Chapter 4
Jonathan sighed as he leaned back on his dining chair, wishing Maryanne would hurry up and join them. Evy and the professor had locked horns in serious discussion the moment they sat down at the table, and if there was one thing Jonathan really wasn't in the mood for, it was another tedious debate over the rights to the Tutankhamen burial treasures.
"Well of course they wouldn't have been discovered were it not for Howard Carter, or the funding of his wealthy patron," Evy was saying animatedly, a slight flush coming to her cheeks as that stubborn little crease appeared in the centre of her brow, "but the treasures belong to Egypt – well, to everybody really. They should be in the Cairo museum where the whole world can enjoy them, not hidden away in some private collection."
Evidently the professor was not in agreement.
"What, and let the corrupt bureaucrats at the Antiquities Service reap the profits of others' labours?" he asked, one eyebrow angled ironically beneath his fez.
Evelyn took a sip of her iced tea while she prepared her counter argument. "Professor, the Antiquities Service was set up in order to protect Egypt's heritage–"
"Poppycock!" Chamberlain retorted. "They're happy enough to grant excavation permits to anyone with a spade and a stick of dynamite, and they couldn't care less how many worthless potsherds curious tourists take back as souvenirs, but the instant a legitimate archaeologist actually finds something of value they're circling like vultures to strip them of their findings. Then they turn them over to those greedy little Arab mercenaries at the museum, who are just as corrupt as the bureaucrats but twice as incompetent. They haven't the first clue how to properly identify and catalogue these priceless artefacts, making it all the more easy for things to go 'missing,' which then suspiciously turn up on the black market. Is that an accurate appraisal of the system you wish to advocate, Miss Carnahan?"
Evy's cheeks flushed deeper, but with anger now. "No, professor, I must say that is NOT an accurate appraisal of the system, which I see in operation every day in my post at the museum!" she said heatedly.
The professor eyed her with a sceptical look. "You can't possibly be involved with the preservation of artefacts, or have any idea what the curator is really up to. I presume you must be a secretary."
Evy's colour rose another notch. "I'll have you know, Professor," she huffed indignantly, "that I am a valued assistant to the curator, because not only did my father instruct me well in the methodologies of his discipline, but I can also translate both hieroglyphics and hieratic. And I am not a secretary, I am a Librarian!"
Jonathan rolled his eyes. This was his cue to leave.
"Drinkies, Evy?" he asked hopefully, seizing her near empty glass as an excuse to go to the bar. She turned to look at him, but seeing she was far too busy choking on her own indignation to answer, he assumed that was a yes and quietly slipped away from the table.
He was standing at the bar, about to down a neat Glenmorangie before ordering another, and debating whether or not to ask the barkeep to slip a large measure of brandy into Evy's iced tea, when the glass paused halfway to his lips.
The most heavenly vision had just appeared in the doorway to the right of the bar. Fiddling alternately with the diamante clip holding back one side of her wavy, side-parted blonde bob, then the gold crocheted shawl draped around her shoulders, she looked awkward and self-conscious as she scanned the room for a familiar face.
Jonathan swallowed hard, the glass in his hand forgotten. He wanted to call out to her but his throat suddenly felt dry. Wanting desperately to catch her attention before she spotted her husband and joined him at the table, he raised his hand to wave.
Unfortunately he waved with the hand still holding the full tumbler, and managed to slosh a good deal of fine single malt onto his sleeve. "Bugger!" he hissed as he dumped the glass on the bar and shook his sleeve, looking up in the hope that she hadn't noticed. Although he couldn't be sure whether it was from amusement at his clumsiness or simply her pleasure at seeing him, the smile that now graced her lips made him feel all warm and foolish. He beamed one back at her as she started towards him.
Jonathan could not begrudge the time she had taken to get ready when she looked the way she did now. She was wearing a stunning beaded dress with a plunging V neckline, the shape of which was repeated in the alternate bands of antique gold and black that arrowed downwards in a chevron pattern. The hem ended just below the knee, but was extended to her calves by a long fringe of black beads, and her long legs were clad in stockings so sheer for a moment he felt his pulse quicken to think they were bare. Although she had self-consciously covered herself up with the gold shawl, Jonathan could just see a tantalising glimpse of her bare shoulders and the black spaghetti straps of her dress through the weave. He cleared his throat, getting a hold of himself just as she reached his side.
"Hello again," she said softly, looking lovely and graceful and very much married as she propped her black clutch bag on the bar with her left hand, showing the unmistakable glint of gold encircling her wedding finger.
"Yes, long time no see," he said in a lame attempt at humour.
Maryanne's enchanting smile instantly disappeared, and her eyes dropped to the walnut surface of the bar. "I'm sorry I've kept you all waiting," she said apologetically.
"No no, you were worth the wait," Jonathan blurted out clumsily, then gritted his teeth at the way that sounded. "I mean, I don't mind waiting..." Why was he making such a pathetic mess of what usually came as easily as falling over? "You look great," he finished with a schoolboy smile that he only ever invoked as his last saving grace.
