The Twelve Rooms of the Nile Read Online Free PDF Page B

envelope on the table. “Your father’s eyes are still bothering him. They are considering consulting a specialist in Germany, at Carlsbad.”
    Flo reflected that Fanny never omitted troublesome developments, feeling no particular need to spare Florence or Selina worry.
    “Any outgoing letters?” Selina glanced at a basket on the foredeck, the captain’s makeshift depository. It was empty.
    “Nothing just yet.” It took Flo days to compose a proper letter. She kept a diary of quick notes but liked to ruminate on events and ideas, especially anything to do with Egyptian religion, which intrigued her.
    Florence opened the butter-colored envelope. The handwriting was Parthe’s—careful, well-formed letters that never varied in size or shape, nor rode up and down the page. First: expressions of affection. They missed her. Oh, they always missed her. They missed her if shewas gone for an hour, especially an unaccounted-for hour spent in what Fanny regarded as “improper” visiting, such as comforting an ailing villager near Lea Hurst, the Nightingales’ summer home, or teaching the poor boys at the Ragged School in Wellow.
    Parthe reported on the weather at Embley, and then on the park. The rhododendrons and azaleas were in bloom, the hillsides around the house a feast of pink, white, fuchsia, and rose, more flowers than usual, perhaps because of the heavy rains the previous autumn. Parthe was learning a new Beethoven sonata on the pianoforte, while her worsted work was progressing slowly, in shades of green that were easy on the eyes.
    The mere phrase “worsted work” inflamed Florence, automatically registering in her mind as “worst work,” a pun that always fell flat on the ears of a disapproving Fanny. How Flo deplored that fashionable waste of time! Was there anything more pointless than the relentless embroidery of articles that needed no further decoration? It was Fanny’s way of keeping Flo’s hands in a state of busy idleness and away from worthier pursuits. Surely, Parthe had included the reference to goad her.
    Flo looked up for a moment. The dome of the sky had darkened; the lavender trails through it had faded to a dusty pink. More news: Fanny had recovered from her ague and was feeling fit. Father had joined a new society considering revisions to the Poor Laws. Flo set the paper down wistfully. She loved her father, a tall, gangly man with an air of innocence, despite his age. Such an idealist; such an independent thinker. How many fathers, after all, took pains to teach their daughters Greek and Latin? But his marvelous intelligence was too scattered to be of real use. How she wished he could have found a focus for his genius. Fanny said his defeat in 1834 for a seat from Derbyshire had deeply wounded his ambition.
    Oh, and there was something else, Parthe announced, something “ENORMOUS.” Gossip, actually, since Fanny had heard it secondhand, but still, news that would greatly interest Flo: Richard Monckton Milnes (whom they both called the “Poetic Parcel” behind hisback) had announced his engagement to the Honorable Annabelle Crewe!
    Oh God . She felt her lungs deflate and then fill up again. In and out, her breath, her life, a meaningless exchange of air. It surprised her that the pain was so sharp and immediate. This must be what Richard had felt on that afternoon last October when she refused his proposal.
    Was Selina still talking? Florence had been nodding and offering monosyllabic assent as she skimmed the letter and Selina spoke of home, but now a heavy silence fell upon the two women. “I’m sorry—what was that you said?” Flo asked. “Was there a question?”
    “I haven’t said anything, dear. Are you all right? Your face has gone quite white.”
    “News from home.”
    “Nothing troubling, I hope?”
    Selina Bracebridge had one of the sweetest faces in the world, Flo thought, and now she turned it toward her, the eyes softened by concern. More than once Selina had