Epilogue
Five Years Later
Chase adjusted Henry’s straw hat on his curling dark hair. “There,” he said, “now you look like a proper explorer.”
Henry laughed and tilted his hat back just the way it was. “Papa! I am a proper explorer. It doesn’t matter what I wear.”
Chase laughed with his son, drinking in his enthusiasm. “Well said, young man. Well said. Now, what should we do to aid Mama, do you think?”
Henry peered about the rocky valley that already radiated the heat of the midday sun.
He pursed his lips, contemplating the question with utmost seriousness. “Mama is busy in the tunnel, looking at the hieroglyphs. I think we should go digging in the sand for treasure.”
“Do you think there’s a great deal of it?” Chase queried without mockery, eyeing his son with awe. He put down the papers regarding his London school for women aside, pleased that the success rate was growing and that he could read so many cases of women finding hopeful, sustainable lives without fear. For he’d created a financial assistance program which the women could use should they find themselves in difficulties after leaving the school.
No, his staff did not simply put them through the school then abandon them to the wild world. His school stayed a part of the women’s lives for years. For as long as they needed help. And he found that the matron he’d chosen to run it, Mrs. Sharp, was most skilled in sending him all the necessary information and petitions for what was needed. He never told Mrs. Sharp no.
It had been five years since the school had begun, and they had aided over six hundred women and their children.
He looked to his son, who showed the years in his height and his bounding energy.
After five years, the little boy had taken to adventure like a fish to water.
Henry was just like his mother and his namesake—curious, excited, pragmatic, determined.
Little got in his way.
Chase beamed down at him and picked up a shovel from under the tent, which at present shaded their supplies. “Well, I suppose we could start with this,” he teased.
The little boy let out an exclamation of horror. “Papa, if Mama sees you with that, she shall murder you and eat you for tea! You know that we are to use brushes when exploring for artifacts.”
He nodded sagely. “Thank you, dear boy. Thank you. That sounds a fate worse than death.”
“You’re welcome, Papa.” The little boy patted him on the leg. “Though Mama loves you so well, she might not have eaten you for tea.”
“I hope not,” he said seriously. “But best be safe, eh?”
Henry nodded. “We must be responsible explorers,” he intoned, a maxim his mother had begun teaching him when he was still in a swaddling cloth.
Henry had been taught well. His mother’s patience, dedication, and enthusiasm had been passed on to both of the fellows in her life.
He was very grateful.
Now, they both knew. There was no hammering away like so many of the archeologists were doing all throughout Egypt at present.
No, they used much more careful methods. He looked out to the Nile and spotted the sailboat that they had come down on the river this year.
They lived aboard the boat and came on to the bank and up through the valley to do excavations.
All morning and early evening, Victory was on her stomach, carefully examining a relief.
She had been for several hours already today, and it was time for her to come up for a break soon.
He smiled at his son. “Right, then, which brush shall we use?”
The little boy went to the roll of different tools that his mother valued so well.
He had his own in miniature, and he picked the smallest brush. “This one,” he declared, brandishing it with pride.