the constellation of the dragon.” A faraway look crossed his face. “Excuse me.” Mr. Emerson reached into his frock coat. He withdrew a small leather journal and flipped it open to where a ribbon held a page. “Thuban in Arabic . . .”
He wrote a long sentence in another language. “Forgive me. Draconis means dragon, which is translated thuban in Arabic. I’ve been working on this subject recently, as you can see.” He turned the journal toward her. “This shows the constellation Orion. The three pyramids together map out an exact duplicate of it here on earth.”
“How is that possible?” Bianca stepped closer again and couldn’t help herself; she ran the tip of her finger along the drawing.
“That’s quite a good question, Miss Marshal. I’d like to know the answer myself.”
“From the looks of this page, I think you soon might find out.” For a moment she forgot his opinion of her, whatever that might be, and let the words draw her in. “May I?”
“Of course.” Mr. Emerson handed her the journal, seemingly glad to have a barrier between them. “But come into the light over here. I think we’re in danger of going blind where we stand.”
Bianca followed him to an archway where long-legged cranes were painted, their beaks holding fish. Candles were stacked like a shrine.
He slid his hands into his pockets. “You asked what intrigued me about Egyptology. The questions do, and all the secrets yet to be discovered. All history is like that, don’t you think?”
“I agree.” Bianca put her finger under the next page, but lifted her gaze for his permission.
He nodded his consent.
More drawings and multiple languages scattered the page. “Daddy and I often talk for hours about the mysteries of history.” She tried to count the languages, but stopped at seven. “It’s strange to find something so familiar this far from home.” A candle hissed and then extinguished. “What do you make of the Sphinx, Mr. Emerson? I’ve always thought there must be some great mystery there.”
“You’re very clever,” he said slowly. He closed the distance between them and turned the journal back two pages. There were drawings of the Sphinx from every angle—the head, the tail, the paws. Random notes were scribbled at different slants—Faces due east. Stares straight into the sun on day of spring equinox. Dedicated to the constellation Leo? And there, down by the drawing of raindrops, he’d written in large letters—SHOWS CLEAR LINES OF GREAT WATER EROSION.
The strange music began again. Bianca looked up, jarred from reading and taken out of the ancient world. “I could spend a lot of time reading this.”
Unease crossed his face, but just as quickly he pushed it away. Mr. Emerson lifted the journal from her hands and closed it. “At least you didn’t say it read like a McGuffy Reader . . . The Sphinx is on the sand. The sand is hot. The Sphinx is old. Good-bye, Sphinx, good-bye.”
Bianca’s laugh sounded louder than she’d intended. “Quite the opposite. I’m beginning to wonder if you’re capable of dull subjects.”
Mr. Emerson slid his journal, and all its secrets, back into the silk of his elegant frock coat. His gaze was as erratic as a summer storm.
“What is it?” Bianca asked.
When he spoke, the velvet tones had returned. “Nothing of consequence . . . I was only thinking that I shall enjoy this journey . . . very much.”
Chapter 4
Although Mr. Emerson had said it with a gentlemanly sort of deportment, there was something uncertain behind the words. Something unspoken.
Something Bianca desperately wanted to know.
She looked past the crisp fold of his collar to the hieroglyphics on the archway. She could feel his gaze upon her; it was conflicted warmth—like shivering in summer rain. Bianca parted her lips to speak, wanting to ask him if he was fond of Shakespeare, or, more importantly, if he was a Christian. Her smile brushed the questions away. “The Egyptian Gallery . . . It must be through here.”
“Did Amun-Ra give it away?” He lifted his eyes to the Egyptian statue looming behind her that she hadn’t seen.
She tried not to cringe for the umpteenth time. Or laugh like she was fit for Bedlam.
She wasn’t successful.
“Do all the young ladies in southern Ohio blush as much as you do?”
“No. It’s a talent I’ve had to cultivate over the years.”
Mr. Emerson’s gaze softened and indiscernible thoughts crossed his features—the lifting of the corner of his lips, concentration on his brow. His eyes took on a shade of darker green, magnified in the glow of the candles. “Time well spent.”
