Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [37]
“I haven’t time. I want—”
“There is plenty of time,” said Emerson.
SINCE SCHEDULES OF BOATS AND trains were uncertain, we had agreed to await our family at the hotel instead of hanging about the railroad station. It wasn’t as if they were strangers to Egypt. Walter and Evelyn had not been out for many years, but David knew his way about.
Having made certain their suite was in perfect order, with fresh flowers in every room, there was nothing left for me to do but fidget, which I confess I did. Anticipation mounts as the longed-for event draws nearer. I was leaning perilously over the rail of the balcony for the third or fourth time when Emerson took hold of me and led me to a chair.
“It would be a poor welcome for the family to find you spattered on the front steps,” he remarked. “They cannot possibly be here for several more hours, even if all the connections are on time, which they seldom if ever are. Sit down, my dear, and have a whiskey and soda. I will ask Ramses and Nefret to join us.”
Upon his return he announced in a pleased voice, “They have made it up. It took Ramses quite a long time to answer the door.”
“Don’t be vulgar, Emerson.”
“Drink your whiskey, Peabody.”
The bright faces of my children assured me that they had indeed settled their little difference. Except for his bandaged hands, Ramses appeared none the worse for his adventure. Despite his dismissal of my theory, I remained convinced that the woman’s motive could only be personal attraction. It was not Ramses’s fault, or Emerson’s, that their handsome features and athletic frames and gallant manners attracted shameless females. Who on earth could this one be? I had already gone over in my mind—as I was sure Nefret had also done—the rather extensive list of women with whom Ramses had been involved—before his marriage, I hardly need add. None of the names that came to mind seemed to fit. However, there had probably been others. I wondered if I could persuade him to give me a list.
It did not seem likely.
Feeling my speculative eye upon him, Ramses tugged nervously at his tie and burst into speech. “When are you going to tell Uncle Walter?” he asked.
“About Sethos? Certainly not tonight” was Emerson’s reply.
“Certainly not,” I agreed. “Let them enjoy their return to Egypt and their reunion with us before we drop the bombshell.”
“More than one bombshell,” said Nefret. “Martinelli and the missing jewelry, the Nationalists rioting, and now the mysterious lady. Is it only a coincidence that all those things have happened within the last few days?”
They were not the only things that had happened. Other events, which had seemed of little import, were to bear bitter fruit in the coming days. I am a truthful woman; I do not claim I sensed this. Yet a quiver of uneasiness passed through me, that vague sense of something forgotten or overlooked with which, I daresay, my Readers are also familiar.
The hours of waiting went by. Nefret was dozing in the circle of Ramses’s arm, with her head on his shoulder, when at last they came. It would be vain to attempt to describe the joyful hubbub that ensued—embraces, laughter, questions, and tears. A querulous wail from the youngest member of the group brought me back to practicality. Evvie, David and Lia’s youngest, was an angelic little creature, blue-eyed and fair like her mother. At the moment she did not look angelic; her mouth was open so wide it seemed to fill her small face, and her whimper rose to a penetrating howl.
Having greeted the adult members of the family, Emerson was advancing on Dolly, with his arms held out and a fond smile curving his lips. The sturdy little chap, who had been named for his great-grandfather Abdullah, was only four, with David’s black hair and eyes and his mother’s delicate features. He squared his shoulders and stood his ground, but he looked a trifle uneasy—as what three-foot-tall person would not, with that imposing form looming over him!
“Don’t pounce on the child, Emerson,” I ordered. “He