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The storms held off until they sat for dinner, then the deluge erupted. Heavy rain and continuous rumbles of thunder disrupted normal conversation well into the meal.
Isabella flinched at every flash of lightning. She wanted to scoot closer to Madoc for protection, but that would proclaim her sentiments to the others. In no way did she want that. She still hugged Tuesday’s kiss to her, a secret too wonderful to share. Since that night they had not been alone, but she did not mistake Madoc’s signals. Whenever he passed her, he found ways to brush her arm, to touch her hand, to graze her shoulder in passing. The longing in his eyes matched hers.
Her heightened awareness also noticed other things these past two days.
Cecilia flinched at sudden sounds and nervously tapped her fingers if she had to wait. Tonight she had rushed to dress, the first to return to the sitting room before dinner.
Lamb was preoccupied. He had to be recalled to work and retold a conversation.
Petrie smirked whenever he looked at the Tarrants. When they were out of sight, his gaze darted about, like a raptor not quite knowing which prey to start on. Isabella knew he feasted secretly on his newly acquired knowledge about the Tarrant brothers. She could not divine if he had shared it with Monty Standings or Nigel Arkwright. She thought he must have, for Nigel drank more heavily as he watched his wife not looking at Gawen and Gawen not looking at his wife. And Standings eyed his colleagues and refused to start any conversation, only responding when spoken to.
Nigel was quieter than usual, which Isabella didn’t understand. Surely he would not have bottled his animosity if he had the chance to stab at Gawen?
As for Gawen, he worked to avoid any conflict with his colleagues. He said only the necessary to Standings and avoided calling on Castlereagh and Matthews for work at his site or the house. He didn’t badger Nigel about his drinking. He allowed him to shirk duties. If Nigel demanded something, Gawen gave in verbally, although he quietly followed the plan he’d set out. Guilty conscience, Isabella reckoned.
The men’s animosity built daily like the storm clouds but found no release. The heat died down, only to build the next day.
When the storm erupted over the house, deluging them with cooling rain, Isabella hoped it would dissipate the men’s anger. Instead, their storm began with the innocuous drizzle of previous disputes then blew beyond them.
Gawen and Lamb discussed the direction of Natural History at St. George’s. Nigel Arkwright would not have heard any of their comments if conversation at his end of the table had not suddenly broken so that Gawen’s words dropped like hailstones. “I’d like to see us assume an equal share of the archaeology courses from the Classics house. We approach it as a science, as they have approached the study as ornaments to their literature.” Only as he finished did he realize the complete silence at the table.
Cecilia rushed to speak. “Nigel, this Sunday, do you think—?”
He ignored her, talking over her to Gawen. “Ornaments to our literature? Don’t you mean the elucidation of knowledge about ancient life?”
Gawen compressed his full lips into a straight line. Isabella expected him to deflect the question, as he had others. Instead, he shifted his wineglass, looking at his plate rather than at his colleague. “No. Ornament is appropriate. You do not study the world through its artifacts; you display the artifacts as you discuss the ancient writings about emperors and battles.”
“I suppose you prefer to have Natural History control archaeological studies?”
“To choose between displaying treasures or studying the revelations of antiquity—yes, I would choose the science.”
“You would not have chosen Crete for your expedition, would you? You would ignore the start of the palace complex, of the greatest civilization the world has known.”
“Definitely the start of a civilization, but it is the prehistory and the development of the hierarchical society which are more interesting. Crete does not reveal these. Here we merely repeat Arthur Evans’ findings. We must sidestep Crete for the greater exploration.”
“The way you want to sidestep the British School so they can’t control where you choose to dig or what you do with the artifacts.”
Isabella, trapped between Madoc and Petrie, bent her head and hoped to remain unobtrusive. She noticed Madoc’s fist clenched on his thigh.
“What are you implying?” Steel edged Gawen’s voice. “The BSA vetted this dig. We discussed Knossos and this site when we stopped in Athens. We follow our mandate.”
“The BSA talked more with me than with you, Tarrant. They snubbed you. They recognize that you are not—.”
“Nigel, don’t.”
“Be quiet, Cecilia.” His glare shifted from Gawen to his wife. “Or can you not bear to have this upstart hear the truth? He wouldn’t control this excavation if he hadn’t touted his previous digs. I would be in charge. Or Standings would. Tarrant’s experience is in England, Scotland and Normandy, not the classical age. He could care less about the founders of our world. Look at how he digs through everything. Oh, he claims a mandate, to prove a theory, but—.”
