The Sleeping Sands Read Online Free Page A

past, yet with little prospects for the future, Layard had moved in 1833 to London, where he joined the legal business of his uncle, Benjamin Austen. For the next six years his life was characterised by ill-suited clerical drudgery, brightened by the presence of his Aunt Sara, who shared his love of art, and by the family of one of the other articled clerks, Ralph Disraeli. In the Disraelis, and particularly in Ralph’s brother Ben, Layard found a kindred love of the arts, a love of adventure and desperate ambition. He became a confirmed Romantic. With the Disraelis’ encouragement Layard travelled to the Alps, then Italy and spent several months touring alone in Russia and Sweden. Through them, he found access to some of the grandest drawing rooms of fashionable London, meeting great men such as Stratford Canning, Sir John Barrow and the publisher, John Murray, who had been a friend of that greatest of Romantics, Lord Byron. In the sparkle of literary conversation and tales of travel and exploration, Layard found a welcome escape from the limbo of legal clerkdom. The handsome young man threw himself enthusiastically into these conversations and impressed both with his scholarly knowledge and seemingly fearless passion for adventure. Thanks to the influence of Mrs Austen and the friendship of the Disraelis, the restless articled clerk began to become noticed in the salons of London.
    So it was that Layard found himself on the steps of the Royal Geographical Society, looking up at its grand entrance. He paused for a few heartbeats, straightened his clothes and examined himself to make sure there were no unsightly splashes of mud. Satisfied, he drew himself up and walked boldly through the door.
    The attendant acknowledged him politely and informed him that Mr William Layard was expecting him. Layard moved to sign his name in the large, leather bound visitor’s book, which sat on a desk by the door, with a pen and inkwell. The attendant gently placed his own hand on Layard’s and removed the pen, informing him that it would not be necessary to sign the book. Rather, he led him through a series of corridors, past the lounge and through a narrow door, half-hidden by a large potted palm. Beyond the door was a long, thin corridor and yet another door. The attendant indicated that he should go through it and, bowing slightly, took his leave. Layard knocked gently at the door.
    ‘Enter,’ said a rich, deep voice.
    If he had expected grandeur in the Society’s rooms, Layard was disappointed. The room he found himself in - with the exception of a mezzotint portrait of the young queen; some Staffordshire figures; an ormolu clock on a fairly plain over mantle and a few pieces of furniture of no particular note - was completely bare. Squeezed into one of the few chairs was a large, red-headed and almost completely spherical man.
    ‘You will forgive me if I do not rise, Sir,’ said the man. ‘Please, join me for a glass of Madeira.’ He indicated an empty seat, separated from his own by a small table upon which sat a crystal decanter and two glasses.
    ‘I am-‘ began Layard.
    ‘Yes, yes, my dear boy,’ interrupted the man. ‘There’ll be time enough for all the pleasantries. Important business first. Now - Madeira?’
    He indicated the chair once more by means of lifting the decanter and removing its stopper, which he waved from Layard to the chair in a sort of pantomime. Layard sat and accepted a glass of the wine, which smelled exceptionally good.
    ‘That’s better. Now, you are Henry Layard, occasionally known as Austen and I am William Layard, occasionally known by names that I dare not repeat too often in civilised company.’ He beamed an enormous, toothy smile at Layard, twin points of pink illuminating his moonlike cheeks.
    ‘There, we have done the introductions – now, you shall taste this very fine Madeira and torture me no longer by keeping me from it with your incessant prattle.’ At which, he lifted his