Read Online The Buried Pyramid by Jane Lindskold - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Lindskold
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in the fire. Now she stared down at the polished metal gun barrel, the shining oak stock, the fanciful curlicues etched along its length and shaping her initials.
She briefly wondered if Mama and Papa had argued over this peculiar gift, then felt certain that they had not. Mama might have been startled by Papa’s selection, but she wouldn’t have argued about its aptness. Both Jenny’s parents knew that their daughter’s goal was to become a frontier doctor like her father, though the question of whether Jenny would go to medical school or acquire her training more informally from her father had not yet been settled.
Indeed, though Madame’s institute was commonly called a finishing school, subjects other than deportment, music, and art were available to those young women who chose to indulge—and Jenny had indulged with enthusiasm in case the medical school option seemed wisest. This coming summer she was to have been her father’s full-time assistant, expected to rise for every call, depart every social engagement as he did, and otherwise learn whether she was prepared for those grueling professional rounds.
A tear splashed from her eye, staining the velvet lining, and bringing Jenny back to the present. Somehow she must acquire ammunition. It shouldn’t be too difficult, though. Papa had made certain the rifle’s caliber was one commonly used by both the military and civilians. If Uncle Neville would not approve the purchase, Jenny would take care of it herself some day when she was supposed to be buying ribbons and handkerchiefs.
This practical line of thought was more attractive than her grief, and Jenny sat down and began making a list of things she would need if she was to be ready to go into the desert with Uncle Neville. That he planned to leave her in Cairo, she had no doubt. That she would do her best to change those plans, she already knew.
Writing out that list forced Jenny to go back and forth between her newly unpacked belongings and the writing table. She wondered what Emily had thought of her well-worn calf-high riding boots, stack of folded bandanna handkerchiefs, and the soft-brimmed slouch hat, stained by sun and weather, but that was as neat a fit on Jenny’s head as her own hair. Probably none of these items of clothing had puzzled the maid as much as the selection of denim trousers, tailored to Jenny’s measurements, with belt loops wide enough to accept her gun belt with its ornamental hammered silver coins.
The trousers had been Mama’s idea. She herself rode sidesaddle, managing the awkward seat so well that one time she’d gone straight up the side of a mountain after a strayed cow and calf. Jenny, however, had favored riding astride, long after she should have given up such childish practices.
Mama was no fool. In return for Jenny’s agreeing to learn to ride sidesaddle well enough to pass on social occasions, she had agreed to let her daughter wear trousers when no one was around who could be shocked. Like most compromises, it made no one perfectly happy, but as none of those whom it made unhappy were within the Benet family, it worked just fine.
I wonder what riding a camel is like, Jenny thought. Or will Uncle Neville get some of those magnificent Arab horses I’ve read about? That would be splendid. I suppose it will depend on where he plans to go, and how deeply into the desert.
One way and another, Jenny filled the hours until tea. Even so, she’d been dressed in her new tea gown—simple and black, as appropriate for a young woman still in deep mourning—for quite a while before she heard the clock chime the hour and knew she could descend without seeming too eager. Not seeming too eager was part of her plan for convincing Uncle Neville, for if he was anything like Mama, pushing was just the way to get him to dig in his heels like a bronc determined not to ford a flood-swollen river.
Tea was being served in the parlor, and Jenny didn’t miss the appreciative look
She briefly wondered if Mama and Papa had argued over this peculiar gift, then felt certain that they had not. Mama might have been startled by Papa’s selection, but she wouldn’t have argued about its aptness. Both Jenny’s parents knew that their daughter’s goal was to become a frontier doctor like her father, though the question of whether Jenny would go to medical school or acquire her training more informally from her father had not yet been settled.
Indeed, though Madame’s institute was commonly called a finishing school, subjects other than deportment, music, and art were available to those young women who chose to indulge—and Jenny had indulged with enthusiasm in case the medical school option seemed wisest. This coming summer she was to have been her father’s full-time assistant, expected to rise for every call, depart every social engagement as he did, and otherwise learn whether she was prepared for those grueling professional rounds.
A tear splashed from her eye, staining the velvet lining, and bringing Jenny back to the present. Somehow she must acquire ammunition. It shouldn’t be too difficult, though. Papa had made certain the rifle’s caliber was one commonly used by both the military and civilians. If Uncle Neville would not approve the purchase, Jenny would take care of it herself some day when she was supposed to be buying ribbons and handkerchiefs.
This practical line of thought was more attractive than her grief, and Jenny sat down and began making a list of things she would need if she was to be ready to go into the desert with Uncle Neville. That he planned to leave her in Cairo, she had no doubt. That she would do her best to change those plans, she already knew.
Writing out that list forced Jenny to go back and forth between her newly unpacked belongings and the writing table. She wondered what Emily had thought of her well-worn calf-high riding boots, stack of folded bandanna handkerchiefs, and the soft-brimmed slouch hat, stained by sun and weather, but that was as neat a fit on Jenny’s head as her own hair. Probably none of these items of clothing had puzzled the maid as much as the selection of denim trousers, tailored to Jenny’s measurements, with belt loops wide enough to accept her gun belt with its ornamental hammered silver coins.
The trousers had been Mama’s idea. She herself rode sidesaddle, managing the awkward seat so well that one time she’d gone straight up the side of a mountain after a strayed cow and calf. Jenny, however, had favored riding astride, long after she should have given up such childish practices.
Mama was no fool. In return for Jenny’s agreeing to learn to ride sidesaddle well enough to pass on social occasions, she had agreed to let her daughter wear trousers when no one was around who could be shocked. Like most compromises, it made no one perfectly happy, but as none of those whom it made unhappy were within the Benet family, it worked just fine.
I wonder what riding a camel is like, Jenny thought. Or will Uncle Neville get some of those magnificent Arab horses I’ve read about? That would be splendid. I suppose it will depend on where he plans to go, and how deeply into the desert.
One way and another, Jenny filled the hours until tea. Even so, she’d been dressed in her new tea gown—simple and black, as appropriate for a young woman still in deep mourning—for quite a while before she heard the clock chime the hour and knew she could descend without seeming too eager. Not seeming too eager was part of her plan for convincing Uncle Neville, for if he was anything like Mama, pushing was just the way to get him to dig in his heels like a bronc determined not to ford a flood-swollen river.
Tea was being served in the parlor, and Jenny didn’t miss the appreciative look
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