“Jealous, Arkwright?” Gawen sneered. “Jealous because you’ve never expounded a new idea even once? Afraid my theory will be validated?”
“A worthless theory. You need facts. You need history to guide you.”
“I’m using history. Roman, Greek, Myceneaen, Minoan. Age to age, layer to layer.”
“You’re warping history to reach primitivism. Digging to the cavemen. Your sort are fascinated with the ugly brutes.”
“You’re forgetting the artifacts,” Castlereagh prodded.
Isabella wanted to kick him. He had stoked Arkwright’s rage. How long had he waited for it to explode? Since Sunday afternoon?
“What about the artifacts?” Steely calm, Gawen included the older student in his glare.
Arkwright refilled his wineglass before answering. “You plan to use the dig’s treasures. Sell them to fund your next precious excursion looking for prehistoric cavemen. Use your grandfather’s shipping firm to circumvent customs and to sell the artifacts all over the world. And your brother’s role on this dig is now clear. He will steal the artifacts and sell them to his black-market confederates around the Mediterranean.”
Madoc’s fist came onto the table. His chair scooted back.
And Gawen laughed. Some miracle surfaced a laugh that blunted his brother’s anger. “You can’t have it both ways, Arkwright. You have to choose. My grandfather and illegal shipments? Or Madoc and the black-market chaps? Which am I using?”
Lamb shoved back from the table and stood. “I wouldn’t choose Madoc Tarrant, Prof. Arkwright. He’ll black your eye and more. Anyone for a smoke?”
Cecilia threw her napkin onto her plate and followed him onto the terrace. Kat looked pointedly at her husband then rose. When he continued to focus on his plate, she glided from the table and went upstairs. Gawen stood, with Madoc a half-second behind him. He helped Isabella up. They passed Dorcas bringing the sweet and left her to serve it to the five men still at the table.
The men didn’t linger over the nut pastry. Standings joined his wife upstairs. Castlereagh plopped onto a terrace chair beside Madoc and propped his feet on the tiled edge of the fountain. Not long after they settled on the terrace with coffee, the others left the house, slamming the outer door. An engine roared.
Cecilia rubbed her bare arms. “It’s too cold for me. I’m going in.”
Isabella wanted to stay outside, but she also shivered in the rain-chilled air. Taking her coffee, she followed the other woman into the sitting room.
Cecilia took the couch. Her hand shook as she lit her cigarette. She flung the match onto a saucer. “Men. Especially my fool of a husband. He doesn’t have wit enough to argue with Gawen.”
Isabella had no answer. She buried her face in the coffee’s steam. The open terrace doors admitted the chilling wind as well as the men’s voices. They talked desultorily as if the altercation had never occurred. She huddled into the settee and felt wounded and forlorn. She stared longingly at the ash-cold hearth, wishing it were not too early in the year to light a comforting fire.
“What do you think about this excavation, Isabella? About digging through layer after layer of occupation?”
Cecilia’s question echoed the one that Isabella had dodged ten evenings before. “I’m not an archaeological student,” she protested.
She blew smoke into the air. “I am only an archaeologist’s wife, but I have opinions. The more I hear Gawen’s theory, the more it makes sense. A new approach to archaeological expeditions while my husband enacts the child on a treasure hunt. His own treasure island.” She touched tobacco off her tongue. “Look at him. He and Petrie will sit drinking at some taverna until they fall out of their chairs. Matthews will have to drive them home. The boy has more sense than either of them. Nigel will be a drunken lout before we return to St. George’s.”
“It must be difficult for him, with Prof. Tarrant in charge and his own view ignored.”
“That’s not his problem. Oh, finding great treasures was a dream, but he knew this site was too minor to reveal anything close to the Knossos discoveries.” She tapped ash off her cigarette. “I don’t know what’s riding him. He’s been drinking heavily since he returned from his week at Knossos.”
On the terrace the four men laughed.
Cecilia looked out the open door. For a moment, stark longing aged her lovely face. Then she jabbed out her cigarette. “I’m off to bed.”
Isabella murmured “good night”. She took their coffee cups to the warm kitchen. The housekeeper clucked at her until she saw Isabella’s glum expression. With a grandmother’s wisdom she didn’t protest when Isabella followed her into the scullery. She helped dry then shelve the dishes. Then she watched Dorcas knead dough for the next day’s baking.
