Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [121]
Ramses leaned over the back of the sofa and put his arm round her shoulders. “You needn’t be so tactful, Aunt Evelyn. Being in the same house with my children is enough to drive anyone into a nervous collapse.”
He was laughing and she laughed too, as she looked up at him. He was standing between her and Maryam; the girl shifted position slightly.
“Very well,” I said. “It will be a nice rest for you, Evelyn, being away from the little darlings for a while. The accommodations at the Castle are quite luxurious, and you will be waited upon like a queen.”
Somewhat belatedly, it occurred to me to ask Walter what he thought about the scheme. The little darlings had not bothered him, since he was deaf and blind to all distractions while he was working. Nudged by his wife, he said absently, “Certainly, my dear, whatever you say. I will take the papyrus with me. It is proving to be most interesting.”
“I’m afraid it is my fault that you are all being put to so much trouble,” Maryam murmured.
“Not at all,” I said. “This will work out nicely for everyone. You can move into the other house tomorrow. I expect you are tired; come along and I will show you where you are to sleep tonight.”
The schoolroom—no longer to be referred to as the day nursery—was not directly connected to Sennia’s bedroom—not to be referred to as the night nursery. The doors of both rooms opened onto the courtyard behind the house. A cot had been moved in, and Fatima had made certain all was neat and tidy, but I had not realized how shabby the room looked. The calico curtains, moving gently in the night breeze, were threadbare, and the tiled floor bore certain indelible stains—ink and paint and the evidence of feline visitation.
“I am afraid it isn’t very elegant,” I said apologetically. “But it is only for one night.”
She said something under her breath—something about “no better than I deserve.” Since I believe in striking when the iron is hot, I decided to take the bull by the horns. I motioned her to sit down. “I have been wanting to talk to you about your mother, Maryam. She was an unfortunate woman who behaved very badly and who died violently—but not at our hands, or at those of your father.”
She gasped as sharply as if I had struck her, and looked up into my face. “You don’t believe in beating round the bush, do you?”
“There is no sense in that. I don’t know what you have heard about her, but I intend to set the record straight and remind you that you are in no way accountable for any of her actions.”
“My father was not present when she . . . when she died?”
“No. Shall I tell you what really happened that day?”
She nodded, her eyes wide.
“Her—er—association with your father followed other—er—associations of a similar nature,” I said. “I am giving you the bare facts, Maryam, without attempting to explain or excuse them, though you must bear in mind that she had no chance at a better life. That is tragically true of many women, but Bertha was not the sort to submit meekly. She formed a criminal organization of women and was, in a somewhat unorthodox way, a supporter of women’s rights. She came to dislike me because she believed—er—”
“That my father was in love with you.”
“In essence, that is correct,” I said with a little cough. “Such is no longer the case, if it ever was, but jealousy drove her on several occasions to try to kill me. The final attempt occurred on the day of which I am speaking. She had taken me prisoner the previous afternoon. Thanks to your father, I was able to escape; but when I came out of the house of my friend Abdullah, where I had found refuge the night before, she was lying in wait for me. I was saved by Abdullah, who threw himself in front of me and took in his own body the bullets meant for me. Several of the men who were present—friends of ours and of Abdullah—had to wrestle her to the ground in order to get the gun away from her. I do not know—I doubt anyone knows—who actually struck the fatal blow. My full attention was on Abdullah, who lay dying in my arms. They did not