The sound of footsteps echoed down from the corridor beyond.
“That must be someone from our party coming.” Mr. Emerson inclined his head toward the doorway. “We should go.”
A biting draft flowed past the hieroglyphics.
The candle flames shrank like minions and bowed against the dark. Shadows shifted. The shape of a man materialized from the outer darkness beyond the Egyptian reliefs. “Ah, here you are.” His voice held the commanding tones of emperors and kings. His hair was the uncommon shade of red and his eyes, sapphire blue. Over his evening clothes, the man wore a long velvet robe the color of blood. He held a silver walking cane and ran his finger lightly over the handle, an elaborate ram with jeweled eyes.
“Sir Adrian, may I present Miss Bianca Marshal. I had the pleasure of meeting her in the King’s Library. We were just on our way back when we stopped for . . .” Mr. Emerson quickly glanced at Bianca and then the hieroglyphics. “A bit of admiration.”
Sir Adrian assessed them both and then stepped forward. “Miss Marshal, how long I have waited for this moment.” He reached into the air, moved his fingers, and produced a white rose from nothing. He handed it to her. “For new beginnings. How far you’ve come, and how much farther we all still have to go.”
Bianca’s mouth gaped. “Thank you.” The rose was perfection, not one leaf bent or petal damaged.
He held out his hand. “May I steal her from you, Mr. Emerson? I must admit that I revel in the idea of getting to know our American guest by discussing pith and moment . . .” His gaze swept over her. “And whatever else happens to come along.”
Bianca glanced over her shoulder.
Mr. Emerson turned a scowl into a smile. Just barely.
Sir Adrian led her into the corridor. “I trust you were treated well at my home.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Excellent. I have a pseudo tour of Egypt planned for us all tonight.” Sir Adrian lowered his voice so only she could hear. “I hope that pleases you.”
Even if he’d announced they’d be eating turkey gizzards she would’ve been pleased. She decided to spare him from that information. “This is the greatest experience of my life. I’m so grateful you chose me.”
“The choice wasn’t hard at all.”
They came to a reconstructed temple flanked by more candles. The walls were almost as high as the museum ceiling. Sir Adrian surveyed the large, smooth stones. “I had the temple made for the purposes of our little soiree. Are you quite ready to pass from the darkness into the light?” He lifted one of the candles and held it before them. The glow stretched into the black void of the entrance.
“Lead away.” Bianca remembered the words from his congratulatory letter. “I’m ready to leave mediocrity behind.”
Recognition dawned in his blue eyes. He smiled.
And then he led her into the darkness.
The passageway was narrow, a maze of rights and lefts. More hieroglyphics were painted on the walls—scenes of death and life—struggles for the eternal.
Bianca turned again and could barely discern the outline of Mr. Emerson.
Sir Adrian noticed her pause. “It’s very fortunate for us that you happen to be home this time of year, Mr. Emerson.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward Bianca. “Can’t keep the man in England, I’ve heard. Always something new to bring back from some remote corner of the world. Had countless adventures, that one.”
The passageway opened up to a great expanse, much larger than the earlier corridors. Egyptian statues lined every wall. Glass cases framed the room.
“Great Jehoshaphat!” The words from home came tumbling out. Never, never, never did she think she’d be standing in such a room as this—a real Egyptian Gallery. The ages poured from every artifact, every papyrus on the wall, every case full of scarabs made from jasper, amethyst, and carnelian. Her imagination soared and she covered her mouth with her hand to keep from gasping. Moses himself could have worn the ring directly in front of her when he was a prince of Egypt. He could have run his fingers over the hieroglyphic tablet when he was learning to read as a boy.
Sir Adrian seemed pleased by her reaction. He gestured to a gargantuan stone face to the right. “You see there Ramesses II. Isn’t he magnificent?” They all moved to stand beneath the statue. “Such a colossus. Observe that crack just there. I’d say he took a nasty fall from the look of his headdress.”
Mr. Emerson moved to stand beside Bianca. “He’s also known as the Younger Memnon. The statue was found in 1816 at the King’s Mortuary Temple at Thebes. The snake on the head cloth was thought to spit fire at his enemies.”