The unlit pass-through to Lamb’s darkroom kept drawing her eyes. The deep shadows were like the darkness touching the evening. Dorcas covered her dough and washed her hands. Then she shooed Isabella off to bed.
* * *
ISABELLA DIDN’T KNOW the time when she woke, as soaked with perspiration as the first night. The confused dream of water and coffins and cigarettes had left her with a racing heart. She fumbled through the netting then stumbled to the window. It opened on darkness. Clouds obscured the moon and stars. The cold wind chilled her as it chilled her room. The season had turned its back on summer.
She lit a candle and pulled out the nightgown Dorcas had repaired. She hadn’t touched it once since she arrived. She hadn’t wanted the reminder. Now she needed its warmth. A stubborn fastidiousness didn’t want to draw the clean nightgown over her sweaty body. Since the bathroom ended the hall, with her room as a buffer, no one would hear if she had a quick wash. The huge boiler surely held a little warm water, and Dorcas always left a stack of fresh towels. Isabella slung the nightgown and her robe over her arm, picked up the candle, and stole to the bathroom.
The bath cleansed her mind as it did her body. As she dried off, she thought she heard voices. She slipped quickly into her gown and robe and carefully opened the door.
Nigel Arkwright stood at the hall’s far end, knocking on his door. With her head poked around the door, Isabella clearly heard Cecilia on the other side of the locked bedroom door. “Go sleep it off, Nigel. I won’t let you in tonight.”
He rattled the door handle. “I want to go to bed.”
Under cover of his renewed knocking, Isabella eased the door nearly closed. She didn’t want him to see her obvious eavesdropping, as unintentional as last Sunday. In his drunken state, he might not realize that. She wanted to avoid any altercation with him.
In less than a fortnight he had fallen from his status as a demi-god, appearing to rescue her like any deus ex machina. Nigel Arkwright definitely was no hero.
“Sleep on the couch in the sitting room. Go away, Nigel.”
A hard thud answered Cecilia’s sharp order. Isabella put an eye to the cracked door.
Nigel shouldered into the bedroom door. “Let me in, Cessy!”
“Go sleep it off.”
“It’s not sleep I want.” He shoved into the door again.
The other doors remained firmly shut. If Arkwright had returned like this, what state was Petrie in?
Cecilia’s first exclamation was muffled, then she said clearly, “Drink the whiskey in the sitting room. There’s none in here. Nothing you want is in here. Go away.”
“Cessy—.”
Gawen emerged, his chest bare and his trousers hastily donned. “Hold it down, Arkwright. We’ve got hard work in the morning.”
Nigel turned. The yellow lamplight gave a pasty cast to his face. Slack jaw, bleary eyes, and disheveled clothes, he looked the drunken lout Cecilia had foretold. “Cessy won’t let me in,” he whined.
“You can sleep in the sitting room.” Nigel turned back, rattling the doorknob, and Gawen padded barefoot down the hall. “Look, you need to sleep. You can have my bed.”
“And you will take mine? No chance of that, Tarrant.”
“You’re drunk, Arkwright.”
“Not drunk enough.”
Gawen got an arm around him, supporting him.
“I’ll see you ruined, Tarrant.”
He maneuvered Nigel toward his room. “In the morning, Arkwright. When you can think straight.” As he angled Nigel through his door, Gawen looked up and saw Isabella. He grimaced and jerked his head.
She waited until they were well into his room before she slipped to her own. After locking the door, she stared at the flickering candle while she listened to the noise next door. Two thumps, far apart; boots, she guessed. A latch creaked as Gawen opened a window and fixed the shutter in place. Muffled snoring.
Then his door opened and shut. She didn’t hear him go down the echoing stone passage, but she heard Cecilia stop him.
“Gawen, where is Nigel—?”
“Asleep in my room. He won’t stir until morning.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much, Gawen. I didn’t dare let him in. I’ve not seen him in this state in a long time.”
“His head will pay for it in the morning.”
“So will we all.”
A pause, during which Isabella wondered again how Petrie and Matthews had gone so quietly to their rooms. And Madoc? How had the drunken Arkwright passed the porter’s room without disturbing Madoc?
“Lock your door,” Gawen advised, “in case he wakes up before he sleeps it off. If you need me, I’ll be in my study.”
“You’ll be so uncomfortable. I’ve seen that cot. It’s too short for you. Too narrow. You won’t get any sleep. Then we’ll have two grouchy men.”
“Are you offering another arrangement?”
