As promised, Isadora stayed behind at the hotel to unpack, while Whit and I hired a carriage to take us to our desired street, the roof open to allow fresh air. The sun bore down on us, and I was thankful for the large hat I wore that blocked most of its harsh rays. I smoothed down the wrinkles of my best skirt and straightened the lapel of my jacket. I’d purposefully chosen something that made me look older. Isadora had even styled my hair in a more mature fashion, neat and coiled at the crown of my head. I had added bright rouge to my lips and darkened my eyelashes.
Whit had lost the power of speech when he had seen me. I didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing and ultimately decided that itshould not matter. I settled back against the seat, idly watching the other carriages on the street attempting to navigate the debris on the road. We were driven through the once-great city square, left ruined and in utter destruction by the bombardment of the British.
“I wonder what it looked like before,” I murmured.
Whit pointed to one end, a mass of debris and tangled telegraph wires. “That was once the Hotel d’Europe, one of the nicest places I’d ever had the pleasure of staying in.”
“When were you here?”
“I passed through when I first came to Egypt,” he said, shifting his hand to point somewhere else. “Here was the French and English consulate; thereyou can see part of the entrance still standing, and some of the walls. But the interior was completely gutted.”
“This must be strange,” I commented. “Seeing the city this way when it existed more splendidly in your memory.”
“It is,” he said, “but stranger still for those profoundly attached to Alexandria. It must have been devastating. Humans can be so careless with beautiful things: lives, animals, art. Nothing is safe from our hands.”
“How many people died by the end?”
“Thousands,” Whit said grimly. “The British had significantly fewer casualties than the Egyptians.”
We were sitting across from each other, his long legs stretched onto the opposite bench. This kind of proximity would never have been allowed if we weren’t married. A state that I had only enjoyed for less than twenty-four hours. It amazed me how life could change in an instant. Hearing him talk of the war always made me think of everything he must have witnessed in between boyhood and becoming a man. I wanted to know this side of him, and my curiosity flared with a dozen questions.
But I forced myself to stay silent. The more we talked, the harder it would be to walk away.
And there was no question that I would.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said softly.
I startled but kept my attention on the shattered remains of the plaza. I hated that he could guess my thoughts with such precision. I especially hated it because I never knew what he was thinking.
“Or to believe anything I have to say,” he continued. “But I do have a plan to make things right between us.”
Oh, I didn’t doubt it. His guilt would govern every one of his actions, and I was sure he’d bleed himself dry to be rid of it. He didn’t care about me other than to ease his own conscience. And he had led me to believe there was more between us than camaraderie. I had been a fool to fall for his scheme, but a small part of me yearned to hear that his feelings had run as deep as mine.
But he never spoke of love. Only friendship.
“What is it that you hope for you and me?” I asked quietly. “When all of this is behind us?”
Whit observed me, considering his response. When he spoke, it was carefully. “I have no expectations. No hopes.”
Exactly what I thought.
I gripped the edge of my seat, breathing slowly. It surprised me how his words could still hurt me. That there was a part of me that still wanted to believe he would fight for me, for his heart, for us. That he had loved me, that what we had was real.
My God, I was delusional.
The driver expertly wheeled us onto another street, labeled in French. This one had survived the bombing, two-story buildings lining the path, homes above and businesses below. We passed a hairdresser, two markets, and then the driver whistled, pulling on the reins. He gestured to our left, indicating we had arrived at the bank.
Whit jumped out first and then helped me down.
“Now remember,” I said. “You’re my personal guard. Do not speak.”
He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Donottell me what to do. If someone points a gun at you, I will have words to say about that.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I said. “The only thing that could is us getting escorted out of the bank.”
“Yes,” he muttered. “By the bloody bluejackets.”
“The what?”
