Hot and Steamy (5 page)

The mournful sound of a rival steamboat reached him as he opened his door. He inhaled the faint aroma of wood smoke curling from fires along the banks. This, mixed with the stench of a bloating cow carcass wedged against a log jam, lent an interesting pong to the heavy morning air. He closed the door tight behind him.

Jameson cleared his workbench of jeweler's tools and an accumulation of miniature gears, tiny springs, and various parts. He was assembling a new navigation device that would chart the movement of the stars as well as river currents. The archaeologist smoothed out a rather worn parchment rubbing he'd made of the stone tablet on his first Egyptian expedition. Through the lighted magnifying loupe of his monocle, he examined the marks scribed onto a tablet eons ago. He'd discovered the ancient tablet along with the scarab beetle, a canopic jar, and other trinkets in his first tomb.

He'd managed to conceal the scarab and a few other artifacts in the many pockets of his safari jacket, but the tablet was too heavy and large. There had been barely enough time to make a rubbing and escape with his life from a league of murderous desert thugs that preyed on foreigners.

It had taken decades, but he knew he was so very close to finally deciphering every last bit of it, completing his life's puzzle. The canopic jar he'd smuggled from the tomb contained a strange coal-like rock and a chunk of brittle silvery white metal hidden beneath the mummy's liver. Perhaps they were connected, he'd thought then.

Now he was certain of it.

Jameson had devoted months to testing these materials, secretly so no one would discover his theft. In the end, he learned that the rock with the brownish-black crust was a meteorite, and contained the smooth cool metal he named Isidium, after Isis, his favorite Egyptian deity. Deciphering enough of the glyphs from the tablet revealed a formula to extract this metal from celestial rubble.

Jameson stumbled on the power of this silvery element quite by accident. When his pocket watch was close to this mysterious metal the hands sped up until they became nothing but a blur. He repeatedly tested this compact power source and found it would animate other objects . . . such as his automaton deck scrubbers and dishwashers. Best of all, this strange metal was powering the
Evangeline's
large steam engine without burning wood as fuel. When the metal was under extreme pressure it produced heat, which in turn produced steam in the boilers.

The ancient Egyptians—at least the ones buried with his finds—must have used this amazing energy source. Soon Jameson would share their knowledge with the world.

Markings carved into the canopic jar, such as a scepter, represented dominion. This didn't seem to be the same kind of power reserved for pharaohs and rulers but power that could be held in one's palm. So Jameson believed that the tomb had not been the final resting place of a king—but a scientist. The archaeologist felt a kinship with the man whose jar he held.

What had the ancient scientist powered with the Isidium? And why had the tablet with the formula for extracting it been buried? Had someone—the scientist perhaps—in those long-ago days not wanted the discovery revealed? The answers were lost beneath a mummy's liver and lay undisturbed in the desert's shifting sands in the Valley of the Kings.

Jameson used shavings of this incredibly hard metal to animate his inventions, and with a slightly larger piece the
Evangeline's
steam engine served as a prototype for all engines and machinery. Only Captain Keel knew of this magnificent energy source that made Jameson's shipping line the most successful one on the river. Rumors circulated in the waterfront taverns that angry competitors were meeting to stop the Jameson Packet Company from taking over the entire river with its boats.

The scuttlebutt did not bother Jameson. He was preoccupied with getting the Isidium discovery out to the world.

It wouldn't be much longer now before he could do just that. Since meteorites laced with Isidium were not readily available, he sought an alternative source for the rare element. He found that Isidium was a byproduct of copper and nickel mining. Jameson and his investors had secured several copper and nickel mines in Canada that he was confident could provide a steady supply.

Soon he'd be in Washington D.C. to present his findings to the President of the United States. Then he intended to celebrate; first stop would be Denmark to visit his late mother's relatives, next a chartered airship to the Valley of Kings where he would pay a visit to his first tomb. After that, he'd start a new dig.