Eavesdropping though it was, Isabella strained to hear Cecilia’s answer yet missed it.
“No,” Gawen said, sounding curt. “Good night, Cess.”
A long moment before Cecilia shut her bedroom door, and its lock snicked into place.
Isabella’s earlier confused dream was preferable to her now jumbled thoughts. She climbed into bed and pulled the sheet over her head.
Never had she understood women who turned from their husbands to other men. Her childhood memories painted her parents’ marriage in idyllic hues. They had rosily colored her expectations of life with her fiancé Wilfred Sassenan. Had her innocent child’s eyes blinded her to problems between her parents? Would she really have been happy with Wilfred? His kisses had left her unaffected while Madoc’s briefest bestowals lit a glow.
Wilfred had courted her like clockwork, three times a week with Sunday afternoons spent sharing a smoke with her father. Afterwards, he went to a local bar. When she made plans to join her father in England, she learned from a married friend that Wilfred had woven a crooked path home from that bar more than once. Fate had intervened, and she had not understood why. Wilfred had not acted to save her when she became a governess. When they had reunited in London, when he’d been desperate for her, he still had not proposed. Only when he reached the front lines had he sent the letter asking her to marry him. Desperation was not love.
Her married friends seemed content if not happy, but how could she judge? Their marriages seemed homemaking and babies and parties. She had visited when the husbands were at work; at parties, both wife and husband wore social masks..
As a governess had she had a close view of three disparate marriages. She hadn’t envied any of them.
Dr. Ivers had coddled his English-born wife. His practice often took him from home at odd hours, and for atonement he pampered her. Winifred Ivers lapped attention like a sleekly satisfied cat. Their only conversations were what she wanted, what he planned for their son, what she played at during the day. Isabella had had nearly daily contact with the doctor while she saw Mrs. Ivers only a few times during the week, when she demanded Clarence spend a morning with her. During that time, she demanded her son recite his most recent lesson or prompted him to plan the coming weekend’s activity with his father, hiking or fishing or the occasional long ride. Weekends were Isabella’s time off. She never knew what Mrs. Ivers did while her husband and son were on their “jaunts”. In her two years with them, Isabella had heard more meaningful conversations between father and son than husband and wife.
Sir Clive and Lady Baskille had also lived separate lives, meeting for social occasions or to discuss their daughter Zenobia’s upcoming debut. Lady Baskille enjoyed London society—Isabella now wondered if she knew Cecilia Arkwright. The noblewoman had busied herself with causes: a children’s home and the war effort and the Suffragists’ movement, a whirl of activities that her husband never disturbed. Isabella thought them not unhappy, but they had a partnership rather than an intimate cleaving of two souls.
After two aloof couples, the Harcourt-Smythes were eye-opening. Husband and wife enjoyed each other’s company; that was one reason Isabella could not understand his advances on her. From his wife’s hysterical reaction when she discovered them, she also didn’t understand his need to pursue another woman. Wife Mary was a chatterbox but not a mean woman; husband Gareth was astute, not clumsy and coarse. He was manipulative. He had pawed her, but his eyes held no real lust. Why had he created that situation? Had he thought to have a mistress as well as a governess? Tuesday night in the hotel, had he expected his wife to interrupt them? He’d known exactly how to placate Mary after she screamed at them and tried to scratch Isabella. And after Isabella’s repeated rebuffs, why had he proposed that more lecherous offer? What had he hoped to gain? Had he enjoyed watching her squirm like a pinned moth, caught and struggling to its death? Did he have a sadistic bent?
Isabella refused to consider that and turned to his daughters. The incomparable brats had constantly scuffled for her attention. Was that because their parents ignored them for each other? She didn’t know. En famille, the Harcourt-Smythes were closer than the Ivers or the Baskilles. She hadn’t been employed long enough to judge them accurately. Only since June, and their touring had begun then. She had criticized the Harcourt-Smythes to Madoc: Mary’s obsession with society, his pursuit of the family governess—yet their marriage seemed more real than the other two. Had Gareth Harcourt-Smythe exploited circumstances to drive her from his employ? Was he devious as well as shrewd? But why? What end had he hoped to attain?
As for Cecilia and her husband, the luster had long vanished from their marriage. Had they ever loved each other? Or had their social whirl hidden their unhappiness? Thrown together on the dig, in close quarters for two months, and their relationship was disintegrating like a sand castle, waves dribbling away the structure and foundation. Built on sand and built of sand, sifting away faster than dry dirt.
