Ancient Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (15 page)

“And I told him I thought that was a swell offer,” said Harold, dashing my hopes of getting rid of the man.

Then I decided I was being too hard on him. After all, I’d only just met him. So I said, “Thank you, Mister Stackville.”

“It will be my pleasure, believe me, Missus Majesty.”

That’s when I figured out why this fellow put me off. He acted toward me as the fat man with the cigar had acted. The fact that Mr. Stackville was tall, blond and handsome didn’t make his attentions any more welcome to yours truly. But perhaps I was doing the man an injustice. Time, as people always say, would tell. Anyhow, there was no getting away from dining with him this evening, since Harold had already accepted his invitation.

The meal was delicious, I suppose. I couldn’t eat much of it, and waiters kept coming with various courses until I stopped counting. I sipped some lentil soup and discovered I wasn’t a great fan of lentils. The fish was good, so I ate a bite or two of it. The lamb was spiced in an odd way—odd to me, I mean, who was accustomed to good old American food—and I wondered what seasonings were used, because it was quite delectable. I actually ate four or five bites of that before I had to push it away.

I noticed Harold eyeing me through the meal, which only lessened my already enfeebled appetite, but I tried not to let his scrutiny bother me unduly. It wouldn’t do to make a scene in public, after all.

Mr. Stackville produced a glib spate of tidbits about Egypt throughout the meal. I suspected he was trying to impress us, although he didn’t seem to brag; only to tell us things he thought we might find interesting.

“You’re both visiting the pyramids at Giza tomorrow, I understand, Missus Majesty.”

“Yes.”

“Be glad you’re going nowadays instead of back in the nineties. They actually have rail cars to take you out there today, but when I first began visiting Egypt—I was only a lad then, of course—”

Of course, I thought nastily.

“—we had to ride donkeys.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that,” I murmured as the waiter took away my lamb and plunked a salad down in front of me.

“You can still ride donkeys if you want to.”

I blinked at him. “Why would we want to do that?”

He apparently thought that was extremely funny, because he threw his head back and laughed. When he’d recovered, he said, “No reason. In fact, if this is your first trip to Egypt, I expect you’d rather have a camel ride. Camels are rude brutes, but they’re useful.”

“Yes. So I’ve heard,” I mumbled.

“Daisy’s husband studied a great deal about Egypt before his death,” said Harold. I think he sensed my uneasiness about Mr. Stackville. “So Daisy has been filling me in on a lot of stuff about the country. My mother and stepfather visited here last winter.”

“Winter is the best time to visit,” agreed Stackville. He eyed me with more interest than I cared for. “So you’ve been told a lot about Egypt, have you?”

“Only what Mister Majesty used to read in the newspapers and National Geographic,” I said, wishing the guy would shut up and go away.

“There are new discoveries being made every day, and they’re being reported all over the place, although you can’t really get a feel for the place until you see it for yourself. So you’re taking a Cook’s steamer up the Nile?”

I looked at Harold, who was still munching lamb, so I answered the man. “Yes. And a Cook’s guide is taking us to the pyramids tomorrow.”

“They call those fellows dragomen here,” said Stackville. As if I cared. “And don’t believe everything they tell you. They’re mainly entertainers, and they take pride in giving the customer what he—or in your case, Missus Majesty, she—wants, which they think is a good time and good stories.”

What I wanted at that moment was to be back home again. I didn’t say so. “I see.”

“But you can browse book stalls in the marketplace—they call it a souk here—and perhaps find a book that will give you the unedited, educated version of events and places.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you ever need me for anything, I’ll be up on the third floor. The dragoman can find me.”

Whatever would we need you for? thought I, and decided I was still in a grumpy mood. After all, the man was only trying to be pleasant. So I said, “Thank you.”

“We’re on the fourth floor. I got us a couple of the better suites,” said Harold. With a laugh, he added, “God knows we’re not used to roughing it. This trip was my idea, in order to get Daisy out and about a bit after her terrible loss, and it came about rather suddenly.

