Every Whispered Word (22 page)

“Nothing is more important to me than your safety, Camelia,” he told her seriously. “Since you are determined to continue with your excavation, I'm going with you to help you. My business will simply have to wait until I return.”

Simon regarded him curiously. Apparently Wickham was astute enough to realize that once Camelia was off digging up bits of bone on her site, he would be all but forgotten. Clearly that did not sit well with him. Even so, Simon could not help but wonder at Elliott's willingness and ability to abandon his fledgling import business on such short notice to go to Africa for several months. It seemed his devotion to Camelia ran far deeper than his concern for his business affairs. Or perhaps Elliott secretly nurtured the faint hope that the Tomb of Kings existed after all, and he wanted to be with Camelia in case she managed to find it. Simon suspected Elliott would not be pleased if someone else managed to unearth what he had failed to discover after so many years of trying.

Whatever the reason, the fact that Elliott was now coming left Simon feeling wary and faintly irritated.

“Fine then, five tickets it is.” Oliver looked at Oscar, who had hopped off Zareb's shoulder and was now gorging himself on ginger biscuits. “I'm thinkin' maybe we should nae mention to Jack about the beasties. He may nae take kindly to the idea of havin' all these animals crawlin' about his ship.”

“He doesn't have a thing to worry about,” Camelia assured him. “I'll make very certain that Oscar, Rupert, and Harriet stay in my cabin for as much of the trip as possible.”

“Best wait to tell him once ye're all on board,” Eunice suggested. “Jack's very particular about his ships, and might nae fancy the idea of a monkey sharin' his plate, or a snake slitherin' about in his pots.”

“Dinna fash yerself, lassie,” Oliver said, sensing Camelia didn't like the idea that her animals might not be welcome. “Jack's been all around the world more times than I can count, an' seen things we can scarce imagine. He's nae likely to be bothered by a wee monkey, a skinny snake, an' a molting bird.”

“Good, then it's all settled. I must go and write to Mr. Trafford, to let him know we are coming. If the letter goes out with today's post, he will at least have a few days' warning before our arrival. He'll be extremely pleased when he hears we are finally going to have a pump to clear the site. A machine is not going to be frightened away by a curse.”

Oliver frowned. “What curse?”

“It's just nonsense, Oliver—you have nothing to worry about.”

Oliver raised a questioning brow at Zareb.

“Don't fash yourself, Oliver,” Zareb said, awkwardly attempting to use one of Oliver's expressions. “I will make you a powerful amulet to ward off any evil.”

Oliver looked unconvinced. “Perhaps ye should make one for the lad here, too,” he said, indicating Simon.

“That won't be necessary, Zareb. I don't believe in curses.” Simon winced as Harriet suddenly landed on his shoulder in a flurry of gray feathers.

Zareb studied him a moment, contemplating the fact that Harriet had chosen that specific moment to go to him. “You may not need an amulet,” he allowed. “But I will make you one anyway and carry it for you.”

“While ye're at it, could ye make one for me?” wondered Doreen. “I could use it to keep that wicked snake away from me.”

“Rupert isn't wicked, Doreen,” Camelia objected. “He just likes you.”

“Fine, then, make an amulet that'll keep him from likin' me quite so much. 'Tis either that or the fryin' pan for him.”

“I will make you an amulet that will keep Rupert away, Doreen,” Zareb offered. “But I must warn you, the smell of it may make it difficult for you to wear.”

Doreen shrugged. “Then I'll just hang it over the kitchen door.”

“Forgive me for taking my leave of all of you,” Camelia apologized, “but I really must write that letter to Mr. Trafford.”

“And I'd best get started on the medicines ye'll be needin',” Eunice decided. “I'm thinkin' a good supply of syrup o' violets to purge yer bowels now an' again will be handy. No tellin' what strange foods ye'll be eatin' over there.”

“I'd rather ye give us medicines for keepin' food in us, instead of them that makes ye heave it out,” Oliver reflected.

“I'll pack both,” Eunice told him. “Just in case.”

“I also have many matters to attend to before we leave,” Elliott said.

“I'm happy to show ye the door, yer lordship,” Oliver said pleasantly, leading the way.

