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The Lady’s Guide to Scandal
by Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Chapter 1
Yucatán Peninsula, Mexico
April, 1897
A storm was coming, the horizon streaked purple with threatening clouds. From their elevated position on the ridge, the vista appeared unbroken. No roads or open places in which cattle might graze. No signs of human settlement. Endless miles of breadnut and sapodilla trees, reaching tall above the forest floor.
Only as the wind gusted, rippling through the expanse of green, did the small mound break the surrounding canopy.
His pulse quickened. The summit was distinct.
And beneath?
Ethan had seen the ruins at Mérida, Copan and Uxmal. For as many sites as had been unearthed, there were a hundred more—great temples buried by the centuries, concealed by seething life, by rampant vines and gnarled branches. Hidden deep.
He’d followed the work of other men—their discoveries, their triumphs.
This was his.
The fruit of toilsome decades.
The journey had been comfortless—days of suffocating heat, traversing swamps and near-impassable jungle; and long nights drenched in sweat, kept awake by cicadas, and howler monkeys’ nightmarish calls.
Plagued by mud and mosquitoes, by scorpions, spiders and deadly snakes, he would never have made it this far without those who accompanied him: his guides Francisco and José Luis, and those who carried their tents and provisions and tools—all that would be needed when they reached their destination.
Descending the promontory, Ethan directed the porters to make camp in the limestone caverns below. Tarpaulins served well, even against deluging rain, but a cave was better.
Though the light was fading, he and the guides would continue. They were so close—an hour perhaps, with all three wielding machetes against the tangle of undergrowth. Their progress would be slow, but he needed to see at last what he believed he would find. When the rain came, the treetops would provide partial shelter.
They splashed through a shallow stream and, somewhere beyond the canopy, a flash of lightning lit the heavens’ dark vault. The treetops far overhead shivered and the birds fell silent. No more the screech of toucans or drum of woodpeckers. Even the frogs seemed to have ceased their croak. The cacophony died away.
“Ahí, señor.” José Luis pointed. Just ahead, the ground was littered with broken rock.
Ethan gripped the man’s shoulder. The excitement he felt shone in the other’s eyes. All these weeks of journeying, and this was the moment.
The perimeter of the city!
The first drops of water begun to patter high above but they pushed on with renewed vigour until, where the jungle had been dense, it became impenetrable.
A wall of vines and tree orchids stretched upward, disappearing through enclosing branches. Extending his arm, Ethan reached through, tapping.
His blade hit stone.
No instruction was necessary. The rain was coming harder but they worked to remove the section of foliage before them, unmasking the smooth façade. Not merely a wall but an archway, flanked upon either side.
He recognized the figures at once. Dual depictions of the Jaguar god—he who ruled the Underworld, his power extending over all, his arts fed by black sorcery.
Ethan placed his palm upon the stone. Through the stillness, he was aware of the falling rain, and something else: the call of those who’d carved this rock, whose feet had stood on this very spot. Strains from a world long-departed.
And another voice; another face. Smaller hands beside his own, smoothing sand to shape their joint creation. Not a castle, as other children made, but a temple such as this, forming graduated steps to the altar at the peak.
Chapter 2
British Museum, London
Early-evening, December 4, 1903
Cornelia stretched her neck, rolling her head backward. Little wonder that her shoulders felt so tight. She’d been sitting far too long, hunched over the collection of unremarkable pieces, endeavouring to find something about them to justify the effort.
She didn’t usually remain beyond four in the afternoon but, on her volunteering days, had been staying gradually longer. Her aunts awaited her, of course, and their efforts to make the residence on Portman Square feel festive had been commendable but she’d been unable to feel "at home" there since her father’s death. The museum was a welcome escape.
Yawning, she replaced the urn fragment with the others in the wooden box and secured the lid. Mesopotamian, dating from around 1000 B.C. Nothing particularly special. Nothing that anyone else wanted to trouble cataloguing; only Cornelia, who must be grateful to be here at all, where she was tolerated rather than welcomed—and for her father’s sake, rather than her own.
She’d long accepted that nothing of true historical interest was likely to find its way to the tiny, basement-level room in which she was permitted to work. Nevertheless, she held out hope that, one day, nestled among the mundane would be an item of significance.
Her workspace lacked natural light, being little more than a storage cupboard, but her keen eye would spot this Special Object. She would seek out Mr. Pettigrew, the Head Curator for Eastern Artefacts, and would proudly present her find. Disbelieving, he would initially attempt to dismiss her but, in this, her private fantasy, his cod-like lips quivered in surprise as he was obliged to recognize the value of what she held in her palm.
With a sigh, she rose, carrying the box back to its shelf. She ought to be thankful, of course, for it was an honour to be here, in however humble a capacity. The British Museum was like no other, boasting priceless items from every corner of the globe: from the mysterious African continent, to the vast Americas and the Far East. Thousands of visitors passed through its doors daily to see the Egyptian collection alone—the largest array of mummies and sarcophagi outside Cairo, not to mention hoards of priceless papyrii.
Cornelia’s late father, as a member of the Board of Trustees, and a patron of explorations organized under the aegis of the Royal Geographical Society, had brought her to the museum from the youngest age, explaining to her the history of the Aztec mosaics and the marbles chiselled from the great Parthenon in Athens. She’d stood in awe beneath the colossal granite head of Ramses II, and pored over the Rosetta Stone, captured from Napoleon’s hands almost a hundred years before.
One might question the museum’s methods of acquisition, or its moral right to retain possession of certain artefacts, but none could doubt the institution’s worthy intent—for it had led the way in opening its doors to all, regardless of means or station. Meanwhile, no expense had been spared in creating a space adequate to the task. More than twenty years had passed since electric lighting had been installed—the first to grace any of London’s public buildings, and enabling the Reading Room to stay open until seven throughout the winter months.
Naturally, the museum continued to add fresh treasures to its halls; Ferdinand de Rothschild’s bequest, for example, and, newly arrived that very week, unique artefacts from the lost city of Palekmul.
Cornelia already knew a great deal about the site and the marvels unearthed there but she longed to view the exhibits first-hand. Twice, she’d sidled down the corridor to the Palekmul gallery, but her attempts at poking her head in had been abruptly thwarted. No-one beyond the designated curating team was to see the wonders therein; not until the grand opening.