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"Oh, my dear, no more. No more."
Now the music made her drowsy and almost sad. And Alex kept talking to her, telling her in one way or another that he loved her, and there was that panic inside her, that fear of speaking harsh or cold words.
"And if you want to live in Egypt," Alex said breathlessly, "and dig for mummies with your father, well then, we'll go to Egypt. We'll go straight after the wedding. And if you want to march for the vote, well then, I shall march at your side."
"Oh, yes," Julie answered, "that's what you say now, and I know you mean it with all your heart, but Alex, I'm just not ready. I cannot."
She couldn't bear to see him so deadly earnest. She couldn't bear to see him hurt. If only there were a little wickedness in Alex; just a little bit of meanness as there was in everyone else. His good looks would have been improved by a little meanness. Tall, lean and brown-haired, he was too angelic. His quick dark eyes revealed his entire soul too easily. At twenty-five, he was an eager and innocent boy.
"What do you want with a suffragette for a wife?" she asked. "With an explorer? You know I could very well be an explorer, or an archaeologist. I wish I was in Egypt with Father right now."
"Dearest, we'll go there. Only marry me before we go."
He leaned forward as if he meant to kiss her. And she moved back a step, the waltz carrying them almost recklessly fast, so that for a moment she felt light-headed and almost as if she were truly in love.
"What can I do to win you, Julie?" he whispered in her ear. "I'll bring the Great Pyramids to London."
"Alex, you won me a long time ago," she said, smiling. But that was a lie, wasn't it? There was something truly terrible about this moment--about the music with its lovely compelling rhythm, and the desperate look on Alex's face.
"The simple truth is ... I don't want to be married. Not yet." And perhaps not at all?
He didn't answer her. She'd been too blunt, too much to the point. She knew that sudden shrinking. It wasn't unmanly; on the contrary, it was gentlemanly. She had hurt him, and when he smiled again now, there was a sweetness and a courage in it that touched her and made her feel all the more sad.
"Father will be back in a few months, Alex. We'll all talk then. Marriage, the future, the rights of women, married and unmarried, and the possibility that you deserve far better than a modern woman like me who's very likely to turn your hair grey within the first year and send you running into the arms of an old-fashioned mistress."
"Oh, how you love to be shocking," he said. "And I love to be shocked."
"But do you, dearest, really love to be shocked?"
Suddenly he did kiss her. They had stopped in the middle of the dance floor, other couples swirling around them as the music swept on. He kissed her and she allowed it, yielding to him completely as if she must somehow love him; must somehow meet him halfway.
It didn't matter that others must be looking at them. It didn't matter that his hands were trembling as he held her.
What mattered was that, though she loved him terribly, it was not enough.
It was cool now. There was noise out there; cars arriving. The braying of a donkey; and the sharp high-pitched sound of a woman laughing, an American woman, who had driven all the way from Cairo as soon as she had heard.
Lawrence and Samir sat together in their camp chairs at the ancient writing table, with the papyri spread out before them.
Careful not to put his full weight on the fragile piece of furniture, Lawrence hastily scribbled his translations in his leather-bound book.
Now and then he glanced over his shoulder at the mummy, the great King who for all the world looked as if he merely slept. Ramses the Immortal! The very idea inflamed Lawrence. He knew that he would be in this strange chamber until well after dawn.
"But it must be a hoax," Samir said. "Ramses the Great guarding the royal families of Egypt for a thousand years. The lover of Cleopatra?"
"Ah, but it makes sublime sense!" Lawrence replied. He set down the pen for a moment, staring at the papyri. How his eyes ached. "If any woman could have driven an immortal man to entomb himself, Cleopatra would be that woman."
He looked at the marble bust before him. Lovingly he stroked Cleopatra's smooth white cheek. Yes, Lawrence could believe it. Cleopatra, beloved of Julius Caesar and beloved of Mark Antony; Cleopatra, who had held out against the Roman conquest of Egypt far longer than anyone dreamed possible; Cleopatra, the last ruler of Egypt in the ancient world. But the story--he must resume his translation....
Samir rose and stretched uneasily. Lawrence watched him move towards the mummy. What was he doing? Examining the wrappings over the fingers, examining the brilliant scarab ring so clearly visible on the right hand? Now that was a nineteenth-dynasty treasure, no one could deny it, Lawrence thought.
Lawrence closed his eyes and massaged his eyelids gently. Then he opened them, focusing on the papyrus before him again.
"Samir, I tell you, the fellow is convincing me. Such a command of languages would dazzle anyone. And his philosophical perspective is quite as modern as my own." He reached for the older document, which he had examined earlier. "And this, Samir, I want you to examine it. This is none other than a letter from Cleopatra to Ramses."
"A hoax, Lawrence. Some sort of little Roman joke."
"No, my friend, nothing of the kind. She wrote this letter from Rome when Caesar was assassinated! She told Ramses she was coming home to him, and to Egypt."
