Free The Sacred River by Wendy Wallace Page B

about, she insisted to herself. If Eyre Soane had recognized her—and she couldn’t be certain that he had—she would avoid him. They would never meet him once they arrived in Egypt; she had seen from the globe what a large country it was. The idea of not encountering him again prompted a sense of loss. As much as Louisa dreaded it, she found herself longing to see Eyre Soane, to hear tidings that only he could provide.

THIRTEEN

    Harriet’s first impression of Alexandria was its color. The city looked white, made up of white flat-roofed houses, white domed mosques flanked by delicate minarets, and pale-trunked palm trees topped with explosions of upward-reaching leaves. Standing on the crowded deck, almost shaking with excitement, Harriet felt as if it were impossible that the port should have looked anything other than exactly the way it did. She had an odd sensation, as if she already knew it.
    An Egyptian pilot came aboard and steered the ship between a solid stone lighthouse and a reef of black rocks into a wide natural harbor, full of ships of every description, the sky overhead smudged with smoke from their funnels. The ship received clearance, the surgeon blasted a whistle, and a flotilla of small boats that had been waiting at a distance began streaming toward the Star of the East , rowed by men in robes of blue and scarlet and green, their heads wrapped in turbans or covered in close-fitting caps. Egypt was coming out to meet them, the Arabs waving and gesturing at the passengers, their cries filling the air.
    The deck was packed—with men, women with babies in arms, old people who’d scarcely been seen for the length of the journey. Harriet scanned the hats of the women, looking for one elegant enough to belong on the head of Mrs. Cox. She’d been back to the medical room to leave her another note. Since the storm, Zebedee Cox had avoided her when she’d seen him on deck, turning on his heel and walking in the other direction.
    Glancing around again, Harriet saw the man who’d embarked with his piano. The same back in the same pale jacket moved up onto the bridge, following behind Captain Ablewhite’s dark blazer. As the man ducked through the door, Harriet glimpsed his profile, serious-looking and straight-nosed.
    “Fine morning!”
    The Reverend Ernest Griffinshawe was standing by her aunt.
    “The Dark Continent lies before us,” he said, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “Awaiting the light of our Lord.”
    “I shall go no farther than Alexandria,” Yael said, raising her voice over the shouts of the porters, the clank of the anchor chain still unspooling into the clear turquoise sea. “Alexandria is on the Mediterranean and the Mediterranean is part of Europe. Europe is England’s next-door neighbor. I declare before God that I shall go no farther than this city.”
    She got down on her knees on the deck and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
    Our Father, who art in Heaven . . .
    Some women standing near by began to titter behind their hands.
    “Really, Yael, I am not sure that this is the time or the place,” said Louisa, as Reverend Griffinshawe frowned at the women and knelt beside Yael, adding his louder voice to hers.
    Give us this day . . .
    Some of the older female passengers joined them, sinking clumsily to their knees behind Yael and the parson.
    And forgive us our trespasses . . .
    Harriet barely heard them. At the front of the crush of people stood a man dressed in a brown velvet jacket and breeches. The red scarf at his neck fluttered in the breeze as the painter handed a folded easel to an Arab who’d boarded the ship. He oversaw the unloading of a pair of matching portmanteaus, then disappeared over the side and down the accommodation ladder, his paintbox under his arm.
    Since the night of the dinner, Harriet had only glimpsed Eyre Soane at his easel, intent on his canvas, his posture inviting no interruption. She felt as if she might have imagined that he had ever