Page 19 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

19

It felt good to be in his study, out of his bedroom, away from the stuffy air and wrinkled sheets. Edmund relished the feel of pencil lead against paper, the soft scratch of it, the satisfying lines of his campaign emblem taking shape—until his lungs spasmed. An ugly black mark ruined the drawing as he reached for his handkerchief. Whenever the blasted cough took over, there was nothing he could do but ride the wave.

Ami entered with a tea tray, a frown scrunching her brow. “That’s exactly what I feared. You’re overdoing it. You’ve only been awake since yesterday. Please go back to bed.”

His body agreed. His very bones cried out for a lie-down, fatigue weighing as heavily as the pressure in his chest. But even so, he straightened as he tucked away his cloth. “You fret like a fishwife. I am perfectly fine.”

Setting down the tray, she searched his face. Worry shone in her eyes like a beacon. “Liar. That sheen of perspiration on your brow says otherwise.”

Blast. He swiped his forehead with his sleeve. Leave it to a restorer of antiquities to notice such a detail. “I will rest, but first I wish to sketch an emblem for my campaign. The election will be here before I know it.”

She arched a brow at the page with the unruly black mark. “That’s a bold statement, though I’m not sure it’s a very good one.”

He grinned. “I appreciate your—”

Another coughing fit hit. Once again he grabbed his handkerchief, this time a little too exuberantly. Papers flew off his desk, several fat folders loosing quite a flurry, and yet he was helpless to stop the mess or his cough.

Oh, how he hated such weakness!

Concern etched a deep furrow into Ami’s brow as she swiped up paper after paper. “You really should go to bed,” she singsonged.

Ah, but he could watch her lithe figure working like this for hours. Suddenly he felt feverish—and this time it had nothing to do with being sick. But as she gathered the last of the sheets and began tucking them into a familiar folio, his blood ran cold.

He knew what that folder held and—God help him—he knew exactly the sort of heartache those devilish documents could breathe to life.

“Leave it!” he barked.

Yet it was entirely too late.

Ami turned to him, papers in hand, a knowing light in her eyes.

His gut twisted. She’d seen the writing. She’d read it. And once again he’d been exposed for the half-wit he truly was.

Surprisingly, she dipped her chin sheepishly as if she were the one who was humiliated. “I suppose I should tell you that I ... em, well, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen your writing, Edmund.”

He tensed, his guard immediately raised. “There is no way you could have possibly read any of my work.”

“I’m afraid there is.” A lump traveled the length of her neck. “That day Mr. Harrison came to view your cargo, I put a tally of the artifacts on your desk before either of you entered your study. A notepad fell to the floor as I did so. I picked it up, not intending to read it, but ... it just sort of happened.”

She’d known? All this time? Then again, she’d not really had an opportunity to shame him about the matter.

Yet.

Rising, he snatched his poetry from her hand. “I will thank you to keep this to yourself, Miss Dalton.”

She scowled up at him, eyes flashing fury. “I can’t imagine what you think of me. I would never share your private writings with anyone!”

“I’ve heard that before.” The words ground out of him as foul memories surfaced. Things he’d run halfway around the world to forget stung as sharply now as they had eight years ago.

Wheeling about, he slapped the folio onto the desk just as another bout of coughing racked through his body. Shaken and weary, he sank into one of the leather chairs near the hearth, clutching his handkerchief in a tight fist.

“Edmund, I’m so sorry. I never meant to pry.” She dropped to her knees at his side, skirts billowing around her. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, you know. Your imagery is vivid, your words sweet.”

“And they’re spelled all wrong.” He shoved the cloth into his pocket. Annoyed. Exposed. Vulnerable once again to a woman, an event he’d sworn he’d never repeat. A sigh ripped out of him. “I suppose you may as well know I suffer from congenital word blindness.”

If the slightest amount of pity welled in her eyes, he’d stomp upstairs, short of breath or not, and pack her bags for her.

She merely leaned back on her heels. “But these books.” She swept her hand toward the towering shelves. “You are so well read. How do you manage that?”