“I see,” said Mr. Stackville, stroking his moustache. “Yes, I can see why it might have been a sudden decision, given the weather in August as compared to the weather in, say, December.”

His comment irked me, and I snapped, “It just happened that my husband passed away in June, Mister Stackville. Harold is doing me a great kindness, and he didn’t think it would be wise to wait until December. I . . .” Oh, good Lord, I felt tears spring to my eyes. How embarrassing! Swallowing them with determination and anger at this insinuating specimen, I said, “Harold wanted to get me out and about now. He didn’t feel it wise to wait until December.”

“Of course. I meant no criticism, Missus Majesty.” Turning to Harold, he said, “I hope you understood that, old man. No criticism at all.”

Harold waved his hand, which held a buttery knife. “I understand completely, Stackville. Daisy’s a bit . . . touchy these days.” Then he looked at me to see if I was going to pounce on him and beat him to a pulp with a dinner plate.

Naturally, I’d never do such a thing to Harold, who was one of my closest friends, even if he was calling me touchy, which I resented like fire. Although he was right. My shoulders slumped slightly when I realized the truth. I was not merely touchy and short-tempered, but sometimes I felt as though my skin was so sensitive, if anyone even touched me I’d jump a foot in the air and scream. Maybe someday somebody will invent a pill that will help people who were in the state I was in back then.

“Yes. I have to admit to being somewhat . . . out of sorts lately,” I said softly, hoping both men would forgive me, although I wasn’t sure for what I needed to be forgiven.

“Of course, you are,” said Stackville, oozing sympathy. “I’m sorry if anything I’ve said has annoyed or offended you, Missus Majesty. That’s the very last thing I intended to do.”

I didn’t believe him. I told myself to stop being ridiculous. Perhaps this man was lonely and only seeking some English-speaking company. God knew I’d heard languages from places all over the world since we entered Shepheards Hotel, and that was only earlier in the day.

“Think nothing of it,” I said to him.

A waiter came and whisked our dishes away. He gave me an uneasy glance as if to ask me why I wasn’t eating anything and if I found the food distasteful. Great. Now even waiters were getting into the “Force Daisy to eat more” mode. I smiled at him to let him know I thought the salad had been delicious. He smiled back and took our plates back to the kitchen.

There followed what Harold assured me was a typical English trifle. It tasted funny to me, but I didn’t say so.

Harold noticed anyway, since I wasn’t eating much of it. “What’s the matter, Daisy? This is one of the best trifles I’ve ever tasted.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful. I’m just . . . not very hungry.” I braced myself for a lecture, but Harold didn’t give me one.

Rather, he squinted from the trifle to me and back again. “I know what it is!” He declared triumphantly. “The trifle has liquor in it. This time it’s . . .” He paused to savor another bite. “I believe I detect the taste of sherry.”

“Right,” said Mr. Know-It-All Stackville. He gave me what seemed to me to be a patronizing smile. “You’re American, and I’m sure you aren’t accustomed to the flavor of sherry in your desserts.”

“You’re right about that,” I said, trying not to sound cold and failing. To make up for it, I said, “The fruit is good, though.” And when I got home, I decided, I’d ask Aunt Vi to make the family an English trifle sans alcohol. It would taste pretty good if it weren’t for the stupid sherry. And then I recalled Aunt Vi telling me once about how she used to make something called “tipsy pudding,” and I wondered if it was anything like an English trifle. I decided to ask her in my next letter home.

The two men dug into their trifles while I sported with a strawberry or two from my own dish, wishing the interminable meal would end. When it finally did, Mr. Stackville asked, “Would the two of you care to accompany me to the saloon, where dancing will take place shortly? Shepheards has a wonderful band.”

I couldn’t offhand think of anything I’d like less, so I said, “I’m sorry, but I’m really awfully tired from the long trip.” Speaking directly to Harold, I said, “Would you mind if I begged off this time, Harold?”

“Not at all, Daisy. But I think I’ll take Mister Stackville up on his invitation. Might as well have a little fun while we’re here.”

