Ancient Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (14 page)

“Good idea. I have some letters to answer. When’s dinnertime?”

“I’ll come to your room at eight. Will that be all right with you?”

“Perfect.” It didn’t matter to me what time we ate—or didn’t eat. Maybe by eight the two bites of sandwich I’d taken at tea would have disappeared and I’d be hungry.

The first letter I answered was Sam’s. Don’t ask me why.

Dear Sam,

Thank you for your letter. I truly appreciate it.

The trip, so far, has been interesting. I was kind of seasick on the voyage over on the ship, but the trains have taken us through some fascinating country. I really liked
Constantinople, which people are now calling Istanbul.

I contemplated that last sentence. Had I liked Istanbul? Well, I’d found it interesting, but you couldn’t use the word “interesting” in every sentence because that would get boring. Nuts. I tried again.

The people both in Istanbul and Cairo are, for the most part, Moslem. You probably know that already, just as you probably know the Egyptians keep their women clad in black from head to foot, and they only have little slits for eyeholes so they can see where they’re going when they’re out and about. The robes themselves (I’m sure there’s an Arabic word for them, but I don’t know what it is) look comfy, but I sure wouldn’t want to be covered from head to toe in this ghastly heat. I think August is definitely the wrong time to see Egypt. Anyhow, women in Turkey are given more scope in their choice of dress, and while I saw a lot of head scarves and things, I didn’t see any women muffled from head to toe in fabric. On the other hand, we were only there for a short while.

Still and all, tomorrow Harold and I are going to visit the pyramids at Giza and maybe ride on a camel. Billy always wanted to do that. There’s a train that takes passengers to the pyramids. Somebody on the train from Istanbul to Cairo told me that people used to have to ride donkeys from the hotel to the pyramids. I’m glad we no longer have to do that.

I sat still, chewing the end of my pen and wondering what else to write. Was I being too chatty? Not chatty enough? I reminded myself that Sam had been Billy’s best friend, and that he’d helped me out of a jam or two, that my folks liked him, and dipped the pen in the ink bottle once more.

Well, I have to write return letters to my family now, so I’d better sign off for the time being. Thanks again for your letter, and please keep in touch. I’ll tell you all about the pyramids when I write again.

Contemplating my last paragraph, I wondered what had prompted me to write it. When Sam read it, he’d know I’d written to him first. Did I want him to know that?

“Aw, nuts,” I muttered as I lay down my pen, folded the letter, stuck it in the envelope—both paper and envelopes, by the way, were thoughtfully provided by the hotel itself—licked the gummed flap and closed the stupid thing. So what if Sam knew I’d written to him before I’d written to my parents? And did I really want him to keep in touch?

“Who cares?” I growled at the room.

Then I wrote basically the same letter to Ma, Pa and Aunt Vi and my brother and sister; penned a more effusive, but much shorter, letter to Mrs. Pinkerton in which I said I could feel the spirits of the pharaohs all around me. That, of course, was pure bunkum, but she expected stuff like that. If I could really sense spirits, I’d probably be overwhelmed by those of the however billion common folk who’d lived and died in Egypt during the last several thousand years, the ratio of pharaohs to common folk being what it was.

I decided to drop a note to Johnny and Flossie, too, but thought I’d get them one of those pretty postcards with scenes of Egypt I’d noticed at the front desk. And I probably should get a funny card for Pudge Wilson. Thinking I might as well do that now, since eight o’clock was still an hour and a half away, I slipped out of my room and walked to the elevator, or “lift,” as they called it there.

While searching through the rack of postcards, I heard a voice close by. The voice addressed me.

“First trip to Egypt?” the voice asked in a pleasant, clipped British accent. I looked up to see a tallish man, very blond and handsome and impeccably dressed in the same sort of white costume Harold had chosen to wear at tea only without the pith helmet, reaching for a postcard of his own.

I wasn’t accustomed to being accosted by strange gentlemen in strange places—or heck, even in Pasadena—and at first thought maybe I shouldn’t answer him. Then I figured what the heck, and said, “Yes. You?”

