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Happy Birthday Tanya!

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21st Century: Hotel Meerut, India.

Nigel knelt on the bed in Sydney's hotel room, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. He was avidly peering down into the screen of his laptop.

'Syd, I think I might be on to something.'

Sydney looked up, still thumbing the thick pile of sheets that constituted Saritha's research.

'I'm glad if you are, because there's nothing here from the museum archives that indicates the Diamond Ruby has been seen or heard of since it was interred in the cave in 1799.'

'I don't suppose Saritha thought to check The Times online archive, though, did she? Have a look at this.'

Sydney eased herself onto the bed behind Nigel and began reading over his shoulder. He continued:

'In this article, from 1875, there's a mention of a 'legendary' diamond-shaped Ruby from India, which sounds damn like our one. Rumour had it that it was offered as collateral for the setting up of a railroad company: the De Veleye Railroad Corporation. Apparently, Mr Frederick De Veleye was trying to woo the financial backing of the great American Engineer and Railway entrepreneur, Randolph Carraway. His daughter was in London at the time, and the journalist seems to have believed she would close to deal on his behalf.'

He scrolled onwards. 'It doesn't say if anything came of it.'

'Randolph Carraway…' Sydney pondered. 'Of course! He was the father of the great adventuress, writer and early feminist, Sydney Carraway. She must have been the one visiting Britain in 1875. She was an avid traveller and made many donations to museums in Boston and India. Later, she campaigned tireless for women's suffrage. Sydney Carraway was one of the first women in the United States to cast her vote – in Colorado in 1893.'

'Help!' said Nigel. 'Not just another ballsy feminist, but one called Sydney! Not that there's anything wrong with being a feminist…'

'It is a coincidence,' replied Sydney meditativley. 'I've always wanted to find out more about her. This could be a great opportunity.'

Nigel carried out an internet search for 'Sydney Carraway' and clicked onto a gender history webpage. A picture of the glamorous, middle-aged Miss Carraway at an 1890's suffrage rally flashed onto the screen. Her hair was stacked beneath a fashionable bonnet and she brandished a 'Votes for Women' banner.

'She even looked vaguely like you, Syd,' commented Nigel, transfixed. The face did look somehow familiar to him.

Sydney, also thoroughly absorbed by the image, was thinking the same thing.

A shiver descended down her spine.

…………………………..

1875: London, Grosvenor Square.

Miss Sydney Carraway smiled graciously, took the proffered hand of Sir Preston Finchley, baronet, and stepped down from the carriage into the swirling fog.

Looming up behind iron railings, the windows of the grand townhouse were ablaze with glowing gaslight, against which were projected the dark silhouettes of many grand men and women. The buzz of their voices carried into the street, mingled with the lively hum of a string quartet.

'Welcome to my house, Miss Carraway,' beamed Sir Preston. 'Well, my townhouse anyway! I hope you will treat it is your own home during your stay in London. I'm sure everyone will like you just as much as I do!'

'Thankyou, Preston. I do hope they like me,' purred Sydney, although she expected not. She'd already shocked the baronet with her 'brash' and 'unladylike' American ways. He, poor fool, was so infatuated with her he would overlook anything. Those who weren't, she suspected, were unlikely to be so forgiving.

Not that Sydney Carraway cared for what London society thought of her. She had decided to please Preston, for her own ends and because she liked him, but she bowed and simpered for no man. Besides, the real purpose of her visit to London was to find a precious relic and fulfil a promise to a friend. These were the things that mattered to Miss Carraway.

She took his arm and they ascended the steps into a plush, scarlet-carpeted hall.

Although it was late September, and there was a chill in the air, inside it was as warm and humid as the Mediterranean in summer. Sydney took off her silk wrap and handed it, with thanks, to a hovering maid, who looked slightly hurt that the young lady had removed the simple item of clothing all on her own.

As Sydney had expected, Preston's eyes bulged at the plunging neckline and off-the-shoulder sleeves of her low-waisted black gown. A web-thin lace gauze highlighted rather than concealed the top of her cleavage.

Sir Preston, dressed in top hat and tails, smiled peevishly, and said:

'You look amazing.' It was the truth, but he couldn't help wondering what his guests would think.

The footman announced their names as they swept into the large drawing room.

