Among Sand and Sunrise Page 3

  Unbidden, the memory of her last conversation with Mr. Kirk pierced her thoughts. It had occurred in September, after Syble and her mother had delayed leaving England in order to attend Gwen’s upcoming wedding—and in hopes of securing some form of commitment from Mr. Kirk. But the day he’d come to speak to Syble alone in the drawing room of their rented townhouse hadn’t resulted in the happy pronouncement she and her mother had been expecting.

  Mr. Kirk had shared how much he admired her and had enjoyed the time they’d spent in each other’s company. “You are wonderful, Syble,” he had said without quite meeting her eye. “If it weren’t for the expectations my parents have set for me…” He offered a shrug, his expression pained.

  “What sort of expectations?” she asked, though she figured she already knew. This wasn’t her first time being thrown over in favor of a parent’s wishes. Looking back, Syble now realized she had seen less and less of Mr. Kirk for several weeks, but she hadn’t wanted to believe he was distancing himself.

  He attempted a smile but failed. “A future viscount is expected to marry a certain type of woman. And that type is…” He flushed and glanced away.

  “Quiet, discreet.” The pain and frustration mounting inside her wouldn’t allow her to remain seated. Syble stood, her hands strangling themselves behind her back. “Articulate and demure when she speaks, which is only on appropriate topics, with appropriate volume, and for an appropriate length of time.”

  Mr. Kirk looked miserable as he gave a nod. “I am sorry.”

  “Is there someone who fits that description, for you and your parents, Mr. Kirk?”

  He ducked his head, directing his response to the carpet. “Miss Edith Dyer.”

  Like Syble, Edith Dyer was also an American heiress in search of an English husband with a title. She was from Boston, not New York, so they had not been acquainted before coming to London, but they had come to know each other a little in passing. Miss Dyer was reserved and cautious and didn’t seem to be the sort of girl who would catch the eye of Mr. Kirk. He enjoyed talking and laughing and mingling in society as much as Syble did.

  What a fool she’d been to think the men in London would be any different than those back at home. In social settings, they might appreciate someone like her with her fun-loving nature and directness—but that was not who they wanted in their homes, sharing their lives. Once again, life had coldly handed her more proof that she was not the sort of young woman a man would ever wish to marry.

  Even worse in some ways than Mr. Kirk’s rejection was breaking the news to her mother. Mrs. Rinecroft had been as eager about the match as Syble. Dreading her mother’s disappointment, Syble had managed to keep the heartache to herself for a few days. But when Mr. Kirk failed to attend their at-home day as he usually did, her mother became suspicious. Only then did Syble confess, in great choking sobs, that her most ardent suitor had chosen someone else. Less than a week later, her mother had arranged for the two of them to return to New York.

  Their homecoming and the six weeks following it had been as bleak as the weather. Her father wore a resigned look these days, her mother a pale, disappointed one. None of them had expected Syble to return to life as it had always been in their stylish brownstone. She was supposed to have married an Englishman and embraced a new life across the ocean.

  Syble had once feared being cut off financially by her parents if she didn’t fully embrace a match that met with their approval. She hadn’t known she should be equally concerned with being cast off by someone whom she and her parents had approved of.

  Their urgency to see her married had been frustrating at times, but their resignation and dismay cut far deeper. Did they also see her as flawed? Had they given up on the idea of her ever marrying, because deep down they believed, as Syble did, that she was unsuited to be a wife?

  With such thoughts ringing inside her head, Syble dropped onto her side of the couch. The letter tumbled off her lap and onto the rug.

  Gwen had fallen in love with an Englishman and married him. Their mutual friend from home, Clare Herschel, had done the same. What, then, was so patently wrong with Syble that she hadn’t been able to follow suit? She felt the familiar urge to run to her closest friend, cry out her sorrows, and receive comfort just as she had for so many years. But Gwen was no longer just a carriage ride away. New York had always been Syble’s home, but now it felt so empty and dreary.

