THIRTEEN

Harriet’s first impression of Alexandria was its color. The city looked white, made up of white flat-roofed houses, white domed mosques flanked by delicate minarets, and pale-trunked palm trees topped with explosions of upward-reaching leaves. Standing on the crowded deck, almost shaking with excitement, Harriet felt as if it were impossible that the port should have looked anything other than exactly the way it did. She had an odd sensation, as if she already knew it.

An Egyptian pilot came aboard and steered the ship between a solid stone lighthouse and a reef of black rocks into a wide natural harbor, full of ships of every description, the sky overhead smudged with smoke from their funnels. The ship received clearance, the surgeon blasted a whistle, and a flotilla of small boats that had been waiting at a distance began streaming toward the Star of the East, rowed by men in robes of blue and scarlet and green, their heads wrapped in turbans or covered in close-fitting caps. Egypt was coming out to meet them, the Arabs waving and gesturing at the passengers, their cries filling the air.

The deck was packed—with men, women with babies in arms, old people who’d scarcely been seen for the length of the journey. Harriet scanned the hats of the women, looking for one elegant enough to belong on the head of Mrs. Cox. She’d been back to the medical room to leave her another note. Since the storm, Zebedee Cox had avoided her when she’d seen him on deck, turning on his heel and walking in the other direction.

Glancing around again, Harriet saw the man who’d embarked with his piano. The same back in the same pale jacket moved up onto the bridge, following behind Captain Ablewhite’s dark blazer. As the man ducked through the door, Harriet glimpsed his profile, serious-looking and straight-nosed.

“Fine morning!”

The Reverend Ernest Griffinshawe was standing by her aunt.

“The Dark Continent lies before us,” he said, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “Awaiting the light of our Lord.”

“I shall go no farther than Alexandria,” Yael said, raising her voice over the shouts of the porters, the clank of the anchor chain still unspooling into the clear turquoise sea. “Alexandria is on the Mediterranean and the Mediterranean is part of Europe. Europe is En­gland’s next-door neighbor. I declare before God that I shall go no farther than this city.”

She got down on her knees on the deck and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

Our Father, who art in Heaven . . .

Some women standing near by began to titter behind their hands.

“Really, Yael, I am not sure that this is the time or the place,” said Louisa, as Reverend Griffinshawe frowned at the women and knelt beside Yael, adding his louder voice to hers.

Give us this day . . .

Some of the older female passengers joined them, sinking clumsily to their knees behind Yael and the parson.

And forgive us our trespasses . . .

Harriet barely heard them. At the front of the crush of people stood a man dressed in a brown velvet jacket and breeches. The red scarf at his neck fluttered in the breeze as the painter handed a folded easel to an Arab who’d boarded the ship. He oversaw the unloading of a pair of matching portmanteaus, then disappeared over the side and down the accommodation ladder, his paintbox under his arm.

Since the night of the dinner, Harriet had only glimpsed Eyre Soane at his easel, intent on his canvas, his posture inviting no interruption. She felt as if she might have imagined that he had ever watched them, ever come so purposefully to sit with them, as if—it seemed to her now—he had some mission that he had not declared.

The man had imprinted himself on her mind. Each time she remembered the way he’d looked at her after she and Louisa left the table, a current of an unfamiliar feeling ran through her and left her disturbed.

Pushing her way in between the crowd, Harriet looked down over the railing. Brightly painted boats crowded under the prow, with barefoot men standing up in them, holding out their hands to receive trunks and parcels, calling for business in a soup of languages. Half a dozen or more of the little crafts had their sails hoisted and were tacking back toward the quay with their passengers. Mr. Soane had disappeared.

“Miss Heron!”

Looking to starboard, she saw a red boat bobbing on the translucent sea, the painter seated in it. He raised his head from the match cupped in his hand and lifted his arm in a wave.

“Good morning,” he called over the water in a pleasant voice, as if they were old acquaintances.

“Good morning, Mr. Soane,” she called back.

“Welcome to Egypt. Tell your mother I shall visit you.”

Too surprised to speak, Harriet nodded, reaching automatically for her journal in the pocket around her waist. As the boat carried Eyre Soane toward the dock, she watched, feeling the strong beat of the sun on her face, breathing in air that smelled of salt and sun, that carried a trace of cigar smoke.