'Sir Preston Finchley, Baronet, and Miss Sydney Carraway.'

The string quartet played on unperturbed, but the murmuring voices swelled in fascination, punctuated by all too audible stage-like whispers:

'Who is that foreign-looking woman?'

'She's an American, you know, the Carraway engineering and railway heiress. She's worth thousands…hundreds of thousands.'

'She's struck lucky with the handsome young baronet,' mused a particularly frumpy old dame, adorned with a disintegrating rose headpiece. Sir Preston was considered a highly eligible bachelor, with his height, good looks and his modish lamb-chop sideburns.

'I think you will find it is the other way around.' A tall, thin faced woman, standing next to the frump, stooped conspiratorially as she hissed loudly: 'They say Sir Preston is nearly bankrupt. It's he who has struck gold. It's a shame to dilute the old English blood with 'new money', but I'm afraid that's the way we live now.'

Sydney found herself standing in the middle of the room, still clutching Preston's arm. The eyes of the whole, not insubstantial company, were boring holes in her now scanty-seeming gown. Preston was indecisive about what to say or do next. His mouth hovered open as if he was about to make an important announcement.

A military man with a handlebar moustache asked a much younger woman, his wife:

'So when do you think the wedding will be? Will it be here or in Kent?'

This was enough for Sydney, who yanked Preston by the tail of his jacket over towards a servant with a tray of champagne, and helped herself to a glass.

'Sir Preston,' she said with a forced smile. Preston knew he was in trouble when he heard her place emphasis on his title. Sydney had told him when they first met that she had no reverence for such appellations. 'Why do I get the impression that you have been telling these people things about us that are not entirely true. Why do they think we're engaged?'

'I never said we were engaged,' protested Preston. 'I might have said, in my letters to various acquaintances, that I was bringing you back with me from Boston. They must have assumed the rest. And then when I said I was throwing a party for you…'

'You didn't 'bring me back' from Boston like some sort of souvenir, Preston. I've travelled all over the world by myself, I hardly needed you to look after me. We simply drank a few bottles of fine wine together, sailed on the same boat, and then you kindly invited me to stay at your house while I searched for suitable rooms. How did that turn into an engagement?'

'I don't know!' flustered Preston. 'I suppose people assumed that the one thing led to the other…' He took a gulp of champagne and shuffled his feet nervously.

'It wouldn't be such a bad thing would it?' Preston fixed her with passionate, piercing blue eyes. 'I mean, you and I…'

Sydney's pretty nose wrinkled in disgust, as Preston's cheeks grew ever redder.

'I don't mean an engagement yet,' he pleaded. 'But maybe if I wrote to your father…I could ask permission to court you?'

'My father doesn't decide for me which men I see, Preston,' barked Sydney. 'Besides,' her tone softened a little, 'we can never be more than friends. I will not marry, you know.'

'You don't intend to marry? Why, every woman wants to be married! Please tell me there is hope?'

'I have a life to lead,' said Sydney conclusively. Preston looked so disappointed that Sydney hadn't the heart to continue with the topic. She decided to concentrate on her mission.

'Now, weren't you going to introduce me to some of your guests? I met a gentleman once in Naples whom I believe you know well, Monsieur De Veleye. Is he here?'

'De Veleye?' replied Preston dejectedly, still reflecting on his botched proposal. 'Oh… I invited him. He's got a new railway scheme and he's looking for investors. He's keen for me to become a partner, you know.'

Sydney looked concerned. 'De Veleye has been trying to coax my father into business with him as well. Some haphazard scheme about a railway from Chicago to New Mexico! I've advised my father against it. I'd steer clear of De Veleye for business purposes, Preston.'

'Why do you want to meet him, then?' Preston was wondering whether, in the strange world of Sydney Carraway, 'not to be trusted' meant the sort of man that might induce her to marry him. He experienced a pang of jealousy.

'Its about another sort of 'business': a ruby that belonged to a friend,' replied Sydney. 'But, if he isn't here, who shall I meet? I hate to say it, Preston, but the rest of your guests look rather dull.'

'These are the finest ladies and gentlemen in London society!' retorted Preston. 'Well, the ones I could induce to come. Parliament isn't sitting at the moment and most people are still out of town.'

'Do you have any family?'

