"No," he said slowly.
"I will need a tool of some sort, as well."
He rummaged under the counter for a hammer, then nodded for her to follow. Back they went, through aisles stacked with the detritus of a hundred shipments. "Thank you," she said, when he drew up. "I require privacy now."
Looking mystified, he withdrew.
It was not easy labor. As she pried up the top, the wood splintered, and scraped her knuckles raw. To cushion valuable items during shipment, two layers of roughspun canvas were stapled to the interior boards. It took all her strength to pry away the tacking; each time one of the heavy staples gave way, she went stumbling backward from the force of her exertion. Slowly the bare boards of the crate bottom began to appear. Nothing, she thought.
And then, with the next staple, she was able to pull the canvas up far enough to spy the corner of a small roll of cloth. She watched her fingers close around it. Her hands were quicker than her brain: they untied the knot holding the cotton together, so the roll split open, disgorging a soft velveteen bag.
She upended it.
Five glittering jewels, and the fragments of a sixth, thumped onto the floor. Red, blue, green, yellow, violet, and clearest white—they seemed to consume all the light in the room. As their radiance brightened, the shadows around her deepened and grew colder.
She had found the Tears of Idihet.
As she stared, they began to blur. Distantly she marveled at this: the wisdom of her body, which already understood the consequences of this discovery—the conclusions which her mind revolved and revolved around, but refused to grasp.
As her eyes closed, the tears began to fall.
"You did it, didn't you? You helped to steal the jewels." Papa looked up from the page in front of him. Then his attention went to George's valet, who was laying out his evening clothes.
It told her everything, that one glance. That his first reaction should not be confusion, or shocked denial—but concern for who might overhear. "Give us a moment," he said to Harkness. Then, when the door had closed behind the man, he looked directly at her. "You spoke to Ashmore?"
"Better than that," she said. "I found the jewels."
He stiffened so abruptly that the chair legs squeaked against the floorboards. "Where are they?"
"Safe," she said. "Unlike the rest of us."
"Lydia . . ." He pulled his hand across his mouth. "You must believe me: I had no choice."
"Oh?" She gave a scornful laugh. It seemed to bruise the lining of her throat, so that her next swallow ached. "Permit me to ask for specifics. Did someone put a gun to your head?"
He sighed heavily and came to his feet. "When it came to the Tears? Very nearly,
yes."
"I see. Were there a great many guns, over the years? Because Polly Marshall seemed to think you and Hart-nett long-standing partners in this business. And it seems to me that guns are not so dependable. Had one been pressed against your head so often, you'd surely be dead by now."
"Lydia." He hesitated. "You know how difficult it is to fund one's work. And you understand the significance of what I am undertaking here. To provide physical evidence of the biblical tales! Surely you can understand—"
"No! I don't understand in the slightest." God, when she thought back to her endless protestations of his innocence, the lengths she had gone to defend him—and for what? "My God," she whispered. "I feel
a fool.
So wholly taken in by these high-flying vows of yours. Your project?
What of it?
You are
robbing
them, Papa—you are helping thieves make away with their bounty! You very well may have helped to destabilize the khedive's government. Do you know how many people died in the bombardment of Alexandria? I
know you do!
You could speak of nothing else, for
months
afterward!"
He flushed. "And do you know how much better off Egypt is with Urabi Pasha gone? Lydia, the man was an anarchist! I will not apologize if I had a hand in his exile. By God, I would like to shout it from the rooftops!"
"Oh," she said softly. "So it's Egypt for the Egyptians—so long as they're the
right
Egyptians. The ones
you
think are proper."
"This is irrelevant," he snapped. "How do you think this fine roof came to be over your head? Could Sophie have managed this on her own? Do you really think those pathetic pieces you sell are enough to have supported your debuts? Or did you assume the rest of the money was coming from
my funding!"
So long ago, then? This had been going on for that long? "Then why?" she cried. "Why even pretend that it was important? Why involve me at all?"
"I had to," he said flatly. "The authorities began to grow suspicious. There had to be a legitimate traffic, to cover for the illegal one."
Of course, she thought dully. She'd always believed that he relied on her, that he trusted and depended on her as no one else had. But that, too, had been for convenience's sake. Very convenient, to have a spinster daughter to arrange his alibis for him.
God, what an idiot she was! Even with George, she had not played the fool so thoroughly.
"Daughter." He reached for her hand. She let him take it. She could barely feel his touch anyway. "You know how much I love you. It's
because
I love you that I did this. I did it for
us."
Sophie had said the same. And like Papa, she'd said it with regret. False sacrifices, Lydia thought. True sacrifice required no victim but oneself. It did not leave the recipients of its beneficence bleeding.
She exhaled. He was right, the roof over her head was very fine. Richly furnished—Kedderminster carpets, priceless oils on the walls. George was no vulnerable young man. He stood at the center of powerful alliances that could not afford to cut him if it were discovered that his father-in-law had misbehaved. Mr. Pagett was also publicly committed; Ana was probably safe. "You did it for yourself," she said. "There are no ends that justify these means." Her voice had turned ugly: tears clogged her throat. She would not shed them for him. She would not give him the satisfaction. "And
none
of this around you is owed to your theft. George did not love Sophie for the fine gowns she wore, or the ill-gotten funds you used to buy her combs. He fell in love with her for
her
sake. God help him, but it had
nothing
to do with you. Your excuses sicken me."
"No," he whispered. "Lydia, you are wrong. I
did
do it for you. And for Ana. I could not count on your marriages. I could not leave you unprovided for. There is an account set up for you—I never told you of it, but it troubled me gready, the idea of what might happen to you after my death—"
"And for Egypt?" She drew a hiccupping breath. "I suppose you did it for Egypt, too."
