Summary: First day on the dig and Claire is already feeling the heat
A/N: Thanks so much for the support on the last chapter. In case youâre out of the loop, Iâve started a side-blog specifically for fics to try and make them more visible among all my shit postings (hence why the previous fic is on my main blog). Iâm also slowly figuring out how moodboards work. Youâd think I was new to this site with how bad I am at everything.
Useful Info:
âPetrieâ refers to Flinders Petrie, one of the most famous and prolific Egyptologists ever.
The poem is borrowed (with love) from Crocodile on the Sandbank by Elizabeth Peters. Itâs one of my favorite books and partially inspired this fic.Â
It was always necessary for the company to rise early while on digs in order to get as much work done before the noon sun stifled and shriveled them up. It was necessary, but that did not mean Claire did not resent it. She tried to suppress yet another yawn as she worked to delicately unearth the stone under her.
Her dreams the night before had been hot, though she could not remember any details beyond the burning sensation in her chest and belly, as well as waking up in a sweat. She tried to brush it off as nerves and the heat. Even in the dead of winter, the Egyptian sun was unforgiving.
For now she tried to focus on the task at hand and the sound of the diggers, whose work was supervised by John across the site. Lambâs notes had proposed that there should be some sort of cellarâalbeit crudeâbelow the main level of the house. He had posited the entrance to be along the south-side of the building, where John and the diggers were currently working. Meanwhile, she and Fergus were carefully examining the rest of the building, even if just to see how much of Lambâs notes had been correct.
âMilady, you need to stop looking over at the other camp,â Fergus warned as Claire yet again pulled her attention away from the other workers less than 100 yards away. She needed to get a grip and get over it, the choice had been made.
âIâm sorry, Fergus.â The words felt heavy on her tongue. The choice had been made, yes, but had she even considered the others around her? Fergus and John? Should they not have such an honor in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? She had never been good at making decisions outside of her medical kit. Those choices were easy: this leg is broken, set it; this child needs medicine, give it to her; this man is dying, save him. But when peopleâs way of life and reputations were on the line? The choice should never be up to her.Â
Fergus seemed unaware of her internal struggle. âDonât worry about it, and try not to think of them. We have much to do here.â He was squatting in the dust next to what Lamb had posited to be the easternmost wall of the structure.
She nodded and crouched down beside him. Fergus flourished the brush in his right hand expertly, using his left, false hand to steady himself on the ground. Claire had never been quite sure how it had happened, and Fergus had never spoken of it directly, but she could guess. Sheâd heard of the punishment for stealing in more of the unsavory parts of Cairo. If the rumors were true, Fergus was lucky to still have one good hand left.
They broke for lunch soon enough and took refuge in Johnâs tent.
âNo scrapes for you to tend to yet, eh Beauchamp?â John asked with a smile as he handed her a glass of whisky less than a finger-full. âTo breaking ground?â
She raised her glass and nodded, taking a sip. John sat at his desk next to the cot where he slept, his back to Claire who sat in a chair across the tent.
âHowâs the papyrus coming along?â Claire asked.
âHmm?â John asked, clearly distracted. âOh, itâs coming along. Slowly.â Johnâs voice sounded far away.
During the war, John had met a man named Hector Dalrymple who had, in Johnâs words, âinspired himâ to study antiquities. He had died the year before John had been hired by Lamb. John had taken up the work, translating the papyrus Hector had picked up in Luxor before the war. It had mostly been love poetry. It had been a little more than a monthly ritual for Claire to find him drunk off his arse and crying over the ancient scraps of paper. She was not so naive to assume that these antics were brought on by scholarly frustration, but if John didnât want to talk about it, she wouldnât push it. She just carefully laid the papers into a drawer, put the glasses away, and led John to bed, forcing him to drink some water before tucking him in.
