Among Sand and Sunrise Page 2

  Near the top-left corner of the map, Syble noticed a darkened half circle. She peered more closely at it, ignoring Marcus’s continued silence. Perhaps he was as stunned as she was at her unexpected find.

  “This half circle here,” she murmured, touching it with her finger, “almost looks like the opening…of a tomb.” Beside it, someone had drawn an x. Understanding washed over Syble and brought a startled laugh tumbling from her mouth.

  “He was right, the old man at the booth. What’s inside is much better than what’s outside!” She clasped the map to her bodice. “Don’t you see, Marcus? He was talking about the map. This is of greater value than the urn. Because it’s a map leading to a hidden tomb!”

  Marcus’s gaze narrowed, but it was directed at the map and not at her. “May I see it?”

  Syble happily handed over the map in exchange for the urn. “What exactly did this merchant say to you?”

  “His grandson translated for him,” she reminded him. “But the old man said something about remembering that what is inside is always better than what is outside. I thought he was merely being philosophical, except now his words make complete sense. The merchant meant the map, which he must have known was tucked inside the urn.”

  Marcus studied the map for another long moment, then passed it back to Syble. “It does make sense.”

  “So you agree that the map leads to a hidden tomb?” Syble balanced the urn in the crook of her arm as she carefully folded the parchment and stuck it back inside. “Do you think it’s in Thebes? That’s how it looks to me, given where the x is drawn in relation to the Temple of Luxor.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant about making sense, Syble. What makes sense is that you have been duped.”

  “What do you mean?” She put the lid back in place, securing the map safely within the urn once more.

  Marcus blew out his breath as if he was steeling himself. She might not know him well, but such a reaction was surely a clue that his next words would be unpleasant for one or both of them. “I’m afraid that map is likely a fake, though a brilliantly crafted one, I will give you that. Which means the urn is probably not authentic either.”

  “This urn is not a fake,” Syble ground out between her clenched teeth. “And neither is the map. It’s real, and I’m going to find the tomb it leads to.”

  He pocketed his hands. “Even if the map is real, you cannot be certain it’s complete or leads to anything at all. Or, should it prove to lead somewhere, the object of the map may have already been discovered.” Marcus offered what he probably meant to be a sympathetic smile, though it grated on Syble. “If nothing else, I suppose you have two souvenirs now.”

  Anger boiled within Syble. Her collar itched with it, and her fingers trembled where they clutched the precious artifact. “You’re wrong, Marcus Brandt. This map is authentic and leads to something wonderful, and someday I’m going to prove it to you.”

  “I understand your desire for it to be real. Truly. But—”

  “I’m returning to the steamer,” she announced in as icy a tone as she could muster. Whirling around on her heels, in a move she hoped looked mature and haughty rather than childish and petulant, she marched away from him.

  She didn’t pause in her angry retreat, even when Marcus called out, “Syble, wait. You shouldn’t be traipsing about by yourself.”

  He had a point, but she would rather be dragged through the market by her hair than admit it. She slowed her pace just enough for him to draw closer but not so much that he could walk beside her. Her frustration still burned steadily inside her, making it impossible for her to enjoy the sights and sounds around her.

  Marcus wasn’t right about the urn or the map—he couldn’t be. He hadn’t felt the old man’s sincerity or seen the surprise of the boy when his grandfather had directed him to produce the urn for Syble to see. Why would the merchant bother to say those parting words about the importance of things inside if he didn’t believe the map to be authentic? Marcus might know a great deal about Egypt, but that didn’t make him an expert on every single artifact.

  By the time she reached the steamer, Marcus still several yards behind her, Syble felt hot, thirsty, and no less angry than earlier. Marcus might have come to her aid the night before and again in accompanying her to the bazaar, but his lack of belief in her and the map infuriated her.

  With any luck, after this trip, she wouldn’t have to see him again, even if their grandmothers were dear friends. Syble gave an indignant sniff. Friends was certainly not something she and Marcus would ever be. He was the most annoying person she’d ever met.

