“Miércoles,” I muttered.
Rising on tiptoes, I frantically tried to sort through the masses. One of them was wearing a tall hat—there. I skirted through the crowd, keeping a watchful eye, and they led me straight to the ticket office. Most of the signage was written in French, which of course I couldn’t read with ease. How was I supposed to buy a ticket to Cairo? My parents warned against speaking with strangers, but I clearly needed help.
I approached them, and broke one of Mamá’s rules.
*
I leaned back against the plush cushion and sniffed the stale air. A layer of dust coated everything from the seating to the storage shelves on top of the benches. The train had looked sleek from the outside; strong black lines adorned with a red and gold trim, but the interior hadn’t been updated in decades. I didn’t care. I would have traveled by donkey through the desert if it would have meant reaching Shepheard’s.
So far, I had the cabin to myself, despite scores of travelers climbing aboard, effendis heading to Cairo to conduct their business affairs, and tourists chattering madly in various languages.
The wooden door of my compartment slid open and a gentleman with a truly spectacular mustache and round cheeks stood in the entrance. His left hand gripped a leather briefcase, monogrammed in gold with the initials BS. He startled at the sight of me, and then smiled broadly, gallantly tipping his dark hat upward in a polite salute. An elegant gray ensemble with wide trouser legs and a crisp white Oxford shirt made up his attire. Judging by his polished leather shoes and smart tailoring, he was a man of means.
Despite the warmth of his gaze, a frisson of apprehension skipped up my spine. The journey to Cairo took about four hours. A long time to be enclosed in a small space with a man. Never in my life had I been in that situation. My poor aunt would bemoan the ding to my reputation. Traveling alone without a chaperone was scandalous. If anyone in polite society were ever to find out, there went my unsullied character.
“Good afternoon,” he said as he hauled his briefcase into one of the overhead compartments. “First time in Egypt?”
“Yes,” I said in English. “You’re from . . . England?”
He sat directly across from me, stretching his legs so that the tassels on his shoes brushed against my skirt. I shifted my knees toward the window.
“London.”
Another Englishman. I was surrounded. I’d encountered too many to count since disembarking. Soldiers and businessmen, politicians and merchants.
Tío Ricardo’s hired man intent on throwing me out of the country.
My companion looked to the closed door, no doubt waiting for someone else to join us, and when the door remained closed, he returned his attention to me. “Traveling alone?”
I squirmed, unsure of how to reply. He seemed harmless enough, and while I didn’t want to tell him the truth, he’d know it by the time the train pulled into Cairo.
“I am, actually.” I winced at the defensive note in my voice.
The Englishman studied me. “Forgive me, I mean no offense, but do you need assistance? I see you’re without a maid or chaperone. Quite unusual, I daresay.”
The mourning costume I’d worn for the majority of the trip didn’t seem necessary after we docked, so I had changed into my smart traveling outfit. That had been shortsighted. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m a widow.”
His features softened. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Forgive my question, it was invasive.” A slight awkward pause followed, and I struggled with how to fill the silence. I didn’t know my way around Cairo, and any information or insight would be incredibly helpful. But it chafed me to give the impression that I was helpless.
“I lost my wife,” he said in a gentle voice.
Some of the tension stiffening my shoulders eased. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I have a daughter about your age,” he said. “My pride and joy.”
The train lurched forward, and I snapped around to face the smudged window. The sprawling city of Alexandria swept past with its wide avenues and piles of debris next to stately buildings. Moments later, we left the city clear behind and edifices were replaced with long stretches of green farmlands. The Englishman pulled out a tiny gold pocket watch. “On time for once,” he murmured.
“It’s not, usually?”
He scoffed with an arrogant lift to his chin. “The Egyptian railway still has a long way to go before anyone in their right mind would call it efficient. But we only recently took up the management, and progress has been lamentably slow.” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Though I have it on good authority the station will be receiving newer trains from England and Scotland.”
“When you say we, do you mean to say the British own the station?”
He nodded, apologetic. “Forgive me, I often forget ladies aren’t up to date on current affairs. Britain invaded Egypt in 1882—”
Any compassion I felt for his widowed state slowly eked out of me, one drop at a time. “I know all about how Britain bombed their way through Alexandria,” I said, not bothering to hide my disapproval. “Thank you.”
The man paused, his lips tightening. “A necessity.”
“Oh, really?” I asked sarcastically.
The man blinked in clear astonishment at my spirited tone. “We’re slowly, but surely, reshaping the country until it’s more civilized,” he said, his voice rising and insistent. “Free from the overreaching arms of the French. In the meantime, Egypt is a popular destination for many travelers—such as yourself.” The corners of his lips turned down. “For Americans, as well. We have Thomas Cook’s tours to thank for that.”
Papá had raged about all the ways Egypt was being reshaped. Managed by a foreign country who looked down at the locals, appalled at the audacity that they might want to govern themselves. He constantly worried foreigners would strip and loot every archaeological site before he could visit.
What grated against my skin was this man’s assumption that I wasn’t up to date on current affairs. And his supercilious tone in the way he explained the horrifying lens through which he viewed Egypt. A country whose raw materials and resources were his for the taking. Mamá still seethed about the Spanish mining in Cerro Rico, the mountain full of silver in Potosí. Over centuries, it had been stripped bare.
The town had never recovered.
I fought to keep my tone neutral. “Who is Thomas Cook?”
“A businessman of the worst order,” he said with a pronounced scowl. “He founded a company specializing in Egyptian tours, particularly ones that clog the Nile with garish boats filled with loud, inebriated Americans.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Britons don’t speak in loud volumes or drink?”