The Sacred River by Wendy Wallace Read Free Book Online Page B

of a blush.
    “I can’t say that I do,” Louisa said.
    Before Yael could continue, the man arrived at the table. He bowed.
    “Good evening, ladies. May I join you?”
    “Why not?” Louisa said, smiling at him as he eased himself into the chair next to Harriet’s. “We are all travelers together.”
    “Indeed.”
    He picked up the menu and began reading the courses aloud. “ ‘Barley broth. Steak pie. Mutton chops. Spaghetti in cream. Cabbage. Apple tart with sauce anglaise .’ ” The usual muck,” he said, putting down the card, looking around for the steward.
    “There are plenty who would be glad of such fare,” said Yael, pleasantly.
    The captain rose to his feet, ringing on his glass with a knife, and the dining saloon quieted to a churchlike hush as the passengers turned their faces toward him.
    “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. A few announcements. The Reverend . . .” The captain consulted a piece of paper. “Ernest Griffinshawe conducts divine service at eight each morning in the grand saloon. He would appreciate the attendance of a greater number of fellow worshippers.
    “We have in our midst a pair of honeymooners. I extend my congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. Zebedee Cox.”
    A murmur of approval went up and there was a general lifting of glasses. Zebedee Cox got to his feet, looking flustered.
    “On behalf of my wife and myself, thank you, Captain Ablewhite,” he said.
    The male passengers banged their tankards on the tables and the women looked at each other, resettling themselves on their chairs like a twittering flock of jeweled, powdered birds. Harriet caught a drift of recent cigar smoke, mixed with a sweet, woody scent, and took a sideways glance at the painter. Even dressed in a black tie and tailcoat, his dark hair greased, he looked different from the other men. The clothes failed to tame him and in place of a starched handkerchief a small sketchbook protruded from his breast pocket. He’d turned his eyes back to Louisa and was watching her, his expression intent.
    Captain Ablewhite cleared his throat.
    “Enjoy your dinner, ladies and gentlemen. The Star of the East makes good speed. We traversed the Bay of Biscay without encountering any storms but we anticipate strong winds in the Mediterranean.”
    He sat down and the voices rose quickly to their previous pitch. The painter summoned the steward and ordered a bottle of red wine.
    “I suppose you are traveling to Egypt?” he said, addressing Louisa.
    “Yes. Alexandria.” Louisa’s face was flushed and her eyes bright. “We are so looking forward to seeing the River Nile.”
    “Alex isn’t the place to see the river.”
    “Where should one see it?” Yael said, raising her head from her soup bowl.
    “It is at its best at Aswan in Upper Egypt, where it flows over the cataracts. But that is a thousand miles away.”
    “Upper Egypt?” said Yael. “I would have thought it was Lower Egypt, farther down.”
    “Yes. But it isn’t.”
    “Imagine seeing where Moses was put in his basket among the bulrushes,” Louisa said.
    She took the last of the second glass of sherry, tipping back her head, her white throat exposed and swanlike under the delicate necklace. Yael’s napkin was tucked under her double chin like a baby’s bib; she began sawing into a bread roll with a great, blunt knife.
    The man leaned forward and seized his soup spoon. He ate silently, tipping the dish away from him. Harriet pushed away her own empty bowl. Printed around the rim, in a loopy flourish, was the name of a ship, but it was the wrong ship. SS Tanjore .
    Putting down his spoon, the painter wiped his mouth and turned to Harriet.
    “You’re the girl with the dog, aren’t you?”
    Under the table, Harriet felt Dash’s back with her toe.
    “I have a dog, yes. The one you feared would kill your rag.”
    She dropped the remains of her roll off her lap and pushed it in the dog’s direction as the steward returned with a large, high-sided