  From now on, she would remain below deck in the mornings until after everyone else was awake. It would mean missing out on her favorite time of the day, but giving up watching the sunrise seemed a small price to pay to avoid time alone in the company of the odious Marcus Brandt.

  CHAPTER 2

  London, England, August 1908: seven years and seven months later

  “Master Marcus?” the butler intoned from the library doorway.

  Marcus flinched only slightly at the title, which still made him feel like a boy despite the fact that he would turn twenty-seven in another four weeks. Perhaps someday he would trade his parents’ house in London for a residence of his own and a butler who only knew him as Mr. Brandt. But since Marcus spent only seven months out of the year in England, a townhouse of his own made little economical sense at present.

  “Yes, Foster?”

  “A Mr. Elijah Kirk is here to see you, sir.”

  The name brought an instant smile. Kirk was a friend from university days, and Marcus hadn’t seen him since returning to London from Egypt a few months earlier. “I’ll visit with him in here. Will you see that tea is brought up?”

  With a nod, Foster slipped out the door. As Marcus awaited the arrival of his friend, he set aside the book he’d been reading and placed it on top of the neat stack of documents and maps that sat on his desk, along with a variety of small Egyptian items. As always, the sight of those objects acted as an incitement and a promise—a reminder of all he hoped to accomplish.

  This was the year. At least that was what he hoped and prayed for. The year his archaeological excavations and restorations would at last produce something of real interest and value. Something that would be deemed every bit as noteworthy as the accolades his three half brothers had received again and again in their chosen careers as a lawyer, a business tycoon, and a surgeon. Even his two half sisters, though American-born, had married British gentlemen of renown—one sat in the House of Commons, and the other was a distinguished navy captain.

  The person responsible for funding his current dig was Mrs. Adelle Rinecroft of New York City. However, Marcus had been the one to procure the license to excavate in the area and was the driving force behind the project to clear the previously discovered tomb.

  And while Adelle certainly hoped Marcus would unearth something extraordinary, she’d been forthright about her motive for agreeing to finance such a project. For her, it was about the adventure and excitement of restoring something tied to ancient Egypt—not because a treasure trove of artifacts discovered inside the tomb would validate her life’s study and career, as it would for Marcus.

  To be sure, it was a lofty dream for him to even hope to make such a grand discovery, but Marcus believed it was one worth working and praying to achieve. Besides, such a find would not only benefit him; it would benefit the entire world and provide additional insight into an ancient people who had also once lived and worked and worshipped. He’d felt guided by the Lord in his projects thus far, which meant he would keep trusting that one day very soon his archaeology dream would be realized.

  “Brandt!” Kirk entered the library, grinning.

  Marcus rose to his feet and came around the desk to clasp his friend’s hand in a hearty handshake. “It’s good to see you again, Kirk. Please, have a seat.” He indicated the pair of chairs before the hearth.

 
“How are you, old chap? Are you still digging around in Egypt?” Kirk asked as he sat down.

  Taking a seat in the other chair, Marcus nodded. “I am. However, I’m confident that this season I will finally unearth something worth sharing with the world.”

  “Really?” His friend looked impressed. “Are you clearing out the same tomb as you were last year?”

  “Yes, the same one.”

  Marcus explained the progress he had made on the tomb and what he hoped to accomplish, beginning in November. As he had during their university days, his friend listened with evident interest. Yet Marcus was sure Kirk wasn’t here to discuss Egypt. The arrival of the tea brought a natural shift to their conversation. Marcus waited for the maid to pour, then he handed Kirk his cup.

  “How are you keeping yourself occupied these days?” Marcus inquired.

  Both Marcus and Kirk enjoyed the privilege of not needing to be employed in order to provide for themselves. Marcus’s father was a wealthy gentleman, and both of his grandfathers—his father’s father in England and his mother’s father in America—had been men of industry who’d worked hard to care for their families and amass fortunes large enough to share with future generations. However, unlike Marcus, Kirk was the son of a viscount and would one day inherit the title and the family estate in Kent.