It had been quite a change for their roles to be reversed in the past few months. Though, John had never punched her in the nose while she tried to wrestle him into bed. And it was in that momentâlooking at him from across the tentâthat Claire realized she and John were both fulfilling the dreams of their dead loved ones.
Quite the pair we make, she thought to herself as she sipped her drink.
Despite it only being the first day of the new season, Claireâs thoughts drifted to the next year and the one after that, if only abstractly. If not for Lambâs extensive notes, she would have been at a loss for where to dig this season. What about next year? The Antiquities Department had made it very clear that if no major finding was discovered at the Behribu site, it would most certainly be closed from further excavations. Lamb himself had scoffed at this notion.
âItâs all stuff and nonsense, my dear. What does St. Germaine care where I decide to play in the dirt?â He had said. But it had been easy for Lamb to say that, he had acclaim and connections to the British Museum as well as the Egyptian Antiquities Department. They had allowed her this one year in memory of him, but what of next year? Would she even be able to secure a site?
Or, more accurately, would John be able to secure a site and let Claire tag along. What if John didnât want to go next year? Surely he would be able to move onto anything now that his mentor had died. Fergus too. She felt lost, quite literally, in the middle of the desert, with only the faintest hope for water behind the next sand dune.
A throat cleared and she looked up to see a young woman standing at the tent flap. She wore a button-up dress belted at the waist with trousers beneath and brown boots. A large straw hat with a brim sheltered her face from the hot sun.
âExcuse me,â she said. âBut Iâm lookinâ for a Miss Beauchamp, are ye she?â
It seemed almost comical to even ask, as they were the only European women most likely within 100 miles.Â
âYou must be Miss MacKimmie, you may call me Claire, please. Come in and close the tent flap behind you.â
The young woman eyed the other two adults carefully and stepped in. John had looked up when she came in, but had returned to his work. It was unlike him to be so unsociable, but Claire assumed he was onto something with his papyrus. Lamb often got into similar moods, sometimes even for days on end.
âThatâs John Grey over there,â Claire explained as she produced a chair for the young lady to sit on. âYou must excuse him for shunting himself in the corner thus, he is in the middle of unearthing the dead.â
John snorted at her from his place in the corner but otherwise did not respond.
âWhat can I do for you, Miss MacKimmie? We were just about to have lunch, Fergus should be back any moment now with it, will you eat with us?â
The young woman colored at her words and shook her head. âYe neednât trouble yerself, I just- well-â She wrung her hands. âMr. Fraser was kind enough to say I could come to you if I needed help and-â
âDo you need medical attention then? My kit is in my tent but I could-â
âNo, please, I just needed to get away from the other camp is all. And, well, there isna much else to go, is there?â
Claire nodded but quirked an eyebrow. âWhat is it about the other camp that you need to get away?â
She blushed and looked down. âThe men,â she said bluntly. âNot all of them, mind ye. Mr. Fraser is very kind to me, heâs my cousin, ye see. But-â
âBut he cannot always be around to guard and guide you?â Claire finished, all too aware of what some men could be like on digs. She wasnât sure if it was the sun or the low proximity to civilization that caused men to lose all sense of propriety and manners, but it had always been a problem too big to correct.
âWell, I donât see a problem with letting you take refuge here for now. Itâs only us three and the diggers in our little camp.â
Just then Fergus returned, laden with plates for the three of them. Miss MacKimmie shot up to her feet like a lightning bolt when he entered. Claire stared at her and then back to Fergus.
âAh, I was not aware we had a guest.â He placed the plates on the table where Claire and Miss MacKimmie sat, and brushed his hand on the front of his pants before offering his hand. âFergus Beauchamp, at your service, madame.â She noticed Fergus moved his left arm behind his back.
Miss MacKimmie seemed incapable of speech so Claire stepped in.