  A paralyzing melancholy such as she’d never before experienced froze her in place and made her chest ache with physical pain. She missed Gwen, she missed Mr. Kirk, and she missed the whirl and excitement of the season back in London. Her days, spent accompanying her mother on visits and outings around town, felt mundane and purposeless now. Not even her cherished romance novels brought more than temporary enjoyment.

  “What in the world do I do now, Lord?”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d whispered such a plea. Today, though, after the confirmation of Mr. Kirk’s engagement, she felt desperate for an answer, for some spark of hope in an otherwise colorless future.

  The tap of the front door knocker sounded loud in the silent room. Syble was home alone, having turned down an invitation to go to Bloomingdale’s with her mother in favor of reading her letter. She certainly wasn’t up to entertaining a visitor right now—not after having her heart crushed all over again.

  She heard the housekeeper open the door, greeting the visitor too quietly to be heard as more than a murmur. Then a bright voice replied, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Tulley. Rather rainy today, isn’t it? Is my granddaughter at home?”

  How had her grandmother known to come by today? “Oh, thank you, Lord,” Syble murmured, a half laugh, half sob escaping her lips. She lifted the letter off the floor and sat up as Adelle Rinecroft, her father’s mother, swept into the room.

  “You look positively miserable, Syble,” Nana announced, her large hat swaying as she shook her head. “You and I don’t wear despondency well, do we?”

  Syble couldn’t help a real chuckle. “No, we don’t.”

  “Tell me what has you glummer than a toothless cat in a sardine factory.” Her grandmother took a seat beside her and scooped up Syble’s hand in her gloved one. “I’m going to guess it has something to do with that letter there.”

  Nodding, Syble relayed the pertinent contents of Gwen’s missive. “It’s not as if I didn’t know he was going to marry her. But…”

  “But now it’s real,” Nana finished. “I’m sorry, my dear girl. I know what a blow this is, all over again.” Soon after returning home, Syble had confided to her grandmother the reason for rushing home so abruptly from England.

  She brushed at her wet cheeks with her free hand. “I’m definitely through with suitors and courtship.”

  “Now, wait a moment.” Her grandmother smoothed Syble’s blond hair off her forehead. “It isn’t like you to give up on something so easily.”

  “Easily?” Syble rose from the couch and crossed to the window. “I’ve had three seasons. If marriage hasn’t happened for me by now, it likely won’t ever. I’m merely accepting my fate.” Syble pushed aside the curtain to look out at the rain-soaked world. “Perhaps I ought to join your Wandering Widows group.”

  Nana’s wholehearted laugh drew a tiny smile from Syble. “Yes, the four of us are widows. Not youthful unmarried ladies.”

  The small band of wealthy women from New York—which included Syble’s grandmother Adelle, Ethel Walters, Florence Arthur, and Rose Herbert—had been friends for years. After the deaths of their husbands, they’d officially formed their Wandering Widows group, with the aim of traveling the world together. Every year they visited at least one country they had never seen before as well as revisiting a favorite place. Syble had always found their voyages exciting and had often wished she could join their little band on their adventures.

  “You’re too young and too unwidowed to be a member of the group,” Nana restated, amusement still lacing her tone. “But I came here today to s
ee if you’d be willing to join us on our next excursion, as an honorary guest. Lately, we seem to be more the Wobbling Widows than the wandering ones, and the others agreed that having a younger companion along might prove helpful.”

  Whirling away from the gloomy weather, Syble eyed her grandmother in happy shock. “You’re asking me to accompany you?”

  “I am.”

  This was the perfect solution to her boring days. A way to escape the pitying looks she received from those in their social circle since coming home unmarried. Maybe after traveling with the four widows, Syble could even convince them that she really did deserve to become a permanent member of their group, regardless of her age and unwidowed status. She didn’t need a beau or a husband, not when she could live an independent life full of adventure, as these women were doing.

  “Where are you going this time?” she asked as she returned to the couch.

