“And afterwards you will investigate the warehouse?”
“No,” said Ramses. “We agreed at the outset that David was to stay far, far away from Wardani’s old haunts and Wardani’s people. Russell is supposed to have been keeping the warehouse under surveillance. I hope to God he has! With me out of the way, one of the lads might decide to assert his authority and move the damned things elsewhere.”
“They don’t know you are out of the way,” Emerson said calmly. “Do they?”
“No,” Ramses admitted. “Not for certain. Not yet.”
“Then stop worrying. David, you had better be off. Er—take care of yourself, my boy.”
He wrung David’s hand with such fervor the lad winced even as he smiled. “Yes, sir, I will. Good-bye, Aunt Amelia.”
“A bientфt,” I corrected.
We embraced, and Ramses said, “I’ll see you in three days’ time, David.”
“Or four,” I said.
“Three,” said Ramses.
“I’ll be there,” David said hastily. “Both nights.”
Seshat followed him to the balcony. I heard a faint, fading rustle of foliage, and after a few moments the cat returned.
“Bed now,” I said, rising.
Ramses rolled his eyes heavenward.
Dear Lia,
I’m sorry Sylvia Gorst’s letter upset you. She is an empty-headed, vicious gossip, and you ought to know better than to believe anything she says. If I had known she was writing you, I would have had a few words with her. In fact, I will have them next time I see her.
How could you possibly have given any credence to that story about Ramses fighting a duel with Mr. Simmons? I admit Ramses is not popular in Cairo society these days. The Anglo-Egyptian community is war-mad to the point of jingoism, and you know Ramses’s views about the war. He’s even collected white feathers from a few obsessed old ladies. But a duel? It’s pure Prisoner of Zenda, my dear.
As for my new admirers, as Sylvia calls them, I cannot imagine why she should have singled out Count de Sevigny and Major Hamilton; you would laugh if you met them, because neither is your (or my) idea of a romantic suitor. I find the Count’s pretensions quite amusing; he stalks about like a stage villain, swirling his black cape and ogling women through his monocle.
Yes, Lia dear, including me. I ran into him at an evening party a few days ago and he favored me with his undivided attentions; told me all about his chвteau in Provence , and his vineyard, and his devoted family retainers. He’s been married three times, but is now, he assured me as he ogled, a lonely, wealthy widower.
I asked about his wives, hoping that would put him off, but he made use of the inquiry to pay me extravagant compliments.
“They were all beautiful, and naturellement of the highest birth. Though none, mademoiselle, was as lovely as you.” He was so moved the glass fell from his eye. He caught it quite deftly and went on pensively, “I have never married a lady of your coloring. Celeste was a brunette, Aline had black hair—her mother, vous comprenez, was a Spanish noblewoman, and Marie was blonde—a silvery blonde, with blue eyes, but ah! ma chиre mademoiselle, your eyes are larger and deeper and bluer and…”
He was beginning to run out of adjectives, so I interrupted. “And all three died? How tragic for you, monsieur.”
“Le bon Dieu took them from me.” He bowed his head, giving me an excellent view of a suspiciously shiny black head of hair. “Celeste was thrown from her horse, Aline succumbed to a wasting fever, and poor Marie… but I cannot speak of her, it was too painful.”
That gives you a taste of the Count, I hope. I don’t believe in his wives or his chвteau or his protestations of admiration, but he is very entertaining, and he does know something about Egyptology.
The Major isn’t entertaining, but he is a nice old fellow. Old, my dear—at least fifty! He’s taken a fancy to me, I think, but his interest is purely paternal. He is the uncle of the child I told you about, and I was curious to meet him.
Sylvia’s other “bit of news” is really the limit. I have not been “seeing” Percy, as she puts it. Oh, certainly, I’ve seen him; one can hardly avoid doing so, since he is now on the General’s staff and quite popular with his brother officers and the ladies. I have even spoken with him once or twice. I would appreciate it if you would not pass on that bit of gossip to the family. It would only cause trouble. And don’t lecture me, please. I know what I’m doing.
Our holiday celebrations were happier than I had expected, possibly because I had not expected very much. But there was cause for rejoicing in that we had pulled off our deception without being detected, and that Ramses was making a good recovery. I believe I may claim that my medical skills were at least partially responsible, though his own strong constitution may have helped.
At Emerson’s request, he had spent most of the day before Christmas writing up his report on Zawaiet. It was based on the notes David and I had taken and on a certain amount of what I would term logical extrapolation. The rest of us put in a half day’s work at our mastaba; to have done otherwise would have been a suspicious deviation from the norm. When we gathered round the tree on Christmas Eve, only the concerned eye of a parent would have noticed any difference in Ramses’s appearance; his lean face was a little thinner and the movements of his left arm were carefully controlled, but his color was good and his appetite at dinner had been excellent.
The inadequacies of the little acacia tree had been disguised by Nefret’s decorations; candles glowed softly and charming ornaments of baked clay and tin filled in the empty spaces. David had made those ornaments; for years now they had been part of our holiday tradition. The sight of them dampened my spirits for a moment; I hated to think of him passing the holiday alone in that wretched hovel in Maadi, only a few miles away. At least I had pressed upon him a parcel of food and a nice warm knitted scarf, made by my own hands. My friend Helen McIntosh had shown me how to do it, and I found, as she had claimed, that it actually assisted in ratiocination, since the process soon became mechanical and did not require one’s attention. I had made the scarf for Ramses, but he assured me he did not at all mind relinquishing it to his friend.
After all the gifts had been unwrapped, and I had put on the elegant tea gown that had been Nefret’s present, and Ramses had pretended to be delighted by the dozen white handkerchiefs I had given him, Emerson rose from his chair.
“One more,” he said, beaming at me. “Close your eyes, Peabody , and hold out your hands.”
He had not attempted to wrap the thing; it would have made a cumbersome parcel. As soon as it came to rest on my outstretched palms I knew what it was.
“Why, Emerson, how nice!” I exclaimed. “Another parasol. I can always use an extra, and this one—”
“Is more than it appears,” said my husband. “Watch closely.”
Seizing the handle, he gave it a twist and a pull. This time my exclamation of pleasure was louder and more enthusiastic.
“A sword umbrella! Oh, Emerson, I have always wanted one! How does it work?”
He demonstrated again, and I rose to my feet, kicking the elegant lace flounces of my gown aside. “En garde!” I cried, brandishing the weapon.
Nefret laughed. “Professor, that was sweet of you.”
“Hmmm,” said Ramses. “Mother, watch out for the candles.”
“I may need a few lessons,” I admitted. “Ramses, would you show me—”
“What, now?” His eyebrows tilted till they formed a perfect obtuse angle.
“I cannot wait to begin!” I cried, bending my knees and thrusting.