Daughter of the God-King(15)
“I cannot know,” he explained patiently, “until you tell me what he said, mademoiselle.”
This seemed irrefutable, so she complied, as best she could. “He kept apologizing,” she concluded. “He was very polite and deferential.”
“I would ask that you not speak with him any further.”
Exasperated, she pointed out, “I imagine he would say the same thing about you, and I have no reason to obey either one of you. What has happened to my parents?”
If she thought the bald question would discomfit him, she had misjudged her man. “They were last known to be at the new tomb in Thebes, making an inventory of the excavations. Other than that, I have very little information—even from those who assisted them with logistics. They have literally vanished without a trace.”
Her brow knit, Hattie stared at him and tried to assimilate this bleak assessment. Berry held her gaze with his own level one, a trace of sympathy contained therein. Made uneasy by its presence, she pointed out, “I often have no communication from my parents for months on end.”
“No one knows this better than I,” he agreed. “However, for three months they have been unaccounted for.”
“Three months?” Hattie tried to hide her dismay. They wouldn’t willingly be away from the site for that length of time—it was indeed as everyone thought; something was very wrong.
Berry tilted his head in apology. “I visited your home in England and found that you had traveled here. It caused a delay, which is unfortunate.”
She hated to say the words but found she was compelled. “Do you believe they are dead?”
“I fear so.”
Dropping her gaze for a moment, she regarded her hands in her lap. “I see.” She wasn’t certain how she felt—she hadn’t known them very well, after all. On the other hand, it was one thing to feel an orphan and another to actually be one.
“I am so sorry,” he offered. “I was hoping you may be of assistance. Have you any information? Did they inform you of their plans?”
“No,” she responded, her gaze raised to his again. “They did not.”
He persisted, leaning forward, his expression intent. “Was there any recent correspondence? Any items entrusted?”
A silence fell, and into it Hattie asked, “What is it you were searching for, upstairs?”
Chapter 6
If Hattie expected Berry to disclaim, she was to be disappointed. “It is their house,” he pointed out in a reasonable tone, “and I am their agent.”
They regarded each other across the table for a long moment. You are a foolish, foolish girl, she chided herself, to be taken in by this so-capable gentleman. “What color are my mother’s eyes?”
“I don’t know what you call it,” he replied as though the question was not unusual in the least. “Vert-brun; green with brown. Hazel.”
“It is the same word in English.” And it was true—her mother was pale and attractive in the best English tradition. Vain about her skin, she was always swathed in hats and veils when in the sun. Hattie’s eyes, by contrast, were so dark as to seem almost black. “And my father?”
“I don’t remember.” Indicating with a gesture, he raised a hand. “He is missing the little finger from his left hand.”
This was true—it was crushed by a cornerstone, years ago. “What did my father call my mother?”
“Neph,” he said immediately.
The knot in Hattie’s breast dissipated. The nickname was an abbreviated version of Nephthys, an Egyptian goddess who was notoriously unfaithful. Her parents’ sense of humor—along with everything else—stemmed from their only passion. It seemed unlikely Berry would know these details unless he had indeed spent considerable time with them. Feeling an inappropriate stab of envy, she asked, “Did they ever speak of me?” Horrified, she wished she could pull the words back; the last thing she wanted was to appear pathetic before this man.
“They were very fond of you,” he replied gently, neatly avoiding an answer. Ashamed of her lapse, she didn’t press the subject, but instead felt very young as she turned her gaze again to the hands folded in her lap.
“Hathor; an unusual name.”
She sensed he was trying to ease her embarrassment and so she rewarded him by pulling herself together and rendering her best dimpled smile. “My friends call me Hattie.”
The gambit was not successful as Berry’s expression became distant and he asked with austere formality, “Would you know where your parents kept any important items, mademoiselle—items they were reluctant to part with? Perhaps a safe on the premises, either here or in England?”