“Time. Just because it’s difficult for me to read doesn’t mean it is impossible, though most who know of such a debilitation would label me an ignoramus.”

“Then they are the real fools. You suffer a challenge, not an incapacity.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who got kicked out of school or fled the country because of it.” A churlish response, and he knew it, but there was no way to explain the shame he’d been forced to swallow over the years. Especially from his father.

“What has any of that to do with putting letters in the wrong spot? Well, school I can understand, but leaving England?” Her eyes narrowed. “This is tied in with Louisa, isn’t it?”

Despite his frustration, admiration for her quick mind sneaked up on him. “You are too smart for your own good.”

“And you seem as if you’ve not dealt with the past.” Rising, she brushed off her skirt and took the chair adjacent to him. She curled her legs beneath her, like a cat ready for a good long sit. “It might be good to speak of such things. Bottling up bad memories is a recipe for broken glass. So ... what happened?”

The question loitered on the air, where he left it for several heartbeats. He didn’t believe for one second that voicing what had happened would remove his scars ... and yet he also knew Ami would not be put off.

Blowing out a ragged breath, he plowed his fingers through his hair. “A proposal gone bad is what happened. I thought she loved me, but it turns out the only one Louisa Allen ever really loved was herself.”

He rubbed his hand along his thigh, antsy despite his exhaustion. “I poured my heart into a deeply personal poem for her, believing it would express the depths of my affection more than the spoken word. It wasn’t meant for public consumption. Ever. It wasn’t even ready to share with her when she found it. And instead of treasuring it as a token of my love, she saw it as an opportunity to elevate herself.”

His voice crackled with bitterness as he continued. “Louisa claimed it was nothing but a lark, just a playful way to gain attention at the Witherspoons’ ball when she read it aloud, making sure to point out my spelling blunders.”

“How awful.” Her words hissed in time with the sizzle of the coals in the hearth. “Why would she do such a thing?”

“At the risk of sounding conceited, I believe it was due to my looks and fortune. She came from blue bloods. I came from money. She wished to knock me down a few pegs, revel in the power she had by birth over me. Use my vulnerable expression of love as a means to diminish me in front of others.” He looked away, reluctant to meet Ami’s gaze. “You have no idea what it’s like to be laughed at for baring your soul.”

“Yes, I do.”

He swiveled his head to face her, unsure if he’d heard correctly, so soft was her voice.

She toyed with the button on the cuff of her sleeve. “I’d written a paper once, a culmination of my research into Egyptian burial rituals. I thought it would spark an in-depth discussion amongst my father’s colleagues, but all it earned me was derision. Most claimed it was my father’s work. The rest scorned my findings, saying a woman couldn’t possibly understand such a nuanced subject, that females are too simpleminded.”

Ami Dalton was many things—unorthodox, outspoken, lovely—but before a court of law she could never be accused of being simpleminded. “You are the most intelligent woman I know. I am sure your insights were brilliant.”

She faced him with a lift to her lips. “And I am certain Louisa was a fool.”

He inhaled deeply, her words a balm. As her gentle voice faded along with the echoes of his own past struggles, right there in the middle of his study, weak and weary and worn, he felt the presence of God’s love enveloping him. Enveloping them. Almost as if a divine hand reached out, assuring him his vulnerabilities were not signs of weakness but were in fact opportunities for God’s love to be made perfect. Love, a sentiment he’d dismissed ever since Louisa, now lingered at the edges of his thoughts like an unexpected guest, challenging the cynicism he’d held on to for far too long—beckoning him to let go of it. Unbidden, he laid his hands in his lap, palms open, a silly symbol of release.

Yet one that resonated deep within.

Untucking her legs, Ami rose and once again knelt at his side. Her eyes were luminous, lit with the sort of ethereal glow that only a master painter could capture.

“You need never fear that I will shame you,” she whispered.

His throat closed, and he reached out, gently laying his hand upon her cheek. “Nor I you,” he whispered back.

How long they sat thus, he couldn’t be sure, but he’d do so for all eternity would God allow it.

At length, she pulled away. “I suppose I should get back to work. After all, I’m not the recuperating patient, and those artifacts aren’t going to tally themselves. Whoever ends up purchasing the lot will want a full accounting.”