Maryanne blushed prettily. "I feel silly," she admitted as she fidgeted with her hair again.
Jonathan had to resist the urge to lean in and smell her neck as he caught a waft of delicate floral perfume.
"You don't look silly," he reassured her, forgetting Evy's drink on the bar as he offered Maryanne his arm, hoping she wouldn't notice his soggy sleeve.
"But I'm so overdressed," she said, scanning the saloon as she snaked her hand round Jonathan's arm and let him lead her towards their table. In her black patent leather heels she was a good few inches taller than him, which only added to her self-consciousness. "No one else has gone to the effort of dressing up."
"And now they all wish they had, me included," Jonathan said, glancing down sheepishly at his crumpled linen suit. "I hope you won't think this inappropriate, but I have to tell you something."
"What?" Maryanne asked anxiously, dreading the censure she was so used to receiving from her husband.
Jonathan smiled, putting her at ease again. "It's just that earlier I would have said you couldn't look any more stunning than you did in that green dress. But I was wrong. You look incredible."
It made Jonathan's insides dance to see the delight mixed with disbelief in her smile. It was almost as if she were unused to receiving compliments, and he made a mental note to pay her as many more as he could decently get away with before the end of the night.
As they reached the table, Jonathan noted the sour look on Chamberlain's face. Probably thinking, along with everyone else in the room, what a good looking couple the two of them made, and how much more natural Maryanne looked on Jonathan's arm compared to when she had walked the deck with the crusty old professor.
"I believe our party is now complete," Jonathan announced as he held out the chair next to his own to seat Maryanne. "Shall we order?"
Evy was still looking a little piqued as she welcomed Maryanne, remarking on how pretty her dress was, before turning to Jonathan. "Where's my drink?"
The dinner was an absolute disaster. Although the grilled Nile perch on a bed of roasted vegetable tabbouleh was top notch, surprisingly so considering the limitations of a steamship kitchen, Jonathan could barely eat a mouthful. Evy and the professor had got into another argument shortly after the meal arrived, and the final straw for Evy had come when the professor had condescendingly pronounced 'Yes, well I wouldn't expect a woman to understand.' Jonathan had never seen Evy quite so livid (perhaps with the exception of when he had missed his own graduation ceremony at Oxford because he was still sleeping off the previous night's celebrations – in a married woman's bed). She had stormed out of the restaurant leaving her stuffed crab almost untouched, and Jonathan now with a very unwanted third party to the conversation he had been trying to have with Maryanne. The rest of the meal had been conducted in near silence, with only the minimum required polite conversation, mostly pertaining to the quality of the food or room furnishings. As soon as he could decently do so, Jonathan excused himself, wished them a pleasant evening, and left, although not without picking up a very large scotch from the bar on his way out.
Now he was leaning on the railing of the upper sundeck, watching the black waters ripple away from the hull towards the palm-lined bank of the Nile, which gleamed beneath a breathtakingly starlit African sky, nursing his near-empty drink and having a thoroughly well-earned sulk.
Just his bloody luck that he should meet the only woman he'd ever felt he could care for and cherish for the rest of his life, only to find she was already married to that pompous prig. Why on earth had such a lovely young thing shackled herself to that crusty bugger? She obviously did not love him – well, how could such a delicate flower love that overbearing school master in love with his own authority? Perhaps there was some financial incentive for her marrying him, like a conditional inheritance... perhaps she was heiress to an oil fortune? Jonathan was surprised, and a little dismayed, that he felt no interest in this imagined wealth of Maryanne Chamberlain. Perhaps he was going soft, but he couldn't help but think how much better the name Maryanne Carnahan sounded...
Jonathan was distracted from his thoughts by a flash of gold at the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw Maryanne lean her elbows upon the railing a little distance from him, and pull the crocheted shawl closer to ward off the breeze. Jonathan set his glass on the railing, then straightened up and removed his crumpled linen jacket. Walking towards her, he draped it around her shoulders before returning to his place and reclaiming his drink.
"Thank you," her gentle Boston accent floated to him on the breeze.
"What else could a gentleman do?" Jonathan asked lightly. "Just mind the sleeve, it's a little damp."
There was an awkward moment of eye contact, before they both looked down to stare over the railing, apparently lost in melancholy reflection.
"I'm sorry we didn't get to speak to each other more tonight," she said eventually.
Jonathan turned to her in genuine surprise, his face lit up like a little boy's on Christmas day. "Are you?"
Maryanne nodded. "I never got a chance to thank you for introducing me to your sister this afternoon."
Jonathan's face fell, and he returned to staring into his scotch. "Oh, that." Draining the glass he leaned back from the railing and made a show of indifference. "Don't mention it. I'm glad I could provide you with some female company while your husband was... otherwise engaged. Has he forsaken you for his studies again now?"
