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Chapter Four
The Port of Suez
August 21, 1889
10:15 AM
Whenever the Queen of England takes an interest, matters begin to move with astonishing
speed.
Within hours of Trevor’s audience at Windsor Castle, paperwork had been delivered to
his quarters in the rooming house, detailing travel plans for six people, and by the next afternoon, they
were all on the train. The morning of the third day found them at the port of Suez, preparing to board
a steamer for Bombay.
As the rest of the group went strolling, determined to absorb the limited charms a
working port has to offer and taking advantage of their brief respite between the train and the boat,
Trevor remained behind. He found a bit of shade on the dock and leaned back against a wall of
cargo, keeping an eye on the group’s trunks and valises as he waited. Trevor had spent his
professional lifetime struggling to surmount the British mistrust of foreigners – a form of bigotry that
he knew, despite his concerted attempts to dispel it, still flowed within his veins. From the moment of
their arrival, this Arab port had struck him as utter mayhem, with any number of small, dark men
darting about beneath the relentless Middle Eastern sun, babbling among themselves in an
incomprehensible tongue.
Take this fellow, for example. He was approaching the heap of eleven bags, all piled
into a rough crate, which had accompanied them so far on their trip. One for each man, two for
Emma, and the remaining five crammed with any number of improbable items which Geraldine had
solemnly declared to be “necessities.” Judging from the shape, one of them apparently held a violin.
Trevor did not wish to insult the dockworker, who moved about the cargo with the agility of a boy
and the face of a grandfather, but he could hardly help but stare when the man pulled from his pocket,
of all things, a paintbrush. Dipping it into a nearby can of black paint, he marked the side of the crate
with four English letters: POSH.
“Never thought I’d see the day when the likes of us would be called posh, did you, Sir?”
Trevor tilted his chin in the direction of the familiar voice. “You decided to cut your
walk short, Davy?”
“Not exactly a stroll through Covent Garden, is it, Sir?”
“That it is not,” Trevor agreed, reflecting that it was probably nerves about boarding the
ship as much as the smell and clutter of the port which had driven the boy back. It was well known
throughout the group that Davy suffered from seasickness.
“We won’t be on the open sea for long, lad,” Trevor went on, his eyes never leaving the
man with the paintbrush, who had now moved to mark the same four letters on the other side of the
crate. “We’ll be sailing a strait with land in view on both sides for at least half the journey.”
“I know, Sir,” Davy said, although he hardly sounded convinced. “Miss Emma showed
me the map.”
“And you know what this means?” Trevor asked, gesturing toward the crate with his
pipe. “This POSH?”
“Stands for Port Out, Starboard Home,” Davy said promptly. “So we’re to be in the best