  Her grandmother’s blue eyes, the same color as her own, lit with enthusiasm. “It’s my turn to pick a place to revisit, and I’ve decided I want to go back to Egypt and check on the state of the tomb I’m financing to be cleared.”

  “You’re funding an excavation in Egypt? How did I not know this?” Syble shook her head with mild astonishment, though not complete surprise. Her own love of adventure and fun had come from somewhere, and as dearly as she loved her parents, she knew she had not gotten it from them. Rather, she greatly suspected she’d inherited those qualities directly from the woman seated beside her.

  Nana shrugged with nonchalance, as if women in her position funded archaeological digs every day. “I’ve been funding the project for nearly two years, but it’s been some time since I’ve actually visited the site. So the Wandering Widows and I will head to Egypt in January. And we’d like to know if you would wish to come along as our young, spry, enthusiastic companion.”

  “Most definitely.” Syble smiled fully. “I loved that trip to Egypt we took eight years ago and have wanted to go back. In fact…” She hopped up, an idea forming. “I have something I want to show you from that trip.”

  She caught her grandmother’s curious look before she headed upstairs to her room. From the top of her dresser, she removed the blue urn she’d purchased from the blind merchant in the bazaar. Syble withdrew the well-worn map and set the pot back in place.

  Back downstairs, she sat next to her grandmother again and unfolded the map. “I found this inside an old urn I bought in Luxor during that trip.”

  “This is extraordinary, Syble,” Nana murmured in an awestruck tone. “Look at these details.” Syble didn’t need to. She’d long ago memorized every feature of the map. “Do you know where it leads?”

  Syble pointed at the top-left corner to the darkened semicircle. “I think it leads to a hidden tomb.”

  There was no question in her voice. No “maybe” or “perhaps.” Not that she hadn’t experienced moments of doubt over the years, when she’d wondered if the know-it-all Marcus Brandt had been correct—that the map was a fake or led to something that had already been discovered. But each time she’d found her confidence in the map slipping, she’d pulled out the notes she had scribbled during hours of study about Egypt and tombs. Then her assurance returned.

  “Would you like to find out?” Her grandmother’s gaze twinkled as if she already knew the answer. Which she likely did.

  “Of course, but I don’t have a license to dig. I don’t know an archaeologist to help with the project either, much less one who’s fluent in Arabic.”

  Nana’s smile became a grin. “All of that is surmountable. Ethel has recently expressed interest in funding a dig herself, and I think she’d find this particular one of real interest. We also know an excellent archaeologist who speaks Arabic and has plenty of experience excavating in Egypt.” She handed the map back to Syble and rose to her feet. “We’ll arrange everything. What do you say?”

  Syble wanted to blurt out yes, but there was one piece of her grandmother’s plan that gave her pause. Ethel Walters was Marcus’s maternal grandmother. Would teaming up with the woman on a dig increase the possibility of running into her grandson? Syble didn’t know what Marcus had been up to the last eight years—she’d made it a point not to ask. But he might still be interested in all things Egyptian, and he did speak Arabic.

  Except he lives in London, Syble reassured herself.

  She’d wondered if she would see Marcus while she’d had her season in England, but to her great relief, their paths had not crossed once. If they were both in Egypt and part of the same expedition, he would be much harder to avoid. But it seemed unlikely that he would come. If he were to catch wind that Syble was following the map from the urn, he wouldn’t want to have anything to do with the dig, whether or not his grandmother was funding it. The annoying young man probably still believed it was all an elaborate hoax created for gullible tourists like Syble.

  Well, she’d show him. How validating would it be, how vindicating, to find something of real worth at the end of this dig and have the delightful news reach Ethel’s grandson? Syble grinned at the prospect as she stood up from the couch.

  “I am at your service, Nana,” she said, throwing her arms out wide.

  Her grandmother lifted her hand to cup Syble’s cheek. “That’s my girl. I know things haven’t been easy for you. But we’re going to have ourselves a grand adventure in Egypt. Perhaps even find something more than this hidden tomb.”