Bianca studied the intensity in Mr. Emerson’s eyes. Even though he was probably familiar with every galley, every artifact, he still seemed profoundly affected.
They stood in silence, all three looking up at a face thousands of years removed. The music grew in volume—sounds of Egypt, Bianca supposed. In the corner, four dark-skinned men wore long, white robes. Their eyes were lined with kohl. They played tambourines and drums, and other instruments she couldn’t name. The sound was mysterious and strange, as if falling through time.
“This statue was the first piece of Egyptian sculpture to be recognized as a work of art by connoisseurs.” Mr. Emerson’s voice was shrouded in mystery, as if every detail was a key that would unlock the pharaoh’s secrets. “Before that, the connoisseurs made judgments by the standards of ancient Greek art.”
Sir Adrian turned to face them. “I, for one, have never cared much for what connoisseurs say.” His expression was veiled and noble, like the face of Ramesses II. “Finding out things on one’s own is half the fun.”
The music rose and fell in a frenzy. Bianca opened her fan and forced herself to concentrate. Thoughts began to blur. The corset laces felt entirely too tight. “I think that’s the wisest course of action, Sir Adrian. Taking other people’s opinions as gospel can only lead to ruin.”
“Very well put.” Sir Adrian placed her hand on his arm and led her away from the statue. They crossed the polished floor, weaving in and out of candlelight.
Bianca gripped Sir Adrian’s arm tighter. The night had not even begun and already she was feeling faint. She breathed, forcing her ribs to expand. The corset protested. Vehemently.
“Speaking of gospel . . . Did you know, Emerson, judging from her essay, our Miss Marshal’s quite the believer in the old-time religion, not at all a scientific or modern approach.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Which is why our trip to the Holy Land will be that much more of an experience for her, I am sure.”
“Yes—” Bianca’s shoe caught on the hem of her dress. Her hand slipped from Sir Adrian’s arm.
“Gad!” Sir Adrian reached for her, but missed.
Mr. Emerson’s shoes skidded on the floor.
The display cases blurred, as did the Egyptian statues. Her skirt twisted around her legs.
Just before she hit the marble floor, an arm was around her back.
Bianca looked up and saw nothing but Mr. Emerson’s face above her. Her heart beat like a wild thing, a creature set loose from its cage.
Mr. Emerson’s eyes were full of relief. “Are you all right?”
“I’m . . . just a bit clumsy sometimes.”
Sir Adrian reached for her hand and helped her stand. “My dear, you almost gave me an apoplexy. Do take care. You’re very valuable to me. I won’t have you killing yourself before our journey’s even begun.” He consulted the heavy, gold pocket watch at his side. “The other two contest winners are running late. I’ll go and see if I can apprehend them.” His dark blue eyes locked onto Mr. Emerson. “Will you watch after her for a moment?” Just before he reached the rear doorway, he turned and smiled. “I assume you to be a man of honor. And that you can be trusted alone with a lady.” His blood-red robe fanned out, the gold edging sliding into the darkness behind him.
Bianca moved to withdraw her hand from Mr. Emerson’s. Their fingertips lingered, and then fell away.
“Shall we go to the table?”
Bianca nodded, shame flooding her like a gorge.
Mr. Emerson pulled out an elaborate chair draped with the skin of a leopard. He reached for the water pitcher, filled her glass, then sat down.
The music eased into soft tones.
The cold drink of water helped the squeezing around her waist, but she found that she wanted to cry. She’d wanted to act with poise and deportment. Instead, she’d soundly passed herself off as a Henny Penny. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Please, don’t be. In fact, this gives me the opportunity to tell you something.” Mr. Emerson reached for the bottom of his right glove and took it off.
“Yes?” Bianca stared at his left hand.
“Before you fell, Sir Adrian mentioned that you’re a Christian.” He reached for the bottom of his left glove.
“Yes. I am.” She was sure he would ridicule her now, sure that to work in a place such as the British Museum he must be a man of science with no room for faith.