'In terms of immediate family, I'm afraid I'm rather badly served. My poor mother, God rest her soul, died when I was fourteen, and I inherited my title on my father's death five years ago. I had a sister, but she passed on in childhood, poor little mite. So now, I'm afraid, there's only my brother, Nigel. He should be here somewhere '

Preston scanned across the room.

'Damn it, where is he,' he grumbled. 'I told Nigel to be here, entertaining the guests before I arrived, but I've no doubt he's cowering in the library! Would you kindly excuse me for a moment, Miss Carraway?'

He stomped off purposely, disappearing through a high door in the corner of the drawing room.

After a couple of minutes, in which Sydney had an uninteresting conversation about the weather with the lady in the crumbling-rose headpiece, Preston re-emerged from the door in the corner. He was bundling in front of him a dark-haired young man, who was several inches shorter than he. His brother was wearing a relatively casual three-piece tweed suit, with a colourful blue neckerchief, which stood in pleasant contrast to the rest of the guest's formal eveningwear. He appeared, from a distance, little more than a boy.

As he approached, and Sydney scrutinized him more closely, Nigel looked little older, and neither brother looked very happy. They both looked rather ruffled and pink in the face, as if a brief, but heated, quarrel had taken place.

One sighting Miss Carraway, Nigel stopped dead in his tracks. She was more beautiful than the heroines of his wildest dreams. This was saying something: Nigel had spent a lot of his twenty-one years dreaming.

His progress towards her was restarted by an abrupt shove from Preston, who gave a strained smile and said:

'Miss Carraway, I'd like you to meet my brother, Nigel Finchley. Nigel – this is Miss Carraway. Now try not to bore her to death.'

Sydney saw the new arrival give Preston a sharp kick on the ankle and was both glad and amused to see the elder brother put in his place, albeit subtly. Nigel smiled uncomfortably and opened his mouth to address her, but Sydney got in first.

'I'm charmed to meet you, Nigel.'

She offered him her hand, which he took eagerly and kissed, his lips brushing against her gloved hand with an appealing sensuousness. As his gaze arose to meet hers, an arresting twinkle in his eyes belied his otherwise callow outward appearance. Sydney, for the first time that evening, was a little surprised by someone. She had a feeling Nigel hated these formalities as much as she did. She liked this young man.

'Miss Carraway,' he addressed her, his voice soft and mellifluous. 'It's an absolute honour to meet you.'

Yes, Sydney liked this young man.

'Now we're all acquainted, then,' said Preston awkwardly, disliking the prolonged eye contact between his desired spouse and his little brother.

The string quartet had just struck up a fashionable new waltz by Strauss. Preston took a liberty and Sydney's hand:

'May I have this dance, Miss Carraway?'

Sydney was about to reluctantly agree – despite her burning curiosity to get to know Nigel better - when a loud voice bellowed across the room.

'Sir Preston!'

A rotund man with a slick, black moustache had just entered from the lobby and was gesturing wildly for Preston to come to him. Preston froze in fright.

'This is quite a show you've put on, man,' the newcomer bellowed. 'Only the most expensive wines, I see?' The man sipped champagne from a particularly full glass.

'Oh God,' muttered Preston, his hand rising to his brow in exasperation. 'I never invited him!'

He turned to Sydney, and asked politely: 'Will you excuse me a moment, Miss Carraway.'

Taking Nigel by the sleeve, Preston pulled him aside. Sydney observed them exchanging some agitated and none too brotherly words. She only caught the end:

'I don't expect you to obey me, Nigel,' snorted Preston. 'God forbid! You never have done, why should you start now? I'm just asking you to indulge me, on this one issue. It's not such a terrible request is it? I've never seen a more beautiful woman in all my life!'

'But I can't dance with her! I just can't!'

'You can and you will!' commanded Preston. He pushed Nigel in Sydney's direction, nodded apologetically at her, and then hurried off to tend to the moustachioed man.

Nigel grimaced. 'I'm sorry about that. Preston seems to think you'd like to dance and he was wondering well…um, if you'd like to dance with me?' He added quickly: 'I can tell you now, I'm not very good.'

Sydney blessed him with her warmest smile. 'I'd love to dance, Nigel. And I'm sure you waltz very well.'