Simon watched as the little party bustled out of the drawing room and headed noisily down the stairs.

Then he sat on the sofa and stared at Oscar, who was merrily gorging himself on the forgotten ginger biscuits.

“Give it over,” Simon said, holding out his hand as Oscar greedily grabbed the last cookie. “Or I'll tell Eunice you were the one who tossed her good petticoat out the window.”

Oscar shot back a defiant protest.

“You won't like being a polishing mitt,” Simon warned. “Eunice uses a polish paste that smells really foul.”

Oscar paused, considering. Reluctantly, he handed his precious biscuit to Simon.

“A very good decision,” Simon assured him, preparing to bite into it.

Harriet squawked noisily on his shoulder in protest.

“You can have one of the oatcakes instead.” Simon picked one up and offered it to her. “They are just as good.”

Harriet took the oatcake in her beak and flung it irritably across the room.

“Fine, then,” he conceded. “But you only get half.” He broke the cookie into two pieces and gave her one of them.

Sinking back, he bit into his half of the cookie and sighed. After thirty-five years of never venturing farther than from Inverness to London, he was about to cross the ocean and trek deep into the wildest parts of Africa to find a tomb that was supposedly cursed.

At that moment, he could only pray for two things. One, that the pump he had just built would actually work.

The other was that he would survive the bloody voyage.

C
amelia gripped the heavy iron railing and inhaled deeply, letting the cold, black spray of the ocean rinse away the filth and turmoil of London.

They were only a few days into their three-week voyage, but already she felt better than she had in months. The ocean air was fresh and pure, instead of being heavy with the stench of London's smoky fires, cloying perfume, stagnant manure, and sewage. She could not understand how she had managed to endure it for as long as she had without falling ill from some dreadful lung disease. Although they had not yet reached the coast of Morocco, she could feel Africa calling to her across the inky miles of star-flecked waves.

Come home, Camelia,
it whispered with every crash of the ship's hull through the powerful, churning water.
Come home
. She closed her eyes and leaned out a little further, feeling free and reckless and guardedly hopeful.

Finally, she was going home.

When they had left Cape Town for England some three months earlier, Zareb had worried they might never return. He had cautioned Camelia that London was a wild and dangerous place, where one's spirit could be lost and never found. Camelia had dismissed his fears as those of an elderly African man who was afraid of a world he did not know—a world in which Camelia had forewarned him he might face even greater prejudice than that which he was forced to endure in his homeland. How could a gentle, honorable, intelligent man like Zareb, born to one of the most powerful tribes of the Cape, not fear their going to such a place?

But Zareb had been wrong. Camelia had not lost her spirit to London—had not even come close to it. The glittering balls and parties she had attended had paled beyond her painful longing for the quiet beauty of an African night sky. The ornate, towering buildings and narrow, crowded streets had made her feel breathless and trapped. And the endless days of writing letters pleading for an audience with some potential investor, or attending some dull lecture or party in the hopes of securing a promise of either money or a pump, had left her feeling hollow and frustrated, as if she weren't really accomplishing anything at all. Her father had been right about her, she mused as she leaned out even further.

She was happiest when she was playing in the dirt.

“I'd prefer it if you didn't lean out quite that far,” said a low voice. “I don't particularly relish the idea of a late-night swim.”

She turned to see Simon's brother Jack watching her from the shadows. He was leaning casually against a mast, his arms folded across his chest, his relaxed stance very much reminiscent of the way Simon often stood. From there the resemblance ended abruptly.

Jack Kent was about an inch taller than Simon, and his handsome face was lined and bronzed from years of standing on a deck facing the wind and the sun as he steered his ships across the ocean. His hair was the color of well-polished wood, threaded with a few sun-bleached strands of gold, and his eyes were a steely gray that reminded Camelia of the gleaming blade of a dagger. At thirty-eight he was only three years older than Simon, but there was a worldliness to him that made him seem far more mature. Her gaze fell upon the thin white scar that snaked along the chiseled contour of his left cheek. She recalled Simon mentioning that Jack had been nearly fifteen when Lady Redmond finally rescued him from a prison cell in Inveraray.

She sensed that the years in which he had been forced to survive on his own had been extremely harsh.