âFergus, this is Miss Marsali MacKimmie, sheâs the illustrator for the other camp. Sheâs come here to get away from unsavory male company.â
âNot that I find all male company to be unwelcome!â Miss MacKimmie seemed to have found her voice quite suddenly. âJust- some.â
Fergus nodded good naturedly. âI will go get another plate, you may have mine. Please, do not wait on my account.â
As he exited, Miss MacKimmie fell back into her chair. Claire happily began to dig into her food, eyeing the young woman.
âIâve always found an accent to be quite attractive in a man, if you donât mind me saying Miss MacKimmie, now that itâs just us girls.â
The young womanâs eyes trailed over to John at her words, but Claire kept talking. âMy first love was a Belgian lad when I was twelve. Something about that French accent. What do you think, Miss MacKimmie?â
âOh leave the poor girl alone,â John called, teasingly. âSome of us have not grown as hardhearted and cynical as you.â
âAre you going to eat with us or are you going to continue to moon over ancient love poems?â
âI donât moon, and Iâll be there in a second.â
The tent flap rustled and a deep voice cleared their throat. Claire glanced up and then straightened up at the site.
âMarsali, what the devil do ye think yeâre doing here?â Mr. Fraser growled, casting a glance at the women seated at the table, to John at the desk, and finally to the two cots lined up across the tent. âIt isna proper for ye to be in a manâs tent. Even with- another woman.â His voice faltered.
She hadnât even considered the propriety of Miss MacKimmieâs presenceâor even her ownâin what was essentially John and Fergusâs room. Perhaps she was too quick to judge menâs actions in the middle of the desert.
âYou must forgive us, Mr. Fraser,â Claire finally said. âWe do not have a common area tent and prefer to eat together out of the hot sun.â
His gaze fell on Claire. âThen ye must set up an umbrella or awning for an eating area.â
âJesus H. Roosevelt, quite the big spender, what do you say John? Should we buy food next time or an umbrella big enough for the three of us to eat under?â
John grunted and Claire rolled her eyes.
âWhile youâre here, Mr. Fraser, would you be so kind as to lend your linguistic abilities to our man John so he can eat before going back under the hot sun, Doctorâs orders.â
Mr. Fraser seemed like he was about to protest before she mentioned linguistics. âWhat does he require help with?â
John glared at her. âA number of years ago I acquired some papyrus. There is no rhyme or reason for the various hieroglyphics between them. I have a hunch they were looted from various tombs before they finally ended up in my hands.â
âWell, Iâd be delighted to take a look if yeâd like.â
âIt really isnât necessary, Mr. Fraser-â
âMr. Grey, it would be my pleasure.â
John seemed at a loss for words and nodded. âAlright, I must admit a few of the cartouches are a bit out of the ordinary.â
Mr. Fraser smirked good-heartedly and nodded. âAllow me to lend my expertise, but later, if ye wouldnât mind. Perhaps at suppertime? I have a few volumes I could bring with me, Petrie and the like. For now, we must be goinâ. Come, Marsali, Dougal was lookinâ for ye.â
Miss MacKimmie exchanged a glance with Claire before standing and walking over to her cousin.
âGood day to you both,â Mr Fraser bid them as they left.
Claire jumped up and went to the tent flap, lifting it up.
He turned back, the heat seemingly making the air around him waver. His tan skin gleamed in the sun and his blue eyes seemed all the more striking underneath his hat.
âThe invitation for supper extends to both you and Miss MacKimmie. We shall expect you both after the work is done, here, in this tent.â
He glanced at the young woman beside him and nodded before turning away to the other camp.
Claire stared at the two men hunched over the bits of ancient paper, eyes peering across the rim of her glass of whisky. She had tried to engage in conversation with Fergus and Miss MacKimmie, but had soon realized that they were not inclined in doing anything beyond polite comments about the weather and stealing glances at one another. She had noticed the young womanâs eyes lingering on Fergusâs left arm, but if she was at all disturbed by the false appendage, she made no mention of it. Between them and the scholars in the corner, Claire found herself quite alone.
She soon got up and crossed the room, peering over Johnâs shoulder at the work.