  “Something more?” Syble echoed as she trailed Nana into the hallway. “What do you mean?”

  Pausing beside the door, her grandmother offered another casual shrug. It seemed at odds, though, with the self-satisfied, determined gleam in her eyes. “One never knows what or who one will encounter in a foreign country.”

  “I suppose.”

  She certainly hadn’t expected to find a treasure map the first time she’d gone to Egypt—nor had she expected to meet someone as gratingly irritating as Marcus had turned out to be. Likewise, she hadn’t expected to encounter a man in London as sweet and fun to be with as Elijah Kirk—only to have him choose someone else in the end.

  That was why she would embrace everything about this trip with the Wandering Widows. She was done with feeling pitied and being alone in New York, done with others deeming her less worthy for being herself, and most assuredly done with men—annoying or charming.

  As she shut the door behind her grandmother, Syble fairly skipped back upstairs to put the map away. Surely this unexpected invitation from her grandmother was a godsend. An answer to her heavenly pleas about her future. The Lord was at last lighting the path before her, one that promised independence, acceptance, and adventure.

  She now had something to do with her life, and in the process, she would have a chance at finally getting something right. Something that would have people remembering her as more than a not-quite-suitable bride or daughter, someone worthy of admiration and respect rather than disapproval. And she couldn’t wait.

  Because, come what may, she was going to find that hidden tomb.

  CHAPTER 3

  Valley of the Kings, Egypt, January 1909

  Removing his hat, Marcus used a relatively clean section of his shirtsleeve to wipe his damp forehead, then accepted the water dipper Aheed, a young Egyptian boy, handed him. Though tepid, the liquid still tasted marvelous against Marcus’s parched throat. He thanked the lad in Arabic before turning to survey the tomb and its hive of activity. The stairs and first door had likely been excavated a century or so before, but they’d been mostly covered over again by the time he, and later Adelle, had visited the site.

  Once the tomb’s entrance was again accessible, Marcus and the locals he’d hired had begun to systematically clear the sand from the passageway and rooms. The antechamber, annex, and burial chamber had been largely empty, except for a few small items and the pharaoh’s vacant sarcophagi. Still, the few artifacts they had discovered were in good condition and would hopefully fetch a decent price from a museum or collector. />
  Marcus had high hopes for what they’d find once they cleared their way to the treasury room, if it wasn’t also mostly empty. Perhaps something that would finally bring celebrity to his career. And if his calculations were correct, which they’d been thus far, they would be able to access the room in another week, ten days at the most, and his dreams would either be realized or defeated.

  To Marcus’s delight, Adelle and his American grandmother, Ethel, would actually be in Egypt to witness the entry into the treasury room. It had been more than a year since he’d last seen his patroness—from the beginning, she’d told him she preferred that he spearhead the dig; her only role was to supply the needed funds—and he hadn’t seen Gran since the previous summer. Marcus had been surprised and pleased to learn their little band of widows was coming to Luxor for an extended stay.

  Have exciting proposition for you, Adelle’s telegram from last month had stated. Will explain once we arrive.

  According to the plans they’d shared with him, the four women had reached Luxor this morning and would visit the dig site this afternoon. Marcus looked forward to seeing the group of widows as well as showing them the progress inside the tomb.

  He traded the afternoon sunshine for the cool interior of the tomb’s sloping passageway and headed to the antechamber to assess the work being done to brush away all of the sand from the walls and pillars. In the glow from the lamps, he eyed the pictures that covered the interior of the tomb. The sight never failed to thrill Marcus. The beauty of the half-human, half-god figures and Egyptian symbols that had been meticulously created by ancient hands nearly made up for the absence of any large discovery of artifacts so far. Nearly.

  Marcus set his hat aside and picked up a brush. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he joined the efforts of the other workers on the fourth wall of the antechamber and the two remaining pillars. Each flick of his tool succeeded in brushing away more layers of sand, until he thought he could make out the figurehead of a bird.