'Oh no!' said Nigel, with a self-effacing laugh. Nevertheless, he took her hand and led her into the middle of the room. They stood facing each other, with Sydney anticipating her partner's nerves, and Nigel wondering what on earth he should do next.

'Ah you going to take the lead, Nigel, or am I?' teased Sydney. He seemed such a boy.

Nigel, desperately wanting to show her he was a man, took a deep breath and placed his hand around her waist. She rewarded him by slipping hers around his shoulder and shuffling a full couple of inches closer.

'Shall we dance?' she giggled.

'With pleasure,' said Nigel, mustering a confident smile and attempting to prevent his gaze from wandering towards her barely concealed breasts. He thanked God the quartet were playing a waltz and not a polka.

Matching the moves of a couple nearby, he led her off with a carefully placed step to the right. At this point, his left foot, which would rather have been in control, got rather muddled and accidentally landed upon Sydney's velvet slipper.

'Oh my Goodness!' Nigel abruptly relinquished his hold on his partner. 'I'm so sorry…I'm such a clumsy oaf.' He glanced over Sydney's shoulder towards where Preston was soothing his unwanted guest, noting thankfully that his brother hadn't seen his misdemeanour.

'It's fine, Nigel. Just relax. Your brother dances divinely, and I'm sure you do to.'

'No I don't,' mumbled Nigel, but he slipped his hand back around her waist – a pleasure he wished to make the most of – and tried again. This time, he kept his eyes fixed on the activities of his boots, and counted one-two-three in his head as he executed his steps.

For the next few minutes, they hardly danced cheek-to-cheek. Despite this, Sydney realised that Nigel wasn't a bad dancer at all. She enjoyed the gentle way his hand rested on her hips and soon found that their movements synchronised disarmingly naturally. As the waltz entered its final stanza, Nigel looked up and smiled.

'I think I'm getting the hang of this. I have waltzed before, you know. But not for a while and only at our country balls in Kent. Of course, I've never danced with a woman like you!'

Sydney laughed, as Nigel began to swirl her around the room with some confidence.

'So, what's so different about a woman like me? Is it my awful American accent?'

Nigel blushed. 'Of course not. I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend. I think your accent is lovely but, well, you are different. I've heard about you, Miss Carraway…'

'Call me Sydney, please,' interjected his partner.

'Sydney…of course. I've heard about how you've travelled all over the Empire…the world even, looking for lost relics and evidence of ancient civilizations. I've read your book about your wonderful journey from France to Africa. Now, I have to say, no English girl I've ever met does that for a pass-time!'

'You've read my book!' Sydney was so delighted she nearly missed her step. Miss Carraway's, 'Memoirs of an Adventuress from Paris to the Nile', with its criticisms of Empire and its frank accounts of her experiences in Europe and elsewhere, had shocked much of polite East Coast society. It had barely been circulated beyond North America.

Nigel nodded enthusiastically, happy to have pleased her. 'I ordered it myself, having read about it in the 'New York Literary Review'. I can't say it was required reading for my classics degree at Oxford, but all ancient civilizations fascinate me. Yours was the most innovating book I ever read. I'd love to hear so much more! What's it really like to gaze upon the Great Pyramid at Giza? And how did you discover a tomb which belonged to an ancient pharaoh?'

Sydney let Nigel ramble on, busy digesting the startling fact that he was at Oxford. While Nigel had been surprised to see his heroine was such a young woman – Sydney was not yet twenty-eight – she thought that Nigel barely looked old enough to have exited the schoolroom! Eventually she said:

'I'll tell you all about it, Nigel, I promise. But, do tell me, have you just started the first year of your degree?'

'No,' said Nigel, who was now panting a little from the exertion of the dancing. 'I've just finished my second year at university and completed my bachelor's degree… a year early.' He added ruefully: 'I regret rushing it now. I'd love nothing more than to go back to do my Masters, but I can't.'

'Why?' asked Sydney. The music ended with a flourish, and the waltzers ground to a halt. Nigel's good spirits had also ceased.

'Why can't I do my Masters? Because… because Sir Preston has other plans for me.' Nigel glanced miserably over at the baronet. His 'friend' having been satiated with a whole bottle of champagne, Preston was watching them like a hawk.

