The Twelve Rooms of the Nile Read Online Free PDF

the ribs, but that modern medicine understood as a case of overactive nerves. Whatever the cause, Trout was clearly a valetudinarian, creating ailments from thin air through the weakness—or was it the power?—of her mind. The continual whining was driving Florence mad. Since Trout was not only her maid and chaperone but also her roommate, she never had a moment alone. Even as she turned back to her writing, Trout began to snore, a rattling intake and exhalation that filled the room like the fluttering of a panicked hen.
    If only Mariette could have accompanied her to Egypt. She could speak French with Mariette, for one thing. And no one did her hair as well, or made her look more glamorous and à la mode. But Mariette had gotten pregnant, and since the trip would last nearly a year, had to stay home. Might she not have done this on purpose? Flo suspected that Mariette had not wished to travel in a land that her countrymen had lost so ignominiously to the English and that was hardly likely to meet her standards of good taste. Only the year before, in Italy, Mariette had found fault with some of the hotel food and furnishings. She would have hated the backwardness of Egypt.
    Trout, alas, had little experience as a lady’s maid. But her references painted her as steady, honest, and hardworking. Certainly there had been no mention of time spent in bed in a state of “green as the trees” nausea, or foot pains which, she claimed, made her life “a walking crucifixion.” Well, nothing to be done now except bear it. A hand mirror borrowed from Charles’s naturalist’s kit had improved Flo’s hairdressing. By holding a mirror in front while Trout held another in back, she could avoid a coiffure that flapped like turkey wattles.
    Flo watched the Nile through the window. She thought of the river as a male presence, a creature of long, sinuous muscles strong enough to lift and rearrange the littoral each July when it flooded. Her Nile shone in the sunlight like a bronze shield. At night, with the dahabiyahs and feluccas moored along its shores illuminated by oil lanterns and the occasional candle, her Nile was a London street fair, its goods lit up by paraffin flares. The river had not only currents and tides but also mysterious eddies that whirled at the surface as if Poseidon himself were stirring it from below with his trident. Now, though, it was calm, steadily and smoothly rocking the dahabiyah.
    Trout continued to snore in a sleep so heavy she lay unmoving as a clod of earth, while Florence finished her letter. Some time later, the door creaked open and Selina Bracebridge leaned her head into the cabin. “Flo?”
    “I’m awake.”
    “Come up to the foredeck, dear.” The door clicked shut again.
    Florence gathered herself together, stepped out of the room, and mounted the narrow stairs, emerging onto the deck to see a band of orange and navy at the horizon, and above it a single star. Venus. It was childish, but she always made the same wish on the first star. Please, God, tell me what to do.
    Selina sat in a chair made of plaited palm leaves. She was fanning herself languidly, as if from habit rather than intention. Two letters lay on the table beside her. Charles had just returned with candles, Selina said, and was belowdecks, resting. “The consul’s runner delivered the post to Charles in the village. Isn’t that something?”
    “Perhaps he was the only European.”
    “Yes. Anyway, you have a letter from home.” She handed an envelope to Florence.
    Whatever hostilities had been brewing among Fanny, Flo, and her sister, Parthe, all was forgiven when it came to letter writing, everyone in the family being reliably voluble. Since her trip to Italy the year before, Florence had become a celebrated correspondent. The whole family cherished her letters. Parthe had taken to making copies to send on to the grandmothers, aunts, and cousins.
    “I’ve had a note from Fanny myself,” Selina said, tapping an open