gaze became wistful again as they settled on the Desert Boy books. ‘I wish I could disappear into the leaves of one of these books. Or perhaps...there.’ She turned to the framed picture on the wall. It was one Sam painted for Huxley many years ago—a view of the Nile from the cliffs above Qetara, the sails of the feluccas blushing in the sunset and the shores stubbly with papyrus reeds.
‘I hesitate to ruin your daydream with anything akin to reality, but Egypt is hardly relaxing. Sam, my sister, nearly sat on a scorpion while painting that. She probably would have if poor Edge hadn’t spotted it and pushed her away.’
‘Goodness. Who or what is poor Edge?’
‘He’s the nephew of Huxley’s antiquarian partner, Poppy Carmichael, and a good friend of ours until we all left to join the army during the war. His name is Lord Edgerton, to be precise, but Sam enjoyed vexing him by devising less-than-complimentary variations on his name and her favourite was Lord Stay-Away-from-the-Edge because he was always telling her to be careful, so we all began calling him Edge. He loved ancient Egypt and the antiquities as much as Poppy and Huxley. Show him a tomb and you’d lose him for the rest of the day. He had a habit of saving Sam when she tumbled into trouble, which was often, and thereby thoroughly putting up her back. In short, that picture is a lovely lie.’
‘But you love it. Egypt.’
‘Yes, but not for its relaxing qualities. Some of my best memories are from the years we spent in Egypt. Huxley was my mother’s cousin and it was through him that she met my father. When my father...died...we stayed with my grandmother in Venice, but one day Huxley appeared and swept us all off to Egypt. My mother’s family tried to object because she had been quite ill, but, since he was our guardian along with my paternal uncle, he carried the day. Until I joined the army, I spent my time between Venice and Egypt which were both a definite improvement on Sinclair Hall. But hardly relaxing.’
He cringed a little—his answer was more revealing than intended and her clever honey-brown eyes focused on him with curiosity. They were more honey than brown, a tawny swirl that made him think of the sweet-honey-and-nut baklava cakes Mrs Carmichael used to bribe them back to the house come evening.
He could see the questions bubbling inside her, but then her mouth turned prim again, curiosity reined in.
‘Well, perhaps that is what I want, too. Exciting can still be relaxing if it is different from what one knows.’
‘That is true. Perhaps you shall go to Egypt one day after all.’
She laughed, but there was such resignation in the sound he felt an instinctive surge of pity.
‘Don’t dismiss the possibility. Who knows? Perhaps a distant relative will demand you accompany her and her seventeen pugs on a voyage to the orient.’
‘Seventeen? Must it be seventeen?’
‘It must. In fact, you will set out with seventeen, but there might well be a few more by the time you arrive.’
She burst into laughter.
‘A pug harem. It sounds even more tiring than managing Whitworth.’
‘Adventure is often tiring. But if it is calm you seek, I could find you a post acting as governess to the heir to Shaykh Abd al-Walid, Prince of the White Desert.’
‘Being a governess isn’t at all calm. Before my... We once had a governess and, believe me, the poor woman was run ragged between us.’
‘This is not a household of sardonic and argumentative Walshes hiding under prim veneers, but a single, indolent and very plump little boy who can be appeased with sweetmeats and who naps most of the day.’
‘He sounds rather like a cat.’
‘Not like my sister-in-law’s cat. Inky is the size of a bear cub and, though she has a sweet tooth, she is definitely not indolent.’
‘Then I shall stick to my plump charge, though I doubt even someone as silver-tongued as you could convince a prince to employ someone as unqualified as I.’
‘You underestimate me, Miss Walsh. I have more skills than my silver tongue and as a servant of the Crown I can be...convincing.’
The laughter in her eyes was suddenly tinged with speculation.
‘Are you a servant of the Crown?’
‘Aren’t we all?’ he riposted.
As if she sensed his evasion, her eyes fell from his and she went back to her seat, sinking into it with an abruptness that made her skirts billow for a moment.
‘This is all amusing, but rather silly. I am unlikely to leave Whitworth so there is no point in dreaming of Egypt.’
‘You mean Huxley.’
‘What?’
‘You said you are unlikely to leave Whitworth.’
Her cheeks turned as pink as the sunset in Sam’s painting.
‘Of course. I meant...it was a figure of speech. I am still not accustomed... You know what I meant. In any case, they are both a long way from Egypt...’
The squeak of the gallery door interrupted her and Chase pushed to his feet in annoyance as a footman entered with a generously stacked tea tray.
No doubt the servants were told to keep them supplied with refreshments so they did not leave Huxley’s wing unless absolutely necessary, he thought.
Ermy’s campaign to separate Miss Walsh from Henry was clearly underway.
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