'Look, he's unengaged now. Please, Miss Carraway, you'd be much better served dancing with my brother. I need to sit down, anyway.'

Sydney realised she'd hit a raw nerve. She watched, unsure how to rectify it, as Nigel stumbled away, grabbed a glass of champagne from a waiter, and slumped down into a high-backed chair. Loosening his neckerchief, he took a healthy swig of the sparkling wine.

She was about to go after him, when she felt Preston's yearning fingertips on her bare shoulder.

'I hope Podge didn't trample your dainty toes, Sydney.'

Sydney turned to him, perplexed.

'Podge? You mean Nigel? He danced beautifully. Why do you call him Podge? He's hardly fat, is he? Quite the opposite, in fact.'

They both looked over at Nigel, who had drained his glass but showed no sign returning to the party. After one dance, he seemed exhausted.

'Yes, well, he was a little 'podgy' as a child. And these terms of affection stick, you know!'

'Do they?' asked Sydney sarcastically. 'Well, Its hardly appropriate now, Preston.' Her gaze had not moved from Nigel. 'Is he quite well?'

Preston was rather surprised at the notion that his little brother was in anything but fine fettle.

'Oh yes! I'm sure he is. He's probably not been eating enough, that's all. I expect he spent his allowance at Oxford on books, rather than dining, liquor and hunting like a normal chap. Ah well, a bit of soldiering will make a man of him, I've absolutely no doubt!'

'A bit of soldiering?'

'Oh yes. It's the tradition for the second son in the Finchley family to join the army. And, especially in Nigel's case, I'm sure it'll be the best thing for him. I've purchased him a commission in the 6th Dragoon Guards, which cost me a great deal of money. I can't say he's conveyed much thanks, but he's bound to like it when he gets there. He joins his regiment in India next month.'

Nigel's distress was starting to make sense. 'Are you sure he wouldn't rather return to Oxford to do his Masters?'

Preston snarled angrily at the mention of his brother's academic ambitions.

'Oh, I see he's been asking you to plead his cause for him now, has he? The ungrateful little worm! After everything I've done… he knows I can't afford…' He broke off and forced a smile. 'I'm sorry, Sydney. You don't want to get involved in a silly brothers feud, now, do you? Let's worry about your business. I'm afraid it looks like De Veleye isn't going to be here. But I can take you to his offices the day after tomorrow.'

'Why not tomorrow?' asked Sydney.

'I'm busy, I'm afraid.' Preston darted a look at the moustachioed man, who was now starting on his third bottle of champagne.

'I can go alone, can't I?'

'Sydney, please! This is London, not Boston. It would hardly be respectable for you to go waltzing into to the city alone. Besides, his offices are not in a very salubrious area. There have been the most terrible crimes lately: garrotting decent folk for their purses and jewellery is all the rage among the lower orders.'

'Preston, how many times must I tell you? I've travelled halfway around the world by myself, and through areas of New York I'm sure London could never match. I think I can cope with walking down a street alone in broad daylight. I'm going tomorrow.'

'Hmph.' Preston already knew Sydney well enough to realise he couldn't argue with her when her mind was made up. 'If you must go, I'll send Nigel with you. I can't say he'll be much deterrent to the rogues and pickpockets, but at least you'll have a chaperone.'

'I'd like that,' said Sydney. 'I'd like to hear more about his studies. He's read my book, you know?'

Preston groaned. 'See? I gave him a generous allowance – for a younger brother, that is – and then he spent all his money on ridiculous books!' He backtracked at Sydney's offended glower. 'Not that yours is ridiculous, of course. It's very, err, informative… but I still think we'd better keep quiet about it around here. These people aren't very… radical minded, shall we say?'

'Don't worry, Preston,' snapped Sydney. 'I won't upset your guests with my brash, unladylike ways!'

She noticed that Nigel had alighted from his chair and was nowhere to be seen. She guessed he had slipped back to the library, or to bed. Thus, Sydney resigned herself to an evening of dull company and of the pleasure of waltzing with Preston. He did, truly, dance divinely.

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21st Century: Hotel Meerut, India

Sydney and Nigel both stared in silence at the image of Miss Carraway at the 1890's rally for some moments.