âAny progress?â She asked.Â
âSee for yourself,â John said, handing his open journal over his shoulder to her, his finger marking the spot.
Claire read over the lines and nodded. âItâs veryâŠwell, perilous, wouldnât you say?â
âRead it out loud, if it pleases ye.â Mr. Fraser turned back to look at her, leaning back against the desk. âPoetry deserves to be read out loud, does it noâ?â
Claire smiled and nodded. She took a step back, dramatically and held the book out as if she was preparing to read a dramatic monologue from Hamlet.
âThe love of my beloved is on yonder side
A width of water is between us
And a crocodile waiteth on the sandbank.â
Mr. Fraserâs eyes did not leave Claire as she spoke, the glass of watered down whisky at his lips to hide a small smirk. She glanced back up at him over the book, his eyes washing over her and causing her stomach to churn. She wondered to herself whether his was the gaze of the beloved or the crocodile? And which one would she have feared more.
John threw back the rest of his drink and held out his hand for his notebook, breaking the spell. She handed it back to him.
âDo you think thatâs the first time that poem has been read out loud since the time of the Pharaohs?â Fergus asked from across the room.
âWhat an honor it is then, to be here when it is,â Miss MacKimmie answered him.
âQuite the sentiment,â Johnâs voice sounded far away.
âWhat do you think, Miss Beauchamp?â Mr. Fraser asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. âWell, our modern interpretation is quite different from what the ancient one would be.â
He quirked an eyebrow. âAye?â
She nodded. âYes, the crocodile on the sandbank seems to us to make it the tale of âforbidden, star-crossed lovers,â trope. Most would mention Romeo and Juliet.â
âBut yeâd beg to differ?â The mirth did not leave his eyes.Â
âThe Ancient Egyptians, would beg to differ, Mr. Fraser. The crocodile is meant to show the strength of the man, it is implied he will triumph over the beast and is therefore stronger than a crocodile.â
âAs ye say.â Mr. Fraser placed his glass on the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.
Claire narrowed her eyes at him. âWhat? Do you have a different interpretation?â
He shrugged. âIt isna in my mind to infer what the words of a long dead man may or may not mean. I merely make the knowledge accessible and let the intellectuals rabble about it.â
John scoffed. âAnd do you not consider yourself to be an intellectual?â
He smirked. âAll I mind is the connection, ye ken? To the man. We often think ourselves so mighty and civilized compared to the ancients. But to see these words and in them the reflections of emotions we too experience.â His words were emphatic, passionate. He looked up at Claire, the strength of his words reflected in the depths of his eyes. âDo we not feel the same yearning to be with the ones we love?â
It was getting late and the two Scots bid goodnight to their companions. Claire walked out with them on the way to her tent. Mr. Fraser eyed her as she dropped the tent flap behind her.
âYe dinna need to see us out, we ken the way right enough,â he told her.
âIâm glad you think that. Iâm not seeing you out, Iâm going to my tent.â
His eyebrows raised for a moment before he schooled his features. âAye, as ye say.â It was hard to tell in the dim light, but she swore she could see some color staining his face as well.
âWhat, did you think I shared one with Mr. Grey?â
He made a noise in the back of his throat with an eye at Miss MacKimmie, who was doing her best to look like she wasnât eavesdropping. âI have no right to pass judgement on strangers.â
She scoffed. âIt is true that we may ignore certain rules of propriety out here in the middle of nowhere, but a body has a right to privacy, donât you agree?â
âAnd not all of us are so desperate for company of the opposite sex. It takes a great deal more than cheap whisky and ancient scraps of paper.â
The smile that so often graced his features when they spoke returned. As did the heat in her stomach that made her delirious with dĂ©jĂ vu. âIâll keep that in mind, Miss Beauchamp.â His eyes sparkled in the low light of the stars overhead.
She all but ran into her tent and closed the flap behind her.