“Ah yes, about that.” He rose and offered his hand, righting her before spilling the bad news. “I heard back from the Cairo Museum. They didn’t offer anything close to what Harrison can pay.”

“Enough for Sanjay?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Gil gets half of the profits, as per our business contract.”

“But, Edmund, surely whatever the museum can manage would hold your friend over until you free up other funds.”

“It’s not that simple.” Though it had seemed so at the time when he’d signed that contract for the Bengal Express railway. It would take at least nine more months before his railroad investment could be accessed—too late to help Sanjay.

Ami popped a fist on her hip, that one simple movement ending the closeness they’d shared. “Those relics are special. They belong—”

“In the Cairo Museum. Yes, I know, for so you’ve told me countless times.” He pressed his fingers to his temple, the latent headache flaring to life.

A storm cloud darkened on her brow. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“It’s not, but neither is it a profitable thing.”

“Money isn’t the be-all and end-all!”

Hah! Said like a true working scholar. “It is when that’s what is keeping your family from starvation.”

“I understand that, truly, but...” She bit her lip, grief sagging her shoulders. “It’s just that I cannot stand to think of those precious relics hidden away in a private collection, lost to obscurity. They should be accessible to the Egyptian people.”

“I’m sorry, Ami, but my hands are tied in this matter. There are no alternatives.” He didn’t like voicing the words any more than she liked hearing them, yet they had to be said.

Uneasy silence descended, the occasionally pop of the coals jarring.

“Very well, then.” She whirled so violently, the hem of her skirt slapped against his legs. “I shall get to work.”

“Ami, please.” He took a step toward her. “Don’t be cross with me.”

She did not turn back.

“I’m not cross. I’m just ... frustrated.” Flinging out her arms, she strode through the door.

For a long moment he stood there, listening to her steps clomp down the corridor, his chest tightening like a cloth wrung too tightly. Would to God he could please her and Sanjay, but how? Stuck between a rock and a hard place would be a holiday compared to this.

Like a rat with sharp teeth, the idea of those precious antiquities remaining in England gnawed at Ami as she stomped out the door, leaving Edmund to wonder at her childish behaviour. In truth, she barely understood it herself. On one hand, indignation practically choked her to see those relics anywhere except in Cairo. On the other, she couldn’t help but admire Edmund’s dedication to his friend.

Conflicted, she stomped up the stairs instead of heading straight for the workroom. She could use a good lie-down herself after the harrowing past few days, but she’d have to settle for draping her trusty old shawl about her shoulders. There was something comforting about her worn wrap. A shield from the outside world and from inner turmoil. Like an embrace across the years from her grandmother.

Once past her threshold, however, she bypassed the tasseled green fabric hanging from a hook and strode straight to her nightstand. Perched atop a small silver salver was an envelope with her name penned on the front in familiar handwriting. Picking it up, she broke the red seal on the back.

I have a buyer for your golden griffin. Price is not a stumbling block.

She blinked. How did Mr. Dandrae know about that? Had that journalist, Mr. Kane, posted something? If so, this could be only the beginning of trouble—dire trouble.

It is the wish of Mr. Tariq Khafra to return the valuable piece to his homeland. Bring the item tomorrow night, Covered Market, outside the butcher stall, eight o’clock.

She sank onto her bed, envelope in hand, mind a mile away. An Egyptian wished to purchase the griffin? And bring it back to Cairo as she wished? Was this some sort of miraculous answer to prayer?

Aimlessly, she tapped the corner of the note against her thigh. She couldn’t possibly take the man’s offer ... could she? The griffin wasn’t hers to sell. But if price was no issue, she could meet with the buyer and negotiate a very pretty penny for it. Or better yet, tell him of the other riches and encourage the man to meet with Mr. Price about purchasing the entire lot. Wouldn’t Edmund be pleased about that? Sanjay would have enough funds to survive, and the antiquities could be relocated to where they belonged.

A small smile curved her lips as she thought more on a plan. Perhaps beauty could be made of these ashes after all.