herself, the Forresters and Lady Forrester’s maid, a saloon, filled with divans and a large writing table and quarters sufficient for the crew which consisted of the captain, or reis and eight men. The deck allowed room to sit and to eat outside should they wish it, and also an area for the crew, one of whom was an excellent and talented cook.
This time she was to have a cabin to herself. Staring round it Louisa felt her heart leap with delight. After the dark wood and brass fittings of the paddle steamer this cabin, tiny though it was, was beauty itself. Her narrow bed was spread with brightly coloured woven fabrics, there was a carpet on the floor, fine blue and green shawls were draped across the window and the basin and ewer were made of some beaten metal which looked like gold.
Tearing off her hat she flung it on the bed and looked round approvingly. From the deck overhead she could hear the pattering of bare feet and the creak of the masts and rigging.
Of Lady Forrester there had been no sign. ‘Indisposed, my dear. She’ll join us for dinner,’ Sir John had said vaguely as he showed Louisa to her cabin. ‘We’ll sail as soon as possible. Not far. We’ll tie up on the other side of the river so you can set off for the valley tomorrow. Hassan will be your dragoman. That is, he will act as your guide and interpreter. Good chap. Highly recommended. Very reliable. And cheap.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘And you’ll have to share Jane Treece, Lady Forrester’s maid. I’ll send her in to you directly and she can help you settle in.’
And here she was, a woman of about forty-five with hair pulled severely off her face beneath her cap, dressed, like her, in black and with skin which beneath the cruel sun had freckled and creased into a tight map of lines and blotches. ‘Good evening, Mrs Shelley.’ The woman’s voice was deep and educated. ‘Sir John has asked me to act as your maid and chaperone while you are on his boat.’
Louisa hid her despair as best she could. She had hoped to be free of such formality. It would though be helpful to have someone unpack and shake out her dresses and fold away her under-linen and petticoats and lay out her hairbrushes and combs. Her sketchbooks and her precious Winsor and Newton watercolour box, her paintbrushes, she would allow no one to touch but herself. These she put on the small table in front of the elegantly pointed cabin window with its latticed shutters.
Turning she stared at the evening gown which Jane Treece had already shaken free of its folds and laid out for her. Her vision of casting aside her corset and petticoats and the formal black which her mourning demanded and putting on the blessedly cool, softly flowing dresses made for her all those long months ago in London by her friend Janey Morris, were beginning to recede once more. ‘I had assumed we would be more casual on so small a boat,’ she said cautiously. ‘And, though it was kind of Sir John to think of it, as a widow I scarcely think I need a chaperone!’
‘Indeed.’ The word conveyed shock, scorn and such superiority that Louisa was in no doubt at all that her assumptions had been dreadfully misjudged.
‘Sir John and Lady Forrester keep every formality on the Ibis, Mrs Shelley, I assure you. When you leave the boat to go off and see the heathen temples I have no doubt it will be more difficult to maintain the niceties, and I have made it clear I am not prepared to go with you on those occasions, but while we are here Sir John’s man, Jack, and I, see to it that everything runs as well as it does at home in Belgravia.’
Louisa bit her lip to hide a wry smile. Trying to look suitably chastened she allowed the woman to help her on with her black silk gown and pin her hair up in loose ringlets and loops around her head beneath a black lace veil. At least without the weight of her customary chignon it was cooler. The assurance that Jane Treece would not be going with her to visit the Valley of the Tombs had cheered her up enormously.
The main saloon of the boat was as exotic as her own cabin, but the silver and china laid on the table for dinner was English. The food itself though was Egyptian, and delicious. Louisa ate with enjoyment as she tried to explain to the Forresters why she wanted to paint the Egyptian scenery. Augusta Forrester had emerged from her own quarters looking as elegant and cool as if she were entertaining at home in London. A small silver-haired woman in her early sixties with huge dark eyes, she had managed to retain a prettiness of feature and a charm which made her immediately attractive. Her attention span was, though, Louisa discovered quickly, very short.
‘When Mr Shelley died,’ she explained as they ate, ‘I found myself lost.’ How could she ever tell them how lost without her beloved George? She had contracted the same fever which had killed her husband and although she had recovered it had left her too weak and too listless to care for her two robust and noisy sons. They had gone to stay with George’s mother and Louisa had been persuaded finally that a few months in a hot climate would restore her to health. She and George had planned to come to Egypt one day. It was George who had regaled her with stories of the discoveries that were being made in the sands of the desert. It was George who had promised that one day they would go there and that she would paint the temples and tombs. The somewhat unconventional household they ran with its laughter and conversation and the constant flow of painters and writers and travellers had fallen apart when illness had struck. George’s mother had arrived, nursed them both, taken away the children, dismissed half the servants, substituted her own and left Louisa devastated.
Glancing from Sir John to his wife, Louisa saw that the latter was no longer listening to her, but the mention of Augusta’s nephew, Edward, brought her back from her daydreams and for a few minutes she sat, her beautiful dark eyes fixed on Louisa’s face, as her guest described how that young man, a friend of George’s, had rescued her, arranged her passage, booked the steamer from Cairo and persuaded his uncle and aunt to take her to see the excavations. Without his help she would have been destroyed.
His uncle and aunt were however not quite as unconventional as their nephew and she was finding out every minute that her dreams of conversation and laughter and the convivial travel which she and George had so often discussed were far from what the Forresters had in mind.
Anna looked up. Her neighbour appeared to be asleep. Over the back of the seat in front of her she could see the film in full swing. Most of the passengers seemed to be engrossed in the action. Surreptitiously she tried to stretch and wondered how long she could last before she had to ask him to move so she could go to the loo. She glanced back towards the rear of the plane. The queue for the lavatories did not seem to have grown any shorter. Beyond the thick glass of the window the distant ground had turned the colour of red and ochre and gold. The colours of Africa. With a tremor of excitement she stared down for a long time, before leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes. She was almost there.
It was impossible to sleep.
She opened the diary again, eager to lose herself in Louisa’s adventures and blot out her own less than romantic mode of travel. Skimming down the cramped slanted writing with its faded brown ink, she flipped through the pages, glancing at the sketches which illustrated the narrative.
‘Hassan brought the mules at first light so that we could escape the worst of the heat. He loaded all my painting equipment into the panniers without a word. I was afraid he was still angry at my lack of tact and understanding of his role, but resolved not to speak of it. Instead I allowed him to help me onto my animal without uttering a word either of apology or of remonstrance at his outburst. He looked up at me once and I saw the anger in his eyes. Then he went to collect the lead rein of the pack animal and climbed onto his own. We rode all the way to the valley without speaking.’
Anna glanced up again, wearily rubbing her eyes. It did not sound as though Louisa had had a good time with Hassan. She turned on a few pages.
‘I saw him again today – just a faint figure in the heat haze. A tall