Maryanne looked distressed by his observation of her husband's absence, and Jonathan wished for all the world he hadn't made it.
"He said he needed to talk to the other members of the excavation party," she said, attempting to make excuses for his inattention. "We'll be heading out to the dig site tomorrow, and he just wants to make sure everything is ready."
"He's a madman," Jonathan said softly. "If I were on honeymoon with you, I wouldn't let you out of my bed, let alone my sight."
Maryanne looked away to hide her blush, and once again Jonathan wished he hadn't been quite so loose with his tongue. He'd had a lot to drink, but it wasn't just that. Something about her made him forget himself, and speak far more candidly than he intended. Usually so confident in the company of an attractive female, he was quite at a loss how to act. He couldn't assume his usual persona of the roguish charmer with her, as she was not the type of girl to fall for it. Nor did he wish her to be. Her modest blush might make him ashamed at his own immodesty, but it also delighted and enchanted him. None of the women he was usually attracted to had enough honesty left in them to conjure a genuine blush, although they feigned it with rouge. But Maryanne's pale, flawless complexion was never prettier than when those two dusky pink roses blossomed on her cheeks, as they did now.
In that moment Jonathan realised he would never do anything to compromise her ability to blush. No matter what secret fantasies he might harbour about seducing this beautiful young woman right under her stupid, arrogant husband's nose, he would never act upon them. Well, he consoled himself, he'd never had any serious intention of doing so anyway. For one thing, there was a distinct probability of getting caught, with her husband never more than a boat length away, and although the Harvard professor might seem like a prissy little academic, Jonathan knew the sort and had no doubt that any slight to his honour as a gentleman, and Chamberlain would have recourse to pistols – or worse, lawyers.
But he felt a far more compelling deterrent than the desire to avoid any unpleasant repercussions (and it was somewhat disconcerting that he should put any other consideration above his own personal safety). Even though he'd only known her for a few hours, something about Mrs Maryanne Chamberlain made him feel incredibly protective towards her. The very last thing he wanted to do was take advantage or her, or cause her distress of any sort. He only longed to see her smile more. Had he been her husband, he would not suffer anyone to produce that nervous, self-conscious look in her eyes, much less be the cause of it himself. He would praise her every day until she could not fail to understand how perfect she was in every particular.
But she was not his to praise, he reminded himself. The problem was, he could not trust himself to remember that when she was standing this close to him, her wavy blonde hair catching on her eyelashes as it blew in the river breeze, which carried the delicate scent of her perfume to him. He could covet her, but not posses her, and if that meant shunning her presence for her own protection, it was a sacrifice he was almost willing to make.
"Sorry, had a bit too much of the highland firewater," he mumbled apologetically. "See? Time for a refill," he said, feigning slightly less sober speech as he held up his empty tumbler.
Maryanne nodded with a sigh, and Jonathan's heart skipped to see she almost looked disappointed. "As you like, Mr Carnahan."
"Jonathan," he prompted her.
Maryanne smiled. "Jonathan," she corrected herself. "Anyway, I really must find your sister to apologise for my husband's behaviour."
Jonathan shrugged with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Oh, Evy's probably gone to Bedfordshire by now, or else she's got her nose stuck in a book somewhere. I shouldn't worry about it, after eighteen rejections from the Bembridge scholars she's used to people like him by now."
Maryanne's face took on a pained expression. "Now I feel even worse," she said anxiously. "If I don't see her before we disembark tomorrow, will you tell her I'm sorry if Arthur spoilt her evening, and I really was very glad to meet her."
Jonathan nodded, shocked to feel a sudden lump in his throat at the idea that he himself might never see her again after tonight. Well, perhaps it was for the best. There was no point tormenting himself any more than necessary.
"Well," he said brightly, shaking off his uncharacteristic attack of emotion, "I think I might get that refill, and join the rest of the drunks on the lower deck. I hear there's a poker table set up, and I have something burning a hole in my pocket." At that he patted the place where the small octagonal bulge should have been against his left breast, before remembering his jacket was now draped around Maryanne.
"Oh, I should give you this back," she said hastily, straightening up to shrug off his jacket, but Jonathan halted her with an imploring hand.
"Please, keep it for tonight," he said, thinking it would give him an excuse to see her again in the morning, and how much it would please him to get it back knowing it had kept her warm in his absence, that something of his had been in contact with her body, making it smell even more sweetly of her. "I'll find you before we leave in the morning. Until then, I bid you good night, Mrs Chamberlain."
"Thank you," Maryanne mumbled, not knowing what else to say, but by the time she thought to add more he was already hurrying down the steps to the lower deck.
A/N: Well, hope you enjoyed reading that chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. I have no idea where this is coming from, but it's surprisingly easy to write! Next chapter will dip into the movie scenes of the poker game / boat sinking, but only a little, and hopefully with some clever twists!