Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [57]
But it was the other two members of the party who caught my attention. They were not a pair one easily forgot. Emerson had seen them too. He straightened and stared.
The boy who had introduced himself as Justin Fitzroyce caught sight of us. Crying out in recognition, he came toward me, scrambling nimbly over the uneven ground and followed closely by his black-a-vised protector.
“It is my friends the Emersons,” the lad exclaimed. “Are you archaeologists? What are you doing? Where is the pretty lady?”
Emerson had opened his mouth. Now he closed it and looked helplessly at me. It was impossible to be curt with the young chap, whose bright face shone with ingenuous goodwill.
“Good morning, Mr. Justin,” I said. “So you are still in Luxor.”
“Yes, we like it here. I have seen all the tombs in the Valley of the Kings and several of the temples. But there is still a great deal to see.” Seeing Nefret coming toward us, he exclaimed, “There she is. I remember her name—another Mrs. Emerson. There are two Mrs. Emersons.”
“Three, in fact,” Nefret said pleasantly. “You haven’t met the other one. Did you and François come here alone?”
His attendant’s scowling face was like a thundercloud hovering over the boy’s sunny countenance. “I can take care of the young master,” he growled.
“But we did not come alone.” Justin turned and gestured at the two women. “That is my grandmother. Her health has improved greatly since we came. But this is her first excursion and she must be careful not to tire herself.”
“Who is the other lady?” I asked.
“She is not a lady,” Justin said carelessly. “She is Miss Underhill.”
“Your grandmother’s companion?”
Justin nodded, dismissing the non-lady. “I will tell them to go back to the hotel. I will stay with you.”
“Let me speak to your grandmother,” I said, anticipating Emerson’s protest. Surely the old lady would forbid such a scheme.
She remained seated, her shoulders bowed and her head bent as I introduced myself and Nefret. At first there was no response. Then she said, in a voice cracked with age, “My name is Fitzroyce. You will forgive me, I hope, if I say good-bye instead of good morning. It has been most interesting, but at my age even the smallest exertion leaves one exhausted.”
“Of course,” I said. “Can we assist you in any way?”
“Thank you, no.” She pressed a handkerchief to her lips.
“I help the lady,” the dragoman volunteered.
I knew the fellow; he was one of the more dependable of the Luxor guides. Mrs. Fitzroyce seemed to have all the attendants she needed, though her companion had retreated a few steps into the shadow of a column, and had adopted the humble pose of a dependent. She wore the garments suitable for that role, drab and shabby and ill-fitting. Cast-offs of her mistress? I wondered. No self-respecting woman would have purchased a hat like hers; it was an aged straw with faded ribbons that tied under her chin. The spotted veil had several rents in it.
“I am staying here,” Justin announced. “I want to see the temple of Hathor and help my friends dig.”
I began, “I am afraid—”
An unexpected cackle of laughter from the old lady interrupted me. “You don’t want him getting in your way, Mrs. Emerson? You heard the lady, Justin. Come with me.”
There was authority in that aged voice, despite its tremulous pitch. Justin pouted, like the child he was mentally if not physically. His actual age I would have judged to be approximately fourteen. His mental age was not so easy to determine. His vocabulary and ease of speech were sometimes fairly advanced. It was his