Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [19]
“No,” I admitted.
“There’s Father,” said Ramses, who had been watching for him. “Get it out, Mother.”
I didn’t want Emerson sputtering and arguing either, so I said in a rush, “Sethos is Emerson’s half-brother. Illegitimate, I regret to say, but no less kin and in recent years no less kind. Hmmm. That doesn’t sound quite right . . .”
“I get the idea,” Cyrus said in a strangled voice. “Holy Jehoshaphat, Amelia! I won’t say I didn’t suspect there was some relationship, but—”
“I will of course inform Emerson that you have been made aware of the situation,” I said hastily, for Emerson was mounting the stairs two at a time. “But he is easier to deal with if he is presented with a fait accompli. Otherwise he wastes time arguing and going into long-winded—”
“Mother!” Ramses said loudly.
“Quite. Not a word to anyone else, Cyrus. Except to Katherine, of course. I trust her discretion as I trust yours.”
“Never,” Cyrus assured me.
Bertie had said very little. He seldom got a chance to say anything, for he was too well-bred to interrupt and too modest to differ with the admittedly dogmatic statements to which the rest of us are somewhat prone. His ingenuous countenance was a study in astonishment, but he found voice enough to express his sentiments.
“I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your confidence, ma’am.”
“You have earned it, Bertie,” I said warmly. “And I know I can depend on you to keep the information strictly to yourself.”
“Of course. You have my word.”
“Word about what?” Emerson demanded, looming over me.
“Never mind, my dear,” I replied. “Do you want coffee?”
“No. We had better be getting back. There is nothing more we can do until we receive answers to our messages. I have work to do.”
“Your article? Quite right, Emerson.”
Emerson rubbed the attractive dimple (or cleft, as he prefers to call it) in his chin. “Oh. That article. There’s no hurry, Peabody. I thought I might go to the site this afternoon for a few minutes. Nefret, the light will be perfect for photographs.”
“I’m sorry, Father.” Nefret’s smile was warm, but she spoke firmly. “I promised the twins I would take them to visit Selim this afternoon, to play with his children. I can’t disappoint them.”
“Oh. No, you mustn’t disappoint them. Ramses—”
“Emerson, you know their visit to Selim is a Friday-afternoon custom,” I said. “Ramses looks forward to his time with Selim and with the children. In any case, you must finish that article before we leave for Cairo to meet the family. You don’t want it hanging over your head once they are here.”
“When are you leaving?” Cyrus asked.
“We are taking the train Sunday evening.” I gathered my belongings—handbag, gloves, parasol—and rose. “By that time we ought to have heard from Mr. Russell, and possibly from . . . someone else. One way or another, whatever the results of our initial inquiries, we will continue to pursue them in Cairo.”
I took Emerson’s arm and we started down the curving staircase. “Quite a crowd in Luxor this season,” I remarked. “It is nice to see things getting back to normal. Oh—there is Marjorie. Stop a minute, Emerson, she is waving at us.”
“Wave back and keep walking,” said Emerson. “You may indulge in gossip to your heart’s content, Peabody, but on your own time. I have no patience with such stuff.”
He put his hand over mine and pulled me with him. We had almost reached the foot of the stairs when I saw a little eddy, so to speak, in the crowd. Raised voices and a flurry of rapid movement betokened a disturbance of some kind. Owing to my lack of inches, I could not make out the cause, but Ramses, who had gone ahead with Nefret, obviously beheld something that provoked him into action. He dropped his wife’s arm and ran forward.
Needless to say, the rest of us were not far behind him. Emerson thrust through the ring of gaping spectators. They had prudently backed away from the two principal performers, who were grappling with each other. The struggle was brief;