He frowned. "Yes, I suppose."
"And for the papers you can publish. The
money
you can earn, so you can continue to make a name for yourself."
He drew back. "You think I do all this for fame? You think I spend years away from you, from your sisters, simply to purchase a little immortality? My project is above all that, Lydia. It is about the origins of
humanity^
She had no use anymore for such rhetoric. The details were what enraged her. "Years?
Years,
you spent away? Our whole lives, you've had no time for us! It was always Egypt that came first with you! When Mama was
dying
—" She caught herself. She heard how young she sounded, like a five-year-old in a tantrum. "Ana barely knows you," she said more quietly. "Do you know how often she asks whether you've written to her? And every time, I explain to her: His work is important. He's very busy. His cause is noble. But this?" Her voice rose again. "
This
is what you abandoned us for? Smuggling and thievery and profit?"
"Don't talk nonsense," he said sharply. "How can you doubt my dedication?
You
of all people! My God, have you lost all faith in me?"
Faith. She knew better than anyone what it was. More durable than any substance science had discovered—and when it shattered, more violent and cutting than glass. She would walk across its shards for the rest of her life. At every step, the pain would be with her.
She forced herself to look into his face. The brackets around his mouth had deepened in the past year. His brow had begun to sag over his eyes. Still, it was him.
Papa. She could not reconcile it, this dear, dear face, and the stranger within it. It seemed morbid to look upon him, like staring at a corpse that talked and walked just like the man she had adored. "Well, you can have your Tears," she said. "You can deliver them to Ashmore, and buy your freedom."
The surprise on his face—and then the dawning revelation, like a man hearing himself excused from the noose—nauseated her. His fingers tightened around hers, making her flinch: she had forgotten he had hold of her. "Bless you," he said hoarsely.
"Yes," she said bitterly, "what a good daughter I am. What a loyal little girl."
"You have saved us," he muttered. His eyes unfocused; he looked into the distance, dazed.
"Certainly angels are singing somewhere," she said. "But not over Egypt."
Chapter Seventeen
At
Wilton Crescent, the butler informed James that Lydia was not at home. He was deliberating whether to hand over his card or wait in the drawing room when Lydia appeared at the top of the stairs. "Wait,'' she called. At her first step toward him, he knew something was wrong. She moved stiffly, like an old woman, or a girl attempting cold, formal dignity. "I am glad you have come," she said when she reached him. "Unfortunately, you missed my father. He is gone to Whitehall. Otherwise I would have introduced you to the greatest thief in the empire."
Something in him turned over. He saw now that grief had etched lines aroundher mouth, and between her eyes. This was how she might look, thirty years from now. But not for this reason, pray God. "Lydia," he said, and reached out to her.
She let him hold her for a brief moment, and then pulled back, lifting her chin in an attempt to smile. "I don't want your pity. It's hard enough to know I deserve it."
"It's not pity you see in me." It was rage for Henry Boyce. "I could not pity you if I tried."
She swallowed. "I wish I could say the same of myself. I actually found the jewels, you see. They were in Hartnetts shipment all along. But in the original shipping materials, not the crate Carnelly sent me."
He wanted to grab hold of her and carry her out of this goddamned house. But his instincts warned him to proceed cautiously. "I'm so sorry." Christ, but words were useless. The emotion sweltering within him was too large for syllables to contain.
She drew an unsteady breath. "I must figure out what to do now." Her eyes looked wet, and she turned away suddenly, making for the stairs. After a baffled moment, he followed. The first story was quiet; down the hall a door stood open. Her sitting room. At the threshold, it became clear that she had wrecked the place. Dozens of books lay scattered across the floor. A valise stood open on the carpet; she had been stuffing papers into it. Beyond, in the bedroom, a mess of clothes spilled off the bed.
She sank to her knees by the luggage and recommenced crushing the papers. "These are my articles," she said, and gave a strange laugh. "The last ones I will write, perhaps."
"Don't talk nonsense," he said evenly. "This was your fathers sin. Not yours."
Her hands paused. "Sin. That's the right word for it. But is it really his alone? All I can think is what an
idiot
I am." Her face lifted. "It's a grand irony, isn't it? I fancied myself so smart. But he never meant any of it. And then I grow angry with
myself,
for surely—" She busied herself again with the papers. "Surely it is very selfish to feel so poorly when so many people are dead over the matter," she said rapidly. "Do you know how many people died at Alexandria? No, don't come closer"—he had stepped toward her; she gave her head a violent shake. "I am . . . too embarrassed, right now, for that. I have wronged you, too, you know. I preached at you like the most self-righteous, blind,
idiotic
—"
He did not think he could obey her. Everything in him was inclining toward her, like a sail caught by a breeze. "Lydia," he whispered. "It doesn't matter."
"Ha!" She came to her feet. "It
matters,"
she said fiercely. "You called me naive, and you were right. Why,
you
nearly died for it. Had that boy in the music hall killed you—"
To hell with this. He stepped forward, ignoring her denial, her stumbling retreat. The spines of books cracked under his boots; pages ripped. It did not matter. He would buy her new ones. As he folded her against his chest, she whispered, "You have been good to me, James. So good." Her breath was warm against his neck. "But I feel as if—my skin is crawling. Shame, I suppose. I don't know what to think anymore. Of myself, as much as him. I don't know if I can ... do this."
He pressed a smile into her hair. "When you came to me, I said much the same thing. You told me then that you had enough faith for both of us. Ill say the same to you, now."
"Perhaps I was wrong." He opened his
eyes,
and found her stubbornly staring at one of the battered books. "Maybe there is nothing so enduring as I'd hoped."