“We don’t know that it won’t,” Eliza countered.
At that, Sophia nearly groaned. She recognized the gleam in her friend’s eye, which was usually followed by an outlandish idea. These last months had been so blissful without Eliza seeing vampires, ghosts or witches around every corner. Would they now need to be on the lookout for a mummy? It’s not like it could move about on its own. Of course, with Eliza’s imagination, she might be convinced it could come alive.
“Even if it did somehow show up here, all we’d have to do is inform the authorities.”
At that Eliza frowned. “But what of the curse?”
“There are no such things as curses,” Sophia insisted.
“Are you so certain?” Rosemary asked as she glided into the room.
“Yes!” Sophia was emphatic.
“Why would my mother write of them if they weren’t real?” Rosemary took a seat beside Eliza.
“Your mother wrote what she copied from a wall.” Rosemary had read the journals just as Sophia and at no time did Mrs. Fairview indicate that she believed the curses were real.
“I’m not so certain, which is why we need to learn everything we can to protect us,” Eliza insisted.
Sophia rolled her eyes. “And how do we go about doing that?” It’s not like there was a book that explained how one protected themselves from a mummy’s curse.
“I’m not sure you can,” Rosemary insisted. “The only way to avoid a mummy curse is not to encounter the mummy.”
Eliza frowned. “What if he was returned to this tomb? Would the curse be lifted then?”
“Perhaps,” Rosemary shrugged.
“Fine. If the mummy shows up here, we’ll arrange for his return to Egypt then we’ll all be safe.” At that Sophia exited the room. She would not be caught up in their concerns and plans for the mummy or it’s curse when it was not likely to make an appearance in Cornwall, or at least not at the Wiggons’ School for Elegant Young Ladies and she had no intention of humoring her friends further.
* * *
Mayfair, London
“Isay, Miss Doyle, that was a most enjoyable and profitable afternoon,” Pickmore exclaimed as they entered the townhouse. “I only lost one of my bets.” He grinned.
“I’m happy for you, Captain Pickmore,” Eve answered, but she lacked the same enthusiasm, much to Henry’s surprise. They’d had a nice afternoon, and despite the company his mother kept and those who sat with him in her box, Ascot had been pleasant, with the exception of Eve’s shift in mood as the day grew long. She’d been happy this morning, now it was as if she’d succumbed to doldrums or the like.
This was what Eve had wanted so why wasn’t she happy?
Blasted women! Would he ever understand the workings of their minds?
“I daresay the presence of Miss Doyle certainly caused a good deal of speculation,” Pickmore continued as they entered the library and he crossed to the sideboard. “Without even hearing her say a word, it was obvious that the ladies were all atwitter behind their fans wondering who accompanied us today.”
That had been Henry’s plan. And though he didn’t want Eve to speak because she’d not rid herself of her Irish dialect yet, her silence had only intrigued thetonall the more. It was unintended but fit into his plans perfectly. However, if Eve did not improve in the next fortnight, in time for his mother’s ball, Henry wasn’t certain what he’d do when she was presented. It wasn’t as if he could ask her to remain silent again. It was fine for today but nobody would believe her voice hadn’t returned after so long.
He shook the thoughts away. They had two weeks and already Eve had made improvement. If they continued to work hard, he was certain nobody would guess where she came from by the time she entered the ballroom.
“And, just as I promised, half of my winnings.” Pickmore pulled a purse from his pocket and counted out pounds to Eve.
“That is not necessary, Captain Pickmore. It was your money to win or lose.”
“But you are the one who chose the horses. I might have lost everything if left to my own devises.”
At that Eve laughed, though it was more of a chuckle, with little enthusiasm, yet it warmed Henry’s blood. Oh, he couldn’t wait to be done with the lessons so that he might distance himself from her.
“There you go, Miss Doyle, sixty pounds.”
Pickmore had done well even though he’d been careful in his wagers.
