Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [38]
“Oh,” said Emerson. He came to a stop. “Er—sorry.”
Then the little boy lived up to his proud name. “He is my uncle Radcliffe,” he said and held out his hand. “How do you do, sir?”
Emerson did not even flinch at the name, which he thoroughly dislikes and with which few people venture to address him. His features wreathed in smiles, he took the small hand carefully in his. “How do you do, my dear boy? Welcome to Egypt.”
“Very nice,” I said, for it was clear to me that Emerson, overcome by sentiment, was about to pounce again. “Let us get the children tucked away, shall we?”
It did not take long; both of them were too tired to make a fuss. I had caused a nice little cold supper to be supplied for the nursemaid.
“Sound asleep,” I reported, returning to the others. “Perhaps the rest of you would also like to retire? You have had a long tiring trip.”
“Impossible,” Evelyn exclaimed, holding out her hands. “I at least am too happy and excited to be weary. Come and sit with me, Amelia, and let me look at you. Have you won the favor of some god, that you never change?”
The little bottle of hair coloring on my dressing table was owed some of the credit. I saw no reason to mention it. To her loving eyes, perhaps, I could never change; but I had, and so had she. The fair hair shone pure silver now, and she was painfully thin; but the blue eyes were as fond and clear as ever. She was right after all. Neither of us had changed in any way that mattered.
No doubt the same could be said of Walter, but his physical appearance was something of a shock. We had paired off, as we used to do; the contrast between Emerson’s sturdy, vigorous frame and Walter’s stooped shoulders and myopic squint made the latter look years older than his elder brother. He had Emerson’s dark hair and blue eyes, and he had once been a sturdy young fellow, not as quick to anger as his excitable brother but ready to defend himself and his loved ones when danger threatened. I did not doubt his willingness to do so now, but years spent in sedentary scholarship poring over faded papyri had taken their toll. Emerson, though he is not especially observant, had noticed it too. He broke off in the middle of an animated description of Deir el Medina, and squeezed Walter’s arm.
“High time you came out,” he declared. “We’ll put some muscle in that arm and some color in your face.”
Walter only laughed. He knew this was Emerson’s uncouth way of expressing affection and concern.
Lia and Nefret sat side by side, talking of . . . of babies, of course! What else would two young mothers talk about? Lia had been named for me, but preferred the shorter version of the name—to avoid confusion and because Emerson’s bellow of “Amelia!” when he was put out with me had always made the poor girl very nervous. Blue-eyed and fair-haired like her mother, she brought back fond memories of the young Evelyn, who had been my companion on that first memorable voyage to Egypt. Little did I dream that our lives would become so intertwined, and that the passage of time would bring such a bountiful harvest of happiness, with a second generation following in our archaeological footsteps.
It was good to see Ramses and David together again, close as brothers and almost as alike, their black heads close together as they began catching up on the news.
They were not given much time to chat, for Emerson, assuming that everyone else would be as eager as he to talk Egyptology, drew the rest of us into his conversation with Walter and began outlining the plans he had for them. He was telling Evelyn about Cyrus’s hope of having all the tomb paintings at Deir el Medina copied and published, when there came a peremptory knock at the door.
“Who can it be, at this hour?” I wondered aloud.
Then I remembered we had told the concierge to send up any telegrams as soon as they arrived, no matter how late the time.
Emerson’s eyes met mine. “I’ll see,” he said, and went to the door. In his customary fashion he flung it wide . . . and stood