The next morning saw them arrive at the solicitor’s office, situated on the second floor over a busy apothecary shop in the El Khalil area of Cairo. Hattie ascended the steps with Bing while Berry explained that he would take coffee at a nearby café and wait while Hattie conducted her business. Hattie found that she was anxious to finally address Mr. Bahur, who could hopefully cast some light on the uncertainties she faced; she would very much like to obtain some advice that was untempered by whatever motivations were driving all the others.
They entered an outer antechamber manned by a young clerk who looked up in surprise from his cluttered desk. Bemused, he leapt up and stumbled over a stack of files as he introduced himself to Hattie. Doesn’t often entertain young women, she thought, hiding a smile. He took her hand reverently and upon hearing her name exclaimed, “Why—how fortunate that you are here in Cairo, Miss Blackhouse; you must be wondering what on earth has happened to your books. I’m afraid the fault is mine—well, not entirely—but I will willingly shoulder the blame.”
With a hurried movement, he turned to clear several stacks of rolled documents from a small table and indicated an unlabeled package of moderate size that had rested beneath them.
“My books?” asked Hattie, at sea. “Which books are these?”
“From your parents,” the clerk explained. “They wanted them delivered to you but unfortunately the man at the post labeled them ‘Coventry’ instead of ‘Cornwall’ and they were returned last week—I was so annoyed when they arrived with the ‘Improper Address’ notation. I have not yet wrapped them up anew and I do apologize for the delay—unforgivable.”
“Pray do not concern yourself,” Bing soothed. “We have been traveling and would not have known the difference.”
But Hattie wasn’t paying attention as her gaze was fixed on the package which, she imagined, was the approximate size of a strongbox. What to do? She couldn’t carry it away; Berry would guess in an instant and she needed to think this over. Dimpling at the clerk, she asked, “Will you store them here in your office a bit longer? I will send someone for them shortly—there is so little room at our hotel.”
“Certainly,” the young man agreed, eager to do whatever she bade.
Hattie leaned in toward him. “Tell no one,” she instructed in a low tone. “They are a gift.” She did not explain for whom and fortunately the clerk did not presume to ask.
They stood in the anteroom while the young man went in to announce them to the solicitor. Hattie glanced briefly at her companion in the ensuing silence. “Pray do not mention the books to anyone.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” said Bing.
The door to the solicitor’s office was flung open in a dramatic manner and a tall, thin man dressed in a very fine suit of linen stared at them. It was apparent to Hattie that beneath his implacable façade he was suffering from a strong emotion. “Miss Blackhouse,” he said in a quiet tone. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to finally behold you.”
“Sir,” responded Hattie, sketching a bow. She couldn’t help but note the man had a recent scar that ran from the corner of his eye down his cheek; she had little doubt as to who had bestowed it.
“Won’t you come in? Your visit is fortuitous—we dispatched an agent to seek you out in England only to discover that you were not at home.” He said it as though annoyed that she had inconvenienced him, and Hattie had to tamp down a hostile retort. Apparently, everyone else had converged on Cornwall but—for once in her life—she was not there; it would be ironic if it weren’t so ominous.
The solicitor addressed Bing rather abruptly. “You are the young lady’s guardian?”
Hattie forestalled Bing’s answer, not appreciating the man’s patronizing attitude. “No, sir; Miss Bing is my companion.”
The man made a gesture toward the door. “Then I am afraid I must ask you to wait without, madam. The matters upon which we speak are privileged.”
Hattie nodded at Bing, who shot her a glance that promised reinforcements if reinforcements were needed; apparently she had sized up the solicitor and had also found him off-putting. I should find out how much Bing is paid, Hattie thought as the woman departed; and double it forthwith.
Hattie was then seated while the solicitor shuffled some documents on his desk, gathering his thoughts in a cool manner despite the heat that seemed to radiate from the white plastered walls. Hattie could only be grateful for her gauze blouse and light muslin skirt, newly purchased. I don’t see how anyone becomes accustomed, she thought; one constantly feels like a damp washrag.