  “At the behest of my parents, I have been rather occupied by the season.” Kirk took a sip of tea, his brown eyes lit with amusement. “Apparently, twenty-seven is a fine age for giving up bachelorhood in favor of settling down.”

  Marcus murmured acknowledgment before drinking his own tea. He was grateful his parents weren’t pushing him toward marriage. Not after Esme’s rejection three years ago, when she had broken off their engagement. Of course, the reprieve was only temporary. He imagined the topic would likely be broached again at some point. After all, each of his five half siblings had been married for years and had families of their own. On the other hand, his father hadn’t married until the age of thirty-six, when he’d wed Marcus’s mother, so perhaps Marcus could use that as an excuse for waiting nine more years before he made another attempt at entering the institution of marriage.

  However, while he was in no hurry to risk his heart again, he had to admit that of late he’d felt more and more an odd flicker of loneliness. As if deep down, in quiet moments of honesty, he knew that all of his books and excavations and winters in Egypt would never bring him the steady companionship he still longed for.

  “Anyone capture your fancy?” Marcus asked, shifting his thoughts to the present.

  His friend set his cup and saucer on the nearby table and smiled sheepishly. “Yes. Two young ladies, actually. Both of them hail from America, which is why I thought to enlist your help. I wondered if perhaps, through your mother, you might know one or both of them.”

  “I might. Who are the young ladies?” He sampled more of his tea.

  Kirk rested his right leg on the opposite knee and leaned back in his chair. “Miss Edith Dyer and Miss Syble Rinecroft.”

  The familiarity of the second name caused Marcus to suck in a quick breath. Unfortunately, he’d taken a sip of tea right beforehand. He choked on the liquid and coughed. Kirk watched him with concern and made offers to call a servant to bring water, which Marcus waved off as he lowered his tea cup.

  “Syble Rinecroft?” he repeated in a hoarse voice when he could finally speak. “She is here in London?”

  Kirk’s smile hinted at blatant interest. “Ah, so you do know her?”

  How was Marcus supposed to respond to that? He’d met Syble nearly eight years ago when their families had taken a Nile River cruise together. The skinny, blond thirteen-year-old with a clever tongue and an impish sparkle in her blue eyes had made an indelible impression on him—and not all of it favorable either. The girl he’d interacted with back then had been frequently stubborn, impetuous, overly talkative, and far too prone to criticize Marcus’s desire for peace, organization, and a measured pace toward life.

  He had half expected to see Syble again, given her grandmother was the one financing his present dig project, but he hadn’t. What was she like now, he wondered. Had Syble changed over the years?

  Marcus could still remember when the two of them had visited the bazaar together in Luxor. He had known all too well what it felt like to be the youngest in a group and thereby deemed not quite old enough to do certain things, so he had agreed to accompany Syble and help her negotiate with the local merchants.

  However, something had happened that day—he couldn’t recall what now, only that Syble had been furious with him. She’d marched off as though she were the queen of Sheba and he a mere servant, forcing him to hurry to catch up with her so she wouldn’t end up walking back to the steamer alone. The rest of the trip they had spoken very little to each other. It had been a relief when their families had finally parted ways upon returning to Cairo.

  “I…” Marcus cleared his raw throat. “I am acquainted with Miss Rinecroft. Or at least I was, a long time ago. Her grandmother is the patroness of my present dig, but I have not seen Syble—Miss Rinecroft—in many years.”

  Kirk gave a thoughtful nod. “I do rather like her. She’s different than so many of the other young ladies. More like me, to be honest, with her love of spontaneity. She’s not afraid to speak her mind either.”

  On that last statement, Marcus could absolutely concur. But he decided against saying so and instead risked another swallow of tea. “I’m afraid I don’t know this Miss Dyer. What is she like?”