“I love the scent and feel of the ocean,” Camelia told him, leaning in a bit. “It makes me feel free.”

“I understand completely,” Jack assured her. “However, I do think Simon would be rather annoyed with me if I let you topple overboard.”

“Where is he?”

“He's down in the engine room. He's trying to come up with a more efficient steam engine that will propel my ships faster than the current industry standard. He says he has a new idea that he will start working on for me the minute he returns from Africa.”

“Then he must be feeling better.”

“I'd say so, yes. It seems the seasickness finally ran its course.”

“Or Eunice's medicine finally cleaned him out,” quipped Oliver, joining them on the deck with Zareb. “Poor lad—for a moment I thought he was goin' to ask Jack to turn the ship around an' take him back to England. He was afraid he was goin' to be green as a frog the entire journey.”

“He would not have been so sick if he had allowed me to perform my healing ceremony,” Zareb insisted. “Unfortunately, I was not able to convince him.”

“He should still be resting in his cabin,” Camelia reflected. “If he's weak he shouldn't be trying to work yet.”

“Nae sweat, nae sweet,” Oliver mused. “The lad has always been happiest when he's up to his ears in grease an' metal.”

Jack nodded in agreement. “I remember when we first went to live at Haydon's estate, Simon was fascinated by all the clocks that were there. So one by one he set to taking them apart and trying to put them together again, to see if he could teach himself how they worked. But for some reason there were always a few extra parts left over after he had finished with them.”

“For nearly a year we had clocks chiming somewhere in the house every minute of the day and night,” Oliver continued, laughing. “Finally, his lordship had the whole lot of them packed up and sent to a famous clockmaker in Inverness, who worked for another year trying to make them all work proper again!”

Camelia smiled. She could well imagine Simon as a little boy, busily taking apart everything he could get his hands on. “Did Simon ever learn how to build a clock?”

“Ultimately Haydon hired the clockmaker to come to the estate and teach Simon how clocks and watches worked,” Jack told her. “And after a week the man said Simon had an incredible aptitude for it, and should consider a career in clock-making.”

“By then the lad was nae interested in clocks any more,” Oliver added, shaking his head. “He had set his mind to makin' other machines using the workings of the clock—only bigger.”

“Like what?” wondered Camelia.

“One day when Eunice and Doreen had him and his brother Jamie washin' the supper dishes, Simon got it into his head 'twould be far better if a machine did it,” Oliver began. “So he piled the plates and glasses into an old wooden tub with some soapy water and fixed some great contraption he had built onto the tub. When Eunice and Doreen came back to the kitchen a wee bit later, Jamie was turnin' a crank and makin' the tub shake somethin' fierce, while Simon urged him to go faster so the dishes would be done quicker.”

“He was sorely disappointed when Eunice started pulling broken bits of plate and smashed glassware out of the tub,” Jack continued wryly. “After that he was forced to reconsider his invention.”

Camelia smiled. “But he never stopped inventing.”

“He couldn't—'twas in his blood, the same as the sea is in Jack's blood,” Oliver explained. “His lordship and Genevieve hired the best tutors they could find for him, an' they all agreed the lad was uncommonly clever—even the one who quit after Simon accidentally blew up his desk.” He slapped his knee with amusement. “Singed the poor fellow's eyebrows clean off—his sister Annabelle had to draw them back on with a bit o' burnt cork afore he left. When Simon finally went off to university, we all worried he was going to accidentally burn the whole school down.”

“And did he?” wondered Zareb.

“Only one science laboratory.” Simon emerged from below deck with Oscar perched comfortably on his shoulder. “It needed refurbishing anyway.”

A soft spill of moonlight poured over him as he moved closer. He was dressed in a simple white shirt, dark trousers, and a loosely fitted coat. He seemed thinner to Camelia in the shadowy night air, and his skin had grown even paler over the last few days of his illness. A flicker of guilt pulsed through her. He had completely exhausted himself as he worked on the pump day and night before they boarded the
Independence.
She could not help but think Simon's weakened state had contributed to the illness that overcame him the minute Jack's great steamship left London. He would be better in Africa, she decided, watching as Oscar affectionately searched through Simon's tangled red hair for bugs. Once he was back on land, with the warm African sun and wind caressing his skin, he would quickly become strong once more.