“Oh, no. I come here often on business. Egypt is one of my favorite places on earth.”

Somewhat surprised, I asked, “Even in August?” Then I felt stupid.

But the fellow only offered me a gentle laugh and said, “It’s hot in August, all right, but it’s always fairly hot here. Egypt gets into the blood, though, if you study it enough.”

“It does?”

“It does.” He tilted his head and studied me. “Do I detect an American accent?”

He must have seen me stiffen slightly—I mean, who the heck was he to be quizzing me over a stack of postcards, for Pete’s sake?—because he said, “I beg your pardon. I don’t generally address young women whom I don’t know. Please allow me to introduce myself. Wallingford Stackville, at your service.”

“Daisy Majesty,” I said in a neutral voice, “and I don’t believe I need your service, but thank you.”

“Oh, dear, I’ve upset you. I beg your pardon again.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said, and went back to studying postcards. After a good deal of thumbing through cards, I purchased one of a colorful caravan of camels and white-clad men traveling across the Sahara desert, one of the pyramids at Giza, one of a boat traveling on the Nile and a funny one of the face of a camel showing all his—or her. I couldn’t tell its gender—crooked teeth. Then, without giving my unwanted companion another thought, I went back up to my room and wrote a note on the caravan postcard and addressed it to Johnny and Flossie. I addressed the boat-on-the-Nile postcard to my nieces and the one with the pyramids to Edie and Quincy Applewood. And Pudge Wilson got the snaggle-toothed camel. He’d love it.

Chapter Twelve

After I’d taken all my letters and the postcards down to the front desk, where they had a mail service, I went back up to my room yet once more, stripped my overused gray dress off over my head, flung it aside and plopped on the bed, thinking to rest up for twenty minutes or so.

I awoke with a start when I heard a knock at the door. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, I noticed with horror that it was eight o’clock already! The heat must have a soporific effect on a body, because I very seldom napped in the afternoon. Scrambling up off the bed, I darted to the closet, praying whoever had unpacked for me had hung my robe on the door. S/he had. Thank God. I fumbled into the robe and walked to the door, feeling guilty. Again.

Harold took one look at me and said, “Good Lord, Daisy. You can’t go down to dinner looking like that!”

“I’m sorry, Harold. I lay down, thinking to take a little nap, and just woke up when you knocked at the door. I’ll change quickly and join you downstairs in a few minutes. Is that all right?”

With an expression of sympathy I knew I didn’t deserve, Harold said, “Of course you may, Daisy. Take your time. You needn’t hurry. I’ll have a drink in the bar, and you can join me there.”

At first his words shocked me because I’d become so accustomed to life in the USA, where Prohibition was supposed to be in effect, although it was honored more by word than deed from what I’d seen and read. I guess it had slipped my mind that people in other parts of the world could still take a sip of something alcoholic when they wanted one without fear of arrest. “Thanks, Harold. I’m really sorry.”

“No need to be. You need your rest.” He gave me another searching glance, and I knew what was coming next. “And some food.”

I regret to say I borrowed a gesture from Sam Rotondo and rolled my eyes at Harold, who held up a hand. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop pestering you about your weight.”

“That’s okay,” I told him. “But you know I eat as much as I can. It’s just that right now . . .”

“Yes, yes. I know.” He turned and hurried off, and then I felt guilty for making him feel guilty. How stupid life could be sometimes! Or maybe it was just I who was stupid. I didn’t want to think about it.

I selected my evening costume with care, wanting to placate Harold, who was such a good friend to me, even though he tended to fuss. Because he was tired of seeing me in black and gray, and because we Americans really didn’t follow the wearing-of-black custom as much as we used to do, I decided I’d wear a blue silk frock at dinner. It was very comfortable and light of weight, which aided my selection, since the weather, in spite of electrical fans in the room, was still quite warm.

