NINETEEN

Louisa surveyed a drawing room furnished with two long low-backed sofas upholstered in striped cream and green satin. The few English scenes on the walls—a pair of watercolors depicting milkmaids with bucolic brown cows, a small and indistinct oil of the Thames by moonlight—only added to the sense of England being impossibly far away.

The room wasn’t tasteful, contained nothing of beauty or value, and yet with the vase of trailing white flowers shedding petals on the sideboard, the French doors draped with a pretty, tattered lace curtain and standing open to the garden, it was relaxing. She had thought she would feel the loss of her home more than she did. It was only Blundell she missed. The hook flew in her fingers around the skein of silk, producing neat and even stitches.

“Yes, Mustapha?” she said at the tap on the door.

“Visitor, Sitti.”

Louisa put down her handwork. They’d had few callers. The manager of the local branch of Blundell’s bank, the Anglo Ottoman, had been twice to offer his services. Mr. Moore, a Yorkshireman, had seemed relieved when Louisa had insisted that they would not need to call on him except in case of emergency. Their neighbors on the other side of the brick wall at the back of the garden, a Dutch family with a line of noisy, fair-haired children, had welcomed them with a tin of sugar biscuits imported from the Low Countries. Reverend Ernest Griffinshawe arrived at the gate one morning and was persuaded to take luncheon. Louisa had hinted to all of them that they were in Alexandria for the sake of Harriet’s health and intended to pass the time in a state of seclusion.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Soane, ma’am,” Mustapha said. “It is Mr. Soane. I shall show him in?”

“Well, Louisa?” Yael said, her voice mild. “Give the man an answer.”

“I . . . Tell Mr. Soane we are not at home.”

As she said the words, a figure entered the room from the garden. Louisa felt confused. She knew it was Harriet, by her height and the way she moved, but the person in front of her was not her daughter. She was hidden under a black robe, only the toes of her boots visible. A pair of light-colored eyes looked out from between two strips of black cloth.

“Well, Mother?” came the well-known voice. “Does Suraya’s veil suit me?”

Louisa sprang to her feet and reached for a corner of the fabric, tugging it from Harriet’s face.

“Harriet, please. Take that dreadful thing off.”

“It looks charming, Miss Heron.”

Eyre Soane stood in the doorway, smiling. “Mrs. Heron. Miss Heron.”

He nodded at Louisa and Yael in turn. Harriet had blushed scarlet and was still standing in the center of the room, the folds of black cloth lying on her shoulders.

Yael put down her pen.

“Do come in, Mr. Soane, and take a seat.”

“Thank you.”

He sat down on the empty sofa, arranging his leather satchel on the seat beside him, stretching out his legs. He wore a suit made of fustian, the color of cocoa powder, a white calico shirt under the unbuttoned jacket. Leather shoes, in brown and cream. His hair was waxed, smoothed back on his head. Despite his clean-shaven cheeks, he reminded Louisa of his father. She looked away.

“Would you care for a sherbet?” Yael said.

“I believe I would, Miss Heron.”

“I’ll go and tell Mustapha,” Harriet said, heading toward the door.

Yael blotted her letter, smoothing the paper with the side of her fist.

“The weather is warm today,” she said. “It might be spring.”

“The weather is warm most days.” He turned to Louisa and assumed a smile of polite inquiry. “Are you enjoying your stay, Mrs. Heron?”

Louisa took a deep breath. She would not be bullied in what currently passed for her own home.

“We spend our days very quietly, Mr. Soane, for my daughter’s health. She is an invalid, as you may remember.”

The door opened again and Harriet entered with Mustapha following behind, bearing a tray. He set out woven mats on the scarred surfaces of the tables, put down the cold drinks, and withdrew. Harriet sat next to Yael, her hands clasped over her knees. Eyre Soane regarded her.

“I would scarcely have recognized you, Miss Heron. I believe Egypt agrees with you.”

The blush reappeared like a sunrise on Harriet’s neck, spread upward to her cheeks.

“Aren’t you going to inform me of the sights you’ve seen?” he said.

“I . . .” she said. “We—”

“We have explored the town a little,” Yael said. “And visited the monument, of course. How have you been passing the time, Mr. Soane?”

“I’m continuing work on my Oriental portfolio. I intend to paint Cleopatra while I am here. I shall seek out some beauty to serve as a model.”

Louisa remained quite still, looking through the open French doors into the garden. In the early afternoon sun, the flowering shrubs and bushes looked bleached, the deep pinks and purples robbed of their strength and richness. The lace curtain, which had possessed a certain beauty earlier, was limp and shabby. No doubt could remain. Eyre Soane intended to torment her.

“It is airless in here,” she said, reaching for her fan, flicking it open.

“In fact, Miss Heron”—Eyre Soane fixed his gaze on Harriet—“I should like to sketch you, just as you are now. Native dress becomes you.”

Harriet raised her head and Louisa caught sight of her eyes, bright with a look Louisa didn’t recognize. Louisa had a feeling inside, of plummeting, as if some structure were collapsing like a card house.

“It is time for your rest,” she said, getting to her feet.

“Mother, I—”

“No arguments, Harriet. Mr. Soane,” Louisa continued, “you may care to see the monkey puzzle tree in the front garden on your way out. We are told that it is two hundred years old.”

Louisa walked to the door and held it open. Eyre Soane rose from the couch, retrieved his satchel, and bowed to Harriet.

“Until we meet again, Miss Heron.”

Louisa led the way through the shadowed courtyard. The thin stream rising from the fountain, falling into the shallow pool surrounding it, sounded like a gutter discharging into a rain butt. Opening one half of the front door, she walked into the garden. Through the soft leather of her summer shoes, the points of the fallen cones underneath the tree were sharp against the soles of her feet.

At the great iron gate, she turned to face Eyre Soane.

“My daughter is ill, Mr. Soane. I would not wish her to be disturbed by anything that does not concern her.”

“Disturbed? What do you mean, Mrs. Heron?”

On the other side of the gate, the watchman lifted the catch. Louisa lowered her voice.

“I am asking you not to call on us again.”

The gate opened and Eyre Soane stepped through it. He hitched the strap of the satchel higher on his shoulder and got out a cigar case from his pocket.

“It’s a fine specimen,” he said, gesturing back into the garden toward the tree. “They’re considered unlucky, as I’m sure you know. Goodbye, Gypsy.”

Louisa turned away, breathing in the odor of dry earth and drains and blossom. She had just time to get behind the scaly trunk of the monkey puzzle, to notice that it looked like a blackened pineapple, before she was silently and violently sick.