Bestirring herself, Sydney blinked hard and found that she could no longer remember the thoughts that had engulfed her for the previous minutes. It was like awaking from an instantly forgotten dream. She slipped a hand on Nigel's shoulder, and felt him jump.

'Nigel?'

He shifted around to face her, causing her hand to recoil.

He appeared rather puzzled: 'I must be jetlagged or something, because I just had the most vivid daydream.'

'What did you see?' Sydney surprised him with the urgency of her inquiry.

'I guess it was Sydney Carraway…no, it wasn't. She wasn't an older woman like in the picture, she was young, beautiful, wearing a stunning, black, 1870's-style ball gown and…well…um.'

Their gazes locked together.

'Who was she, Nigel,' pleaded Sydney. 'I have to know.'

'She was you,' he said deliberately. 'But it's ridiculous, isn't it. It was just a daydream…'

'No,' said Sydney, shaking her head. 'I'm not sure it was. Nigel…in the cave today, did you see anything strange?'

'No…but, as I told you, it felt really odd. Sydney, I've never been to India before the first time I came with you, but, I swear, my every sinew told me I'd been in that cave before….but I can't have done.' He removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. 'My God, what am I on about? This must sound ridiculous.'

'No…it doesn't. I sensed something in that cave too. I saw something. I wanted to tell you all the way back to the hostel…but I just…couldn't articulate it.'

'That doesn't sound like you, Syd.'

She shook her head slowly, a brittle smile glimmering as the words finally came to her.

'It was as if…history was trying to tell me some sort of deep truth that was embedded…inside of me.'

'What did you see, Syd?' Nigel's words were eager, expectant.

'I saw you, Nigel.'

'Me?'

'Yes…you were lying on the floor of the cave.'

'Well, yes,' said Nigel, slightly disappointed by the lack of revelation. 'I'm sorry about that. I fainted remember?'

'No, you don't understand. It was you…but it wasn't you. You were younger…and you were dressed differently, like a British soldier of the mid Victorian era.' Sydney paused, wondering how her next assertion would be received: 'It could have been you…in a former life.'

Nigel said nothing, but the concentrated expression on his face intensified. He wanted to tell her that heat and tiredness had played tricks with her mind, and that 'former lives' were just for lovable but gullible people like Claudia. But he couldn't lie to her, not after what he'd sensed in that cave.

Sydney could see that Nigel was disturbed by something he couldn't yet share, and understood.

'Hey, maybe it wasn't really you,' she said, giving him an encouraging rub on the arm. 'And maybe there is no connection beyond name between Miss Carraway and myself. But history is trying to tell us something, I can feel it. I think we might find out more on this hunt than just the whereabouts of the Diamond Ruby.'

'I thought you said history lies, Syd. Isn't that the first rule of relic hunting?'

'Not this time,' said Sydney with some confidence. 'On this occasion, I think it's attempting to tell us the truth.'

The grave atmosphere was suddenly shattered as Sydney grinned and jumped from the bed. She raised her arms elegantly like a ballerina, and her feet began mimicking waltz steps with some dexterity. She began humming an old tune by Strauss.

Now Nigel was really confused: 'What the hell are you doing?'

'I don't know,' said Sydney, spinning towards him, breathless and happy. 'But I feel like dancing…you can join me if you like! '

'I'd rather not,' answered Nigel quickly, screwing up his nose in sheer bewilderment. Former lives he could deal with, but Sydney waltzing around the hotel room was just plain ridiculous. Wasn't she more into tribal than ballroom dance? Besides, waltzing reminded him of Preston, which was never a merry notion. Nigel bitterly recalled that his brother, despite otherwise being a blundering oik, could swing a girl around a ballroom nearly as well as he played the piano.

He shuffled back against the pillows at the headboard, and concentrated on his laptop, attempting not to be distracted by Sydney's euphoria.

'Um… if you don't mind me shifting to the subject back to, um, relic hunting, shouldn't I be asking Karen to books us to flights or something?'

'Book us some flights, Nigel,' commanded Sydney with a twirl. 'We're going to London!'

'I'll, um, just be doing that then.'

Glad of the excuse, Nigel jumped up and scuttled from the room, deciding he'd had enough weirdness for one day. All the same, he couldn't help musing that waltzing with Sydney, in the right time and place, could have been rather pleasant.

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