“Excellent,” declared Mr. Stackville. “Why don’t we escort Missus Majesty to her room, Kincaid, and then we can return to the saloon.”

“Sounds like an idea to me,” said Harold as alarm bells went off in my head. Mr. Stackville didn’t strike me as a person of Harold and Del’s stripe, but if he was, was Harold being untrue to Del by hanging out in a saloon with him?

And was it any of my business if he was?

Yes, darn it! I was Harold’s friend. And Del’s, too. I’d never, ever, abet a person whom I liked commit a sin against a marital commitment. Or even a non-marital commitment.

But Harold was behind me, pulling out my chair, and I’d already sealed the evening’s doings by refusing to accompany the two men. Bah. It occurred to me to change my mind, but the notion of lingering in the saloon, where people would undoubtedly be smoking and drinking and the music would be loud, made my head ache, so I silently commended Harold and Del to God. I didn’t go so far as to commend Mr. Stackville to the devil, but I felt like it.

Chapter Thirteen

Although I didn’t think I’d sleep much that night because I’d slept away the entire afternoon, I was wrong. I slept like the proverbial baby—not like a real one who, according to friends of mine who knew about such things, cried, screeched and fussed all night long.

I was dressed and ready to go when Harold knocked at my door at eight a.m. Since this was to be, I hoped, the day during which I’d actually get to ride a camel and climb a pyramid, I’d worn jodhpurs. And what, you might be asking, would a middle-class city kid like Daisy Gumm Majesty be doing with jodhpurs? Well, I’ll tell you. I made them for a class play when I was a senior in high school, and they now fitted me again. It was kind of nice to be able to fit into clothes that I hadn’t been able to wear for a long time, but I’d rather have had Billy back.

However, I did my best to suppress all unhappy thoughts and vowed to myself that I’d enjoy the day whether I wanted to or not. I opened the door to Harold, who’d had the same brilliant idea as I, and who also wore jodhpurs. I grabbed a jacket that went well enough with my puffy pants so as not to look odd, and Harold and I headed to the dining room. Before we got there, I’d used up my quota of conversational tidbits for the morning by asking him if he’d had a good time the night before. He said he had, that Shepheards’ band was quite good, that he’d danced a bit, and that was that.

An obsequious waiter led us to a table. I ordered toast and tea. Harold had a full English breakfast, which consisted of . . . Lord, just about every type of foodstuff you can imagine, and even some I never knew existed.

“What did you say that stuff was?” I asked, nodding at a pile of a rice-based concoction on his plate.

“Kedgeree. Have a bite. It’s delicious.”

“What’s in it?”

“Smoked fish, eggs, rice, mushrooms.” He squinted at the forkful of the mélange he’d lifted toward his mouth. “I don’t know what else, but it’s really good. I has an East Indian flavor to it. I guess the British stole the idea from India—kind of like they stole India from the Indians. Have a bite,” he repeated.

“Um, thanks, but I don’t think so.”

And here I used to think I was up to anything. That morning the mere thought of kedgeree conquered me. I lifted a piece of my toast and spread a little marmalade on it. We didn’t get marmalade much in Pasadena, although I don’t know why. After all, we had two orange trees in our very yard, a navel and a Valencia, giving us oranges darned near year-round, and Aunt Vi made all sorts of other kinds of jams and jellies. Although it was a little bitter, I liked the taste of marmalade. Perhaps I wasn’t a total coward when it came to food. Not that it matters.

Before we were through with our meals—well, before Harold was through with his, anyhow, I was finished practically before I started—who should walk up to our table but Mr. Wallingford Stackville. He pretended to be surprised to see us.

“Well, my goodness, look who’s here!” he said in a jovial voice.

Harold waved to an empty chair at our table. “Have a seat. We’re nearly through with our meal, but it’s nice to have company.”

I didn’t think it was nice at all, but I managed a weak smile for Mr. Stackville.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said he, and he pulled out a chair and sat. He eyed my plate. “You certainly don’t eat much, Missus Majesty. That’s probably how you manage to keep your figure so trim.”