Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [65]
“Slowly, Emerson, I beg,” she shouted. “Slowly and carefully, my dear!”
Emerson refused to come in to tea. Grudgingly he allowed Selim his turns behind the wheel; for the next hour they drove back and forth in front of the house. Their offers of rides were enthusiastically received by the children but firmly declined by both mothers and grandmothers. Only the bursting of a tire put an end to the performance; apparently not all the nails had been picked up.
After Emerson had gone off to bathe and change, his wife said wryly, “Let us hope the worst is over. We really ought to get back to our duties. Tomorrow is Friday. I presume, Nefret, that you and Ramses will be paying your weekly visit to Selim? What about you, David?”
“Not this week, though Selim was good enough to ask me. I want to see Grandfather’s tomb.”
“Are you taking the children?”
“Dolly wants to go. He has made something of a hero of his great-grandfather. I suppose we’ll have to take Evvie as well, she always insists on going where Dolly goes.”
Nefret’s raised eyebrows indicated disapproval of some part of the scheme, but she said nothing at the time. The following afternoon, after they had returned from Deir el Medina, Ramses, delayed by a lecture from his father, went to their room to change. Nefret was standing in front of the mirror, so absorbed in what she was doing she didn’t hear him. Her head and shoulders were thrown back and her hands stretched the fabric of her thin undergarment tight across her body, so that it outlined every rounded curve.
“Can I help you with that?” he asked, studying the effect appreciatively.
Nefret let out her breath in a little scream and whirled round. “I wish you wouldn’t creep up on me like that!”
“I wasn’t . . . Sorry. What were you doing?”
“Nothing.” She let the fabric fall into its normal folds and went to her dressing table. “I was surprised to hear David say they are taking the children to the cemetery. We’ve never taken the twins.”
“Do you want to?”
“I was attempting,” said his wife, with uncharacteristic sarcasