Legacy of Love. Christine Johnson

he was thinking. I’ve read books.”

      “Dime novels,” Mariah pointed out.

      “Books,” Anna stressed. “In the last one I read, the maid fell in love with the duke’s eldest son only to be thrown out on the streets.”

      “The son didn’t rescue her? Usually those stories have happy endings.”

      “That’s not my point. They threw her out.”

      Mariah clucked softly. “So you took matters into your own hands.”

      “I’m not wearing that uniform. I clean houses. I am not a servant.” She’d told Mrs. Neidecker the very same thing, but the woman didn’t take it well. Her tirade still rang in Anna’s ears.

      “We are all called to serve,” Mariah pointed out. “Jesus washed his disciples’ feet. There is no shame in working as a servant.”

      “Maybe.” Anna did not need a lecture. Mariah might be thirty-one years old to her twenty, but that didn’t give her the right to scold. “I’d rather be doing something exciting, like exploring ancient ruins.”

      “That requires connections and a great deal of money.”

      “I’ll get another job.”

      Mariah looked unconvinced as she placed four cans of beans in her basket. “Jobs are difficult to find. I haven’t seen a posting anywhere in weeks.”

      “The cannery in Belvidere is hiring.”

      “And spend half your wage on train fare?” Mariah’s brown bobbed hair peeked out from under the brim of her blue tricorn hat. “I wish the orphanage could afford to pay you.”

      “I wouldn’t take a nickel.” Anna knew how tight Constance House’s finances were. As director of the orphanage, Mariah scrimped and saved and solicited donations, but she could never make ends meet. The number of children had grown but not the funding.

      “Thank you, dear.” Mariah lifted the lid on the barrel and examined the flour. “No weevils today. I’ll take five pounds,” she said to the clerk, who’d finished waiting on Mrs. Butterfield.

      Anna noted Mariah’s long grocery list. “What can I get for you?”

      “Would you ask the butcher for a five-pound beef roast?”

      Anna strolled down the aisle lined with barrels containing flour, cornmeal, sugar, dried beans and oats on one side and shelves holding one-pound bags of coffee beans and packets of tea on the other. Rolls of butter sat on ice, while wheels of cheese and the lard can stood nearby.

      She passed by the candy display without the slightest interest, but when her eye caught a headline on the Pearlman Prognosticator’s front page, she gasped.

      “Mariah, come here.” Hands shaking, she unfolded the newspaper and scanned the single-column article entitled, “Treasure Tomb Unearthed.”

      “What is it? What’s wrong?” Mariah hurried to her side.

      “Look.” Anna pointed the frayed tip of her knit glove at the article. “A Mr. Carter found a pharaoh’s tomb filled with gold and riches. He says it’s so full of artifacts that it’ll take months to clear.”

      “Is that so?” Mariah sounded unimpressed.

      “It’s the tomb of a young pharaoh, King Tutankhamun.” She stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “Can you believe tomb robbers never found it? Mr. Carter is the first person to step inside since it was closed up centuries ago. Oh, Mariah, if only I was there. If only I could find a treasure like that. Imagine. We’d be rich. The orphanage would have everything it could ever want. Ma could have a big house on the hill. You and Hendrick too. Wouldn’t it be wonderful?”

      “Oh, Anna, you’re such a dreamer.” Mariah smiled softly. “It would be wonderful, but what would be even better is to finish my shopping before school lets out. Will you pick up the meat from the butcher?”

      With a sigh, Anna refolded the newspaper. She wanted to buy it, but, as Mariah would point out, that wouldn’t be prudent now that she had no job.

      As she walked to the butcher counter and requested the roast, words from the article bounced around her head. Valley of the Kings. Boy king. How she wished she could have been there when Howard Carter opened the tomb. Had the centuries-old air rushed out? Did it smell stale? Did he gasp when the torchlight danced off glittering gold?

      Her imagination raced as she absently accepted the paper-wrapped package of meat from the butcher. One day she would discover an even bigger treasure. The press would swarm around her, eager for just one word from the famed Egyptologist, Anna Simmons. Cameras would flash as the reporters asked what she’d found. She’d shield her eyes from the glare and answer mysteriously, “You’ll just have to wait.”

      “Excuse me?” The irritated question came from a very tall and very distinguished man.

      Blinking, she pulled herself out of the fantasy to take note of the stranger. He must have been in the store the whole time, but she’d been too preoccupied to notice him. What a mistake. Judging by the quality of the stranger’s clothing, he had money and lots of it. His straight nose and commanding jaw made her tremble. He looked exactly like how she’d imagined Jane Eyre’s Mr. Rochester.

      “I thought you were finished,” he said in a rich timbre that resonated clear to her toes.

      “I, uh, uh...finished with what?”

      “You said I had to wait.” He pointed to the paper-wrapped package she cradled in her arm. “Since you walked away, I thought you were done.” He swept a magnanimous hand toward the counter. “Please, go ahead.”

      “Oh, no.” Anna felt heat infuse her cheeks. When she’d imagined telling the reporters to wait, she must have spoken aloud. “That is, I’m done.” The words came out all awkward, like a dumbstruck schoolgirl. “Go ahead.”

      “Thank you.” His lips curved slightly, greatly softening his appearance. “If I might correct you, the seals had been broken.”

      “Seals?” She stared blankly. “What seals?”

      “Clay seals. They are affixed to the entrance of any pharaoh’s tomb. You said the tomb had never been opened before, but the seals at the entrance had been broken sometime in the past. Fortunately for Mr. Carter and the Cairo Museum, the contents appear to be largely intact.”

      Anna could hardly breathe. Not only did he look distinguished, but he knew everything about the excavation. He must be a professor. Or an archaeologist. Maybe he’d take her to Egypt. Stupid idea. He’d never trust a girl who stammered and talked to herself. He certainly wouldn’t take someone poor. Expedition members had to pay their way.

      She bit her lip to force away the disappointment and tried to say something intelligent. “Why is it fortunate for the Cairo Museum?”

      His smile deepened. “They will receive the tomb’s contents after Mr. Carter inventories them.”

      “How do you know so much?” She was gushing, but how could she help it? A pharaoh’s tomb had been discovered, and this man knew all about it.

      “I read the archaeology journals and reports.”

      “You do? Do you think...?” She hesitated, but the twinkle in his eyes persuaded her to ask. “Do you think I might borrow your journals someday? When you’re done, of course.”

      “You may,” he corrected. “Come by my new bookstore, The Antiquarian, when it opens next month.”

      Next month? January was two weeks away. She didn’t know if she could wait that long, but she had no choice. He hadn’t offered to loan his precious journals a moment earlier.

      “Thank you, oh thank you,” she said a bit too eagerly.

      If he found her schoolgirl reaction amusing, he had the kindness not