Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [44]
“Ah, well. Let’s have lunch at Bassam’s.”
“He won’t be able to tell us anything.”
“But we will have an excellent meal. It will put me in a better frame of mind to spend the evening with Uncle Sethos.”
I EXPECT THE ONLY ONE who looked forward to that celebratory dinner was Sethos himself. I had prepared Walter as best I could, finding him fully recovered physically, if thoroughly bewildered. He took the news of his father’s infidelity better than I would have expected—possibly because he, too, had suffered from the coldness of his mother—but despite my assurances that Sethos had redeemed himself by his heroic services to his country and was now reformed, I could see Walter had reservations. (So did I, which may have weakened the effect of my assurances.)
It had been a rather tiring day, especially for those of us who took the children to the Museum. I had determined to accompany them, since I knew Emerson and Walter were likely to become absorbed in some antiquity or other and let the little ones wander off. I lost Davy twice, retrieving him on the second occasion from the interior of a huge granite sarcophagus. (I was tempted to leave him there for a while, since he could not get out of it, but Emerson would not let me.)
At my insistence, we all assumed our most elegant attire and tried to behave as if this were a conventional meeting of long-parted friends and relations. Faultlessly attired in white tie and tails, Sethos was waiting for us when we stepped out of the lift, and swept us into the private dining room he had booked. The table positively glittered with crystal and silver, and there were flowers along its length and at every lady’s place. Florid compliments bubbled from his lips; he insisted Emerson take the head of the table, and as soon as we were all seated, corks popped and champagne filled our glasses. Since it was obvious to the dullest wits that Emerson was not about to propose a toast, Sethos did so. “To the King and the loyal hearts who serve him; to love and friendship!” Even Emerson could not refuse to honor that.
As the meal progressed, through course after course, I found it increasingly difficult to stifle my laughter. It may have been the champagne. However, to see the effect of Sethos’s performance on various persons entertained me a great deal. He had set himself to win them over, and no one could do it better. Dear Evelyn, who would have forgiven Genghis Khan had he expressed repentance, succumbed at once to his charm, and Lia was visibly fascinated. He praised Walter’s philological work, citing examples to prove he was thoroughly conversant with it; he spoke admiringly of Emerson’s accomplishments—and mine—and paid tribute to the heroism of the younger generation.
“They are the children of the storm,” he declared. “The storm has passed, thanks to their sacrifice—not only the young men who risked, and gave, their lives, but the gallant women who suffered the even greater pain of waiting and of loss.”
Evelyn’s eyes filled with tears. Nothing could have been more graceful than the acknowledgment of the death of her son in battle. Even Emerson appeared moved. The only face that did not soften was that of Ramses, though the tribute had obviously been meant for him and David as well. He glanced at me, his eyebrows tilted skeptically.
Before long, Emerson began to fidget. It was impossible to carry on what he would have called a sensible discussion—that is, a discussion about Egyptology—at a dinner party, and I could see he was itching to interrogate Sethos about quite a number of things. However—thanks to my frowns and winks and piercing looks—he contained himself until the last course had been removed before remarking in a loud voice, “This has been very pleasant, no doubt, but let us get down to business. I want to know . . . Oh. Er. Amelia, did you happen to mention to Walter—”
“If you are referring to the theft of Cyrus’s artifacts, she did,” Walter said cheerfully. “A pity. But I daresay Amelia will solve the case soon.” He finished