The frock had an unfitted hip-length, tubular-shaped bodice. It actually looked tubular on me, too, which came as something of a shock. I knew I’d lost some weight, but hadn’t realized exactly how much. Maybe everyone was right, and I should try to eat more. On the other hand, the thin, boyish figure was “in” then, so nuts to that; I’d eat when I darned well felt like it. Anyway, the bodice had a scooped neckline and short sleeves, with a silver lace overbodice. The tiered skirt came to mid-calf, and the whole ensemble was pulled together by a little rosette of pink looped ribbons and two streamers where the overbodice met in the middle. When I’d made the thing, I’d thought about putting little rosettes on each of the tiers, but had decided that would look funny and overdone, so I didn’t.

Anyhow, I thought Harold would be pleased. I wore silver cross-strapped evening slippers I’d purchased at Nash’s on sale. Actually, this had been one of my more expensive outfits if you count the shoes. The lace overbodice I’d made using leftover fabric from something Mrs. Pinkerton’s seamstress had sewn for her. My friend Edie Applewood, who worked as Mrs. Pinkerton’s lady’s maid, gave it to me after Mrs. Pinkerton gave it to her, since Edie didn’t sew. But the shoes had cost a dollar and a half, which is where the expense came in.

There was no need to wear a hat at dinner, so I just donned some flesh-colored stockings and slipped into my shoes. Then I tackled my hair, which had gone kind of flat on one side. But I have thick hair that’s easy to manage, and not much more than twenty minutes had slipped away before I grabbed a feathery-light shawl, left my room and headed downstairs to the bar. The bar. Imagine that!

Another surprise awaited me at the bar. Harold sat on a stool in animated conversation with the same gentleman who’d accosted me at the postcard rack.

I hesitated at the door of the bar, wondering if I should simply walk boldly in and interrupt their discussion or wait a bit. Harold solved the problem for me when he spotted me in the doorway and waved me over.

“Daisy! I was just chatting with this gentleman, and when I told him my sister was traveling with me, he asked if that sister was you.” He winked to let me know I should keep up the deception.

That was all right with me. What’s more, I hoped Harold had mentioned that I was his recently widowed sister who was suffering agonies of bereavement over her late husband. For some reason, this blond guy didn’t seem quite right to me, although I couldn’t come up with a reason for that to be so, unless it was because he’d spoken to me before we’d been introduced. But that was silly. It was 1922, for heaven’s sake, and the old, formal ways had bitten the dust a long time ago.

Both Harold and the other man, whose name I’d forgotten, rose from their stools. “How nice to meet you again, Missus Majesty. Please accept my deepest condolences on the loss of your husband.”

“Thank you.” I turned to Harold. “I fear this gentleman and I weren’t properly introduced, Harold, and I can’t remember his name.”

I got the feeling Harold was taken aback by the frigidity of my manner—although, God knows, any sort of refrigeration would have been welcome at that point—because he said, “Oh. Well, please allow me to introduce you to Mister Wallingford Stackville. Mister Stackville, my sister, Daisy Majesty. Daisy, by the way, is short for Desdemona.”

Darn, I wish he hadn’t said that! I’d never live down that “Desdemona” name I’d saddled myself with when I was ten. Oh, well. I held out my hand for him to shake. “How do you do?”

“Fine, thank you. It’s good to see you again.”

“Thank you.” I probably should have said something else, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I certainly wasn’t happy to see him again, although I couldn’t have given you a reason for my aversion to the chap.

“Would you like a drink, Daisy?” asked Harold. “I think sherry is generally taken by ladies before the evening meal.”

If there was anything I wanted less than an alcoholic beverage at that moment in time, I didn’t know what it was. Unless it was to get rid of Stackville. “No, thank you, Harold. I don’t care for anything right now.”

“Very well. Would you like another, Stackville?”

“I don’t think so, thanks.” He turned to me. “I was just saying to Harold that since I’m traveling alone in Egypt, it would be my pleasure to take my new friends to dinner at the hotel,” said the suave Mr. Stackville.

I didn’t like that idea. Mind you, I’d come to the conclusion that I really ought to make an effort to meet more people and get back into some sort of social life again, but I was thinking more along the lines of meeting other women. Women who could become friends and to whom I could write about this and that when we got back to our real lives.