Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [113]
“You’ve changed,” she whispered.
“For the worse.” He had regained his sangfroid. The practiced charm settled onto him like a garment. “The same cannot be said of you. You have become a beautiful woman.”
“Like my mother?”
He flinched, but replied calmly, “Not at all like your mother. I will answer your questions, Maryam, in due time, and make all the amends I can for my past mistakes. For now, can we not talk a little, get to know one another better?”
His humility gave her increased confidence. Her chin lifted, and she smiled faintly. “What shall we talk about?”
“You.” Remembering his manners, he brought me my cup and then seated himself next to her on the divan. “Mrs. Emerson has told me of your present situation. It cannot continue.”
“Has she told you the boy is dependent on me, and that I have given Mrs. Fitzroyce my word to remain as long as she needs me?”
“We’ll find someone to take your place.”
“And then what?” She responded as any woman of spirit would, with flashing eyes and heightened color in her cheeks. “Will you take me to live with you and your latest mistress?”
I feared that would arouse the sort of cutting response at which Sethos was so expert. Instead he replied quietly, “The lady to whom you refer is my dear companion, and will be my wife as soon as I can persuade her to accept my proposal of marriage.”
“She has refused you? Why?”
It might not have been intended as a compliment, but her tone of surprise made it sound like one.
“She doesn’t consider me reliable. I can’t imagine why.” His rueful smile would have been hard for any woman to resist—and, as I had realized from the start, she did not want to resist. Hardship and suffering had softened her; only stubborn pride had prevented her from yielding at once. Her lips trembled and her wide hazel eyes overflowed. She turned to him; slowly, almost timidly, he held out his arms and gathered her into his embrace.
It was a touching sight. Emerson would have been sniffing and clearing his throat. I put my cup on the table and rose. “I will leave you alone now,” I said. “You have everything you need, I believe.”
Over the tumbled brown curls that rested against his breast, Sethos looked up at me. “Everything,” he said. “Thank you, Amelia.”
They were all waiting for me on the veranda. I had to admire six or seven crayon scribbles before the children retired to make more, and I was able to satisfy the curiosity of the adults. I waved aside Evelyn’s offer of tea. Emerson immediately handed me a stiff whiskey and soda.
“All’s well,” I said. “When I left them she was sobbing in his fatherly embrace.”
The reactions were somewhat mixed. Evelyn’s sweet face glowed, Emerson gave a great sigh, and David and Lia murmured words of approval and congratulation. My son’s phlegmatic countenance did not change.
“I find it difficult to picture Sethos as a doting father,” he said. “Now what, Mother?”
“I have made all the arrangements,” I replied, holding out my empty glass to Emerson. I felt entitled to the indulgence, for really, it had been a tiring day. “They will dine together on the dahabeeyah, where Sethos is staying, and afterward he will escort her back to the Isis. She will give in her notice and then . . . Then I suppose she had better come to us until he makes permanent plans for her. I have a number of ideas about that, but I did not want to mar the warmth of their reunion with practical suggestions.”
The last of the sunlight vanished as the sun sank below the western mountains; in the dusky twilight the lights of distant Luxor twinkled like fallen stars. The genial beverage—I refer in this case to whiskey and soda—had its usual soothing effect; I was somewhat slow to realize that silence had followed my statement, instead of the eager questions (and commendations) I had expected.
“I trust there was no difficulty getting Lieutenant Wickins and the aeroplane