  “Miss Dyer is as opposite in personality from Miss Rinecroft as one can be.” Kirk tapped a finger against his shoe. “She is far more quiet and reserved, though both women are kind and pleasant to be around. I have not yet announced my intentions to either one, but my father is pushing for me to make a decision soon.”

  He lifted his gaze to Marcus’s, his demeanor conflicted. “I’m afraid I don’t know which one to choose, Brandt. As I said, I like them both. But I fear my parents are hoping I will settle on Miss Dyer. They feel she embodies those qualities that would better suit a viscount’s wife.”

  Marcus searched for how to respond. He didn’t wish to champion or discredit either young woman, especially when one was a complete stranger to him. Nor did he envy his friend’s predicament. For his part, when he did again ask a woman to marry him, he would choose someone more like this Miss Dyer, a woman who—if Kirk’s description proved accurate—would appreciate and exemplify Marcus’s own quiet ways. Someone far different than the charming, fun-loving Esme.

  Whomever he married, he wanted her to share his appreciation for Egypt. Though that certainly narrowed down the list of possibilities. Certainly Esme hadn’t loved the idea of living in the desert, away from London, for nearly half the year.

  “What do I do?” Kirk pressed. “I don’t want to injure either girl or disappoint my parents.”

  “The best thing to do, Kirk, is to follow your heart.”

  Although, truth be told, that path could still lead to sorrow as often as happiness. At least, that had been the case for Marcus. In spite of knowing how different he and Esme were, he’d fallen deeply in love with her. He had followed his heart in that regard and had done all he could to win her heart in return. At first, he’d thought he’d succeeded. Esme had even agreed to his proposal of marriage. But after a time, she had broken it off and given her affections to another man. And while Marcus knew that Esme hadn’t set out to hurt him with her decision, his pain had still been the end result.

  His friend lifted an eyebrow. “You believe it is as simple as that?”

  “In some instances it can be.” Perhaps things would go differently for Kirk. And hopefully whichever young lady he didn’t choose wasn’t already harboring deep feelings for him. “When a decision means the potential unhappiness of another, all you can do is search your heart for what you wish to do and then hold to that answer.”

  Kirk frowned a moment, then dropped his leg to the floor and
clapped his hands against his trousers. “Follow my heart. Yes, that is what I’ll do.” He stood, signaling the end of his visit. “Thank you, Brandt.”

  Standing as well, Marcus shook his friend’s hand again. “Anytime,” he said as he walked with Kirk down to the foyer and watched him exit the house.

  Even though romance, courtship, and marriage were clearly not Marcus’s areas of expertise, he did hope he’d been of some help to his friend. Yet as he returned to his desk, he had a sudden sobering thought. Did Syble like Kirk as much as he did her? Would she be devastated if he didn’t choose her over Miss Dyer? However annoying she and Marcus had found each other years ago—and likely still would if they were to meet again—he disliked the idea of the young girl he’d known being hurt as he had once been.

  The possibility gnawed at him, making him wonder if he should have done more to encourage Kirk to choose her. On the other hand, the younger Syble would have hated his meddling. Perhaps, then, it was wise of him to remain neutral in his advice to his friend. Clinging to that hope, Marcus picked up his book and once more immersed himself into a familiar world of tombs and ancient treasures.

  * * *

  New York, November 1908

  As she read over the letter with the unwelcome news of Mr. Kirk’s betrothal, Syble allowed herself a moment of spite in thinking that right now was a sad, soggy time to become engaged. Then, with a sigh, she released the resentment until only grief remained. It had taken weeks for Gwen’s missive to reach her, after all. Perhaps the sun had made a full appearance back in London, when Elijah Kirk had proposed to Miss Edith Dyer earlier in the month.

  Syble lowered the letter to her lap when she’d finished reading it and stared unseeing at the walls of the parlor. She’d known this news was coming, yet it still had the power to hurt. The man Syble had liked far better than any other she’d met during her two seasons at home and a third in London, the man she had believed liked her in return, had asked another woman to marry him. That door was forever closed to her now.