Her pretend courtship with Arthur Beaumont was beginning to feel dangerously authentic.
Chapter Fifteen
The subdued murmur of patrons exploring the Egyptian Hall provided a fitting backdrop to the subtle intensity building between Arthur and Abigail. He stood beside her, absorbed in an artifact of remarkable quality—a finely carved stela depicting the Pharaoh Amenhotep III upon his throne, its limestone surface etched meticulously with ancient hieroglyphs.
Arthur’s finger traced a respectful distance from the glass enclosure, his voice unusually animated. “Miss Abigail, take a look at this. It is Pharaoh Amenhotep III, known as ‘the Magnificent’. Egypt reached its pinnacle of prosperity under his rule. His reign was marked by monumental construction projects—temples and palaces that were renowned for their scale and grandeur. Fascinating to study. I believe much of his work is unrivaled.”
Abigail’s eyes sparkled with bright curiosity; a spark Arthur found increasingly captivating. He had often been told by close friends that his love of history was tedious for any audience he tried to win over by talking about it, but Abigail seemed genuinely interested.
“Indeed, I recall reading of his great monuments. But, historians often question whether such displays were reflections of genuine leadership or merely projections of his own vanity and immense wealth.”
Arthur smiled softly, pleased by her knowledge on the subject and such a nuanced response. “Precisely that. History remains divided on the true measure of his character and exactly when he reigned. Though, even with differing accounts, his influence over Egypt’s artistic and international power is undisputed.”
Abigail nodded slowly, her gaze drifting thoughtfully across the stela’s elaborate inscriptions. “The ambiguity of it fascinates me. Every artifact and every inscription conceal as much as it reveals.”
Arthur considered her thoughtfully, her reflection deepening his admiration. Her quiet observations held a rare depth, resonating with his own contemplative nature. “Indeed. Perhaps that’s the allure of history—it invites endless interpretation, never fully surrendering its secrets.”
He paused for a moment, his expression pensive and almost regretful. “I suspect we may never grasp the intricacies of his nature, given how little we truly know of the personal lives of such figures. Unreliable narrators and limited surviving records that contradict one another leave us with many unanswered questions.”
Abigail met his eyes, a gentle, genuine warmth passing between them. “I find comfort in that ambiguity. It reminds me that even our own, unremarkable lives might someday be open to interpretation, understood perhaps more generously by future generations.”
Her words echoed quietly within him. What legacy would he leave? The thought was unexpectedly stirring, prompting introspection he had not anticipated. “I had not thought of it that way, but mayhap you are right,” he admitted softly. “There is something rather reassuring in the thought.”
Their conversation had grown quieter, more intimate, a subtle tension weaving between their thoughtful exchanges. Around them, Eliza and Charles had drifted toward a display of Egyptian musical instruments, their voices lifted in the kind of laughter that came not from amusement alone, but from the discovery of mutual rhythm.
Eliza’s gloved hand hovered over a curious lyre-shaped instrument set behind glass. “It looks like something one might summon wild dogs with,” she murmured, eyes bright with mischief.
Charles leaned slightly closer, arms folded behind his back in a stance of casual interest, though there was a gleam of something keener in his gaze. “You may jest, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it had been used for precisely that. Egypt seems rather full of things that were once considered sacred and now look positively murderous.”
Eliza laughed—a sound that had always come easily to her, yet now felt richer, warmer somehow. “You ought to write that in the museum ledger:‘A lyre of wild dog-summoning, likely last played during an unfortunate ceremony involving fire and poor decisions.’I daresay the curators would be horrified.”
“I daresay they’d have something to talk about at dinner,” Charles returned, his smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I imagine you’d make an excellent priestess. You’ve the expression of someone who’s read every inscription and found them all wanting.”
“Ihaveread most of them,” she said, tilting her head toward a nearby placard with a dismissive glance. “They’re dreadfully translated. I could do better with a French dictionary and three glasses of claret.”
Charles’s brow lifted in admiration. “Then you are more formidable than I thought.”
Eliza looked at him sidelong. “You thought me formidable already?”
There was a pause—not long, but not meaningless either. “Yes,” he said at last. “Though not in the sense you might think.”
She raised an elegant brow. “How very enigmatic of you.”
“Would you rather I be dull and precise?” he asked, with the ghost of a grin.
“Never dull,” she said, and to her own surprise, her voice was softer than intended. She recovered quickly, gesturing to another instrument—a small, elaborately carved harp whose strings had long since vanished. “What do you make of this one?”
Charles stepped nearer, the line of his shoulder brushing close to hers as he examined the display. “It looks mournful. As though it’s forgotten what it was made for.”
Eliza blinked, startled by the unexpected poignancy. She looked at the harp again, then at him. “That’s… rather poetic, I daresay.”
He shrugged lightly, not quite looking at her. “We are surrounded by relics, after all. It makes one thoughtful.”
“Or sentimental?” she prompted gently.
A smile passed over his face—not mocking, but distant, almost self-aware. “I suppose I have my moments. Don’t tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation entirely.”
Eliza folded her arms. “So youdohave a reputation to ruin?”