“Jack and Oliver were just telling us about some of your escapades as a boy” she explained, smiling. “It seems even then you were always trying to improve upon things.”

“I've always been interested in how things work,” Simon returned, prying Oscar's questing little paws from his hair. “Once you understand how something works, then you can focus on trying to make it better.”

“There's some things that need nae improvin' upon,” Oliver reflected.

“Like what?”

“Like this sky.” Oliver gazed upward. “All these stars have been about for thousands of years, an' they'll be about for thousands more. There's nae to improve upon there—ye just stand back an' enjoy it.”

Simon looked up and frowned. “If we want to study the stars, we need the equipment to do so, and that is something that can always be improved upon. One day I will work on making a better telescope—one that allows you to see the planets more clearly.”

“What do ye need to see planets for, when there's all these stars about ye?” demanded Oliver impatiently. “That's more than enough to fill yer gaze, I think.”

“I would like to see even farther.”

“Why?”

“Because I am curious about what else is out there. I want to know about the things I cannot easily see.”

“Did it ever occur to ye there are some things ye're nae meant to see?”

Simon shrugged. “I suppose if I'm not meant to see something, then I won't be able to.”

“Next thing ye know ye'll be tryin' to see all the way to Heaven, an' God himself will say ‘Here now, that's enough, young Kent, ye keep yer eyes where ye're supposed to.' ”

“When God says that, I'll just look somewhere else, Oliver,” Simon returned easily. “There is a lot still waiting to be discovered.”

“Good evening, everyone.” Elliott stepped onto the deck from below. “It's a bit late for you to be out in the cold night air, Camelia, don't you think?”

“I'm fine, Elliott,” Camelia assured him. “We were just enjoying this beautiful night sky.”

“How is our course going, Captain Kent?” asked Elliott, not bothering to look up. “Are we maintaining our schedule?”

“We have made good progress these last few days,” Jack told him. “But there's bad weather on the way, which will likely slow us down for the next day or two. Hopefully we'll be able to make it up after that.”

“What do ye mean, bad weather?” scoffed Oliver. “The sky's as clear as can be.”

“There is a patch of dark cloud off to the southeast.”

“What, that wee bit o' shadow?” Oliver snorted. “That's nae more than a wee cloud that's lost its mother.”

“The mother is right behind it,” Jack returned, amused by Oliver's analogy. “And the father, too.”

“The captain is right.” Zareb's eyes narrowed as he stared into the distance. “There is a storm coming. I can feel it.”

“Maybe we should pick up speed then,” suggested Camelia. “Try to get past it before it hits.”

“Unfortunately, with the course we're on, all we'll do is run into it even faster,” Jack told her. “You needn't worry—the
Independence
has handled plenty of bad weather in her time.”

“Yer ship may be accustomed to it, but the lad's stomach is nae so swack,” Oliver said, inclining his head toward Simon. “If he spends the next three days with his face in a bucket again, he'll be nae but skin and bone by the time we reach Cape Town.”

“Yes, you've had a bit of a rough time since we left, haven't you, Kent?” Elliott's tone was faintly superior. “Not accustomed to ocean travel, I take it?”

“I'm fine.” In fact Simon felt like a wrung-out dishrag, but he saw no reason to share that with Wickham. It irked him that everyone else was apparently unbothered by the infernal shifting and rolling of the ship, while he had been reduced to a miserable, retching mess on the narrow bed of his cabin.

“I hope so. You'll need all of your strength for Pumulani.”

“You needn't worry about me, Wickhip,” Simon assured him. “Now that I've had a few days to get used to the motion, I find I'm quite enjoying being at sea. If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my drawings. I'll see all of you in the morning. Good night.”

He turned and headed below deck, whistling cheerfully.

         

He hated the bloody ocean.

That was his only thought as he lay sprawled on his bed, desperately gripping the sides of his mattress. His nausea had subsided, thank God, but the storm Jack had forecast had stirred the ocean into a roiling stew. The result was the
Independence
began rising and falling even more than she had already been, making Simon's insides plummet from his throat to his knees every minute or so.