He tidied his workspace and locked his cabin door. Jameson usually took his meals in his room, but today he ventured to his private table in the corner of the main dining salon. In the salon, paneled in cherry, passengers ate at beautifully decorated tables with fine linens, fresh bouquets of flowers, and brass hurricane lamps. Men in coats and ties summoned waiters, while dainty women under elaborate hats sipped fine wine from small crystal glasses. Seemingly out of nowhere a large man wearing a white cap and navy blue jacket appeared.

“Cap'n Keel, what brings you out of the wheelhouse?” Jameson asked the man he'd known since childhood.

“Mind if I join you?”

Before he had a chance to refuse, Keel hailed the waiter and ordered pot roast and red potatoes. “And bring me a bourbon right away. And not one of those thimble-sized ones neither,” he growled. Soon his burly hand gripped a tumbler and he scanned the dining room, then lowered his head.

“Listen, Watts, you gotta to be more careful. Someone's tryin' to kill you,” he whispered. “Although why they'd bother is a mystery, you'll do the job for 'em soon enough—drinkin' that vile green stuff.”

Jameson could see that the captain was staring at the lime green stains that dotted his white shirt like tiny tracks.

“I'll be careful,” Jameson said, humoring him.

He spent a few more hours in his cabin scouring his notes and papers before he ventured out for fresh air again. On the deck round-bellied men in top hats talked business while waiters delivered drinks to ladies discussing whatever women discussed. Jameson paid little attention as he mentally polished his presentation. Then something caught his eye.

A red-haired woman in her mid-twenties held a thin green book, while a lace parasol deflected the afternoon sun from her long neck.

With a look of amazement, Jameson dropped to his knees beside her.

“Excuse me, Miss, I don't mean to interrupt . . . but I couldn't help noticing you're reading
Egyptian Antiquities
by Auguste Mariette.” Jameson's voice was thick with excitement.

She looked up, and without any expression answered, “Why, yes.”

Jameson's heart caught. This woman . . . this stunning woman with a flawless complexion and ice blue eyes that sparkled like stars . . . was reading his favorite book. It was this book that led him to Egypt many years ago and fueled his strange addiction for the place. After devouring it a half-dozen times, he taught himself hieroglyphs and had become a self-made authority on ancient Egypt.

And it all started with that small book.

Her fingers were perfectly manicured, the nails painted a shade of pink that reminded him of the first blush of a rose. She reached an index finger up and rubbed at a cameo attached to a ribbon around her neck. She must've felt the penetration of his gaze because she gave him a furtive glance, smiled ever-so-slightly, and returned to the page.

Jameson was not willing to give up the opportunity to speak with someone interested in his passion for Egyptian antiquities. “That's the best book on ancient artifacts ever written,” he blurted.

“I agree, Professor Watts.”

“H–h–how is it that you know my name?” He didn't bother to hide the surprise in his voice.

“Don't be silly, Professor Watts, everyone on this steamer knows who you are.” She tossed her head and offered her dainty hand. “Miss Sinclair Upchurch. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Her fingers were pleasantly warm to the touch, and he held them longer than proper. His chest grew tight and his mouth went instantly dry. Still, he managed to work up enough saliva so he could speak. “Join me for supper, Miss Upchurch? Seven o'clock, my private table?” After a moment, he added, “Please.”

“That would be lovely.” She promptly lowered her eyes to the book.

He released a breath he'd been holding and took in another filled with the essence of her, the sweet mellow fragrance of sandalwood and vanilla.

When he returned to his cabin something felt out of place, but nothing seemed to be missing. His satchel, research papers, and other valuables were as he'd left them.
I should never clean my desk,
he thought, and vowed not to make that mistake again. He might have investigated further were he not so preoccupied with the notion of dining with the marvelous Miss Sinclair Upchurch.

That evening when Sinclair arrived, Jameson jumped to his feet to welcome her and pulled out a chair. While she arranged her voluminous satin skirt the waiter stood at attention.

“I'll have a sherry,” she said sweetly.

“The usual for you, Mr. Watts?”

“Yes, thank you, Finley.” Jameson's eyes never left his guest.

Moments later the black-vested waiter offered the woman a small glass of sherry, which she delicately sipped as she watched Jameson concoct his. He poured a pale green liquid from a cruet onto a sugar cube held by a fine slotted silver spoon, and followed this with a splash of water. He raised his small crystal glass, “to Egypt.”

“So I can see you've been bitten by the green fairy, Professor Watts.”

“I must admit I love this stuff more than I should. But I feel it focuses the mind in a way that nothing else can.” He took another sip, savoring both the licorice essence and the presence of this beautiful woman.

“To Egypt,” she echoed. “I love Egypt.”

He fought for breath. Jameson had never met another whose love of Egypt equaled his.

“I would live there, I think,” she continued. “So I could be near the pyramids and the Nile.”

Jameson felt his skin flush and he stared at her hands, making sure there was no wedding band or promise ring. Dare he hope . . .

The waiter presented a tureen of fish chowder, followed by roast venison and creamed peas, but the couple was so lost in conversation about Egypt and each other that they barely touched their meals. The other diners had gone; the room was now dim; the candles inside the hurricane lamps had nearly all burned out. The couple didn't seem to notice the blackberry cordial and lemon chess tarts on a silver tray in the middle of the table.

A massive brass chandelier suspended above added a warm glow to the rich cherry paneling and reflected bits of light around them like stars.

None brighter than her eyes,
Jameson thought. Her lilac gown was the color of his mother's favorite flower.

It was nearly midnight when Jameson felt a familiar flutter. He pulled his watch-communicator from his vest pocket and read the coded dispatch while Sinclair craned her neck to look at the device.

“Important message?”

“Just my captain,” he sighed.

“Professor Watts . . . how many books have you read on Egypt?”

“Oh . . . a few more than I've written.” He hoped he hadn't sounded arrogant.

“I should like to read them all,” she said.

He leaned in close, taking her hands, his lips inches from hers.

“Professor Watts, it's after midnight. I really must be going.” She leveled her gaze. “I do have my reputation to consider. Thank you for a lovely evening, and I hope we see each other again.”

Before the archaeologist could beg her to stay, she'd vanished.

The next morning Jameson tried to concentrate on deciphering a parchment rubbing. He swore he could still smell her perfume. He'd had trouble sleeping last night, so consumed with thoughts of her; he'd dampened the sheets with his dreams. Why hadn't he leaned in all the way and kissed her after dinner? Had she left because he'd hesitated? Because he didn't have the courage or presence to . . . .

He was startled by a knock at his cabin door. He'd trimmed his goatee, combed his thinning hair and changed his shirt, secretly hoping to run into Sinclair. Was it she at the door?

After a quick peek into his looking glass, he pulled the door open. His heart leapt.

“Good morning, Miss Upchurch.”

“Sinclair, please.” She poked her head into the dimly lit cabin overflowing with all things Egyptian. A small baboon carved from carnelian sat on the corner of his desk and a pomegranate-shaped vase, mud seals, vials of tiny springs, and brass gears littered shelves among alabaster jars, jeweler's tools, and funerary artifacts. A small gold-leafed statue of Horus perched on a bookcase piled with fragments of clay tablets, potsherds, papyrus, and well-read books.

“Why, Professor Watts—it looks like you live in a tomb.”

She looked radiant, and the fragrance of sandalwood floated into the cabin. Her long red hair was tucked under a cream-colored silk hat wrapped in chiffon. A few tendrils fell at the nape of her long neck. Jade and pearl earrings dangled against her pale skin, and she clutched a small beaded bag in her dainty gloved hand.

“I wondered if you'd accompany me onshore . . . if you are not otherwise busy. The captain told me the boat would dock soon at Ephraim for the day while the supplies are loaded, and I have business there. I'd feel much safer if you'd come with me to town.”

Jameson stammered his acceptance, donned his tweed jacket, and strolled at her side off the boat.

The city bustled: barrels and supplies were loaded, and passengers waved to those waiting for them on the dock. The breeze drew spicy scents of late autumn as they walked along the streets of the old river town. For the first time in years Jameson noticed the rich colors blazing from the maple trees. Leaves that looked like gold coins shimmered from tall white-barked trees that lined the main street.