Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [111]
“Yes, madam,” said a voice from just inside the door.
“Yes, madam,” said Sethos.
It required only a few minutes to explain the arrangements to Fatima, and we were soon on our way to the dahabeeyah. I left Sethos there, and got one of the crewmen, two of whom were always on duty, to take me across the river. I was not properly dressed for a social call, since I had not taken the time to change from my working costume, but I had put on my second-best hat, which had a nice wreath of pink roses and chiffon streamers that tied under the chin. Parasol in hand, I marched up the gangplank of the Isis, announced myself to the guard, and was shown into the saloon.
Tea had just been brought in, and they were all present—Justin and Maryam, Mrs. Fitzroyce, and the doctor. The doctor was the only one who appeared pleased to see me; he bounded to his feet, cheeks rounded in a smile. His waistcoat was a rainbow of bright embroidery. Hands resting on the head of her stick, Mrs. Fitzroyce looked me up and down, from my dusty boots to my rose-trimmed hat, as her late Majesty might have eyed a mongrel dog.
“I apologize for my intrusion,” I said. “I will not stay. I came only to ask if I might borrow Miss Underhill for the evening. An old friend has arrived unexpectedly and would like to see her.”
A faint gasp from Maryam was the only response. The doctor’s fixed smile did not change; Mrs. Fitzroyce did not move an inch. I am not easily disconcerted, but as the silence lengthened I began to feel slightly uncomfortable. There was something uncanny about the shadowy room, the motionless figures, and the eyes of Justin, gleaming like those of a cat.
Finally the old lady stirred and cleared her throat. “I cannot permit Miss Underhill to absent herself. She knew when she accepted the position that I expected her to be on duty all day every day.”
“You mean she hasn’t had a day or an hour to herself since she joined you?”
My tone was incredulous and critical; it seemed to me, as it must have done to most persons, that the arrangement was cruelly unfair. Mrs. Fitzroyce responded with a brusque “That is correct.”
“But surely . . .” I modified my indignation. “Since she has been so faithful in her attendance all this time, can you not spare her for a few hours? I would be extremely grateful. We will bring her back immediately after dinner.”
Unexpectedly and unnervingly Mrs. Fitzroyce’s face broke into a broad smile, which added a new and interesting collection of wrinkles. I realized she was having another “spell.” “Very good,” she mumbled. “Go and get your hat, Miss Underhill. The nice hat Mrs. Emerson gave you.”
Maryam got slowly to her feet. That she knew the identity of the “friend” I did not doubt. I could not see her features clearly, but her bent head and bowed shoulders suggested that she had resigned herself to face her father.
“You are inviting Miss Underhill to your house?” Justin’s clear treble rang with surprise. “Then I will come too.”
“I am sorry—” I began.
The old lady cut me off with a rusty chuckle. “No, Justin, you have not been invited.”
“But she is only a servant,” Justin protested. “Why can’t I go? I want to see the pretty Mrs. Emerson and the children and the cats.”
The door opened to admit one of the guards, a swarthy fellow in turban and striped robe. He seemed out of breath. “There is a gentleman—”
“Yes, yes,” said the gentleman, pushing him out of the way. “My apologies, madam. I came to fetch my wife.”
Ill-mannered and unexpected though it was, his appearance dispelled the uncanny atmosphere as a fresh breeze blows away fog. It would never have occurred to him to change into proper clothing; but Emerson never looks to better advantage than when he is attired in the casual garments he wears on the dig, his shirt open at the throat, his muscular arms bared to the elbow. Mrs. Fitzroyce inspected him with more interest than she had bestowed on me. Emerson has