Free Whispers in the Sand by Barbara Erskine Page B

to.” She decided to try a different tack. Her quest, after all, was not secret. “I was trying to picture this place a hundred years ago, before it was commercialised.”
    “It’s always been commercialised. They probably brought guided tours here before the corpses were cold.” Folding his arms, he stared up at the cliffs. “Did I hear you right last night? You are a relation of Louisa Shelley?” No apology for eavesdropping, she noticed.
    “I’m her great-great-granddaughter, yes.”
    “She was one of the few Victorians who empathised with the Egyptian soul.” He had narrowed his eyes, still studying the rock formations above their heads.
    “How do you know that’s how she felt?” Anna stared at him curiously.
    “From her painting. They have a set of watercolours at the Travellers’ Club.”
    “I didn’t know that.”
    He nodded abruptly. “On the staircase. I’ve often studied them. She lingers over details. She’s not embarrassed by form or feature. And she’s never patronising. She uses a wonderful depth of colour, unlike Roberts. He sees all this—” he waved his arm at the cliffs— “as one tonal range. She sees the shadows, the wonderful textures.”
    Anna looked at him with a new interest. “You talk like an artist.”
    “Artist!” He snorted. “Stupid word. If you mean a painter, yes, I’m a painter.” He was still staring up at the cliff, and she took the opportunity of looking at him for a moment, surreptitiously, taking in the rugged features, the thatch of unruly greying-blond hair beneath the faded blue sun hat.
    “Louisa loved Egypt. I’m reading her diary, and it’s apparent on every page.” She gave a wistful smile. “I almost envy those Victorian women. They had so much to contend with, and yet they persevered. They followed their dreams. They worked so hard for them—” She broke off in mid-sentence, aware suddenly that he had turned his attention from the cliff and was watching her intently. She met his gaze and held it for a minute, but it was she who looked away first.
    “It sounds to me as though you wished you too had had to work hard for a dream,” he said quietly.
    She shrugged. “Perhaps. But I’m not the intrepid type, sadly.” How could she be when she had remained so meekly in her marriage and at home?
    “No?” He was still looking at her thoughtfully.
    “No.” She smiled suddenly. “Or not until today. Breaking away from the group and coming up here was pretty intrepid for me.”
    He laughed, and suddenly his face looked much younger. Then we must encourage your intrepidness. Which tombs did your great-great-grandmother visit? Not young King Tut, obviously.”
    “No.” Anna’s smile died.
    Watching her, he raised an eyebrow. “So, what have I said now?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Something about Tutankhamen’s tomb?”
    She shook her head. He was intuitive, she would grant him that. “I was in there. A little while ago. Something strange happened.”
    “Strange?”
    She shook her head. “Claustrophobia, I suppose. Nothing really. Only it made me need to get away from everyone and come up here.”
    “And I spoilt your solitude. I’m sorry.”
    “No. No. I didn’t mean that.” She shrugged helplessly. “The trouble is, it didn’t work. The feeling, whatever it was, followed me up here.”
    Again he gave her that long, disconcertingly direct look. There was no judgement in it. He wasn’t laughing at her. On the contrary, he was considering her words, mulling them over, scanning her face for clues. “I think this whole valley could have that effect on people,” he said at last. “In spite of the numbers of tourists who come here, the atmosphere is extraordinary. It is uncomfortable. Have you met Serena Canfield yet? She was sitting next to me at dinner last night. You should talk to her if you’re a sensitive. She is into Ancient Egyptian magic and stuff which might appeal to you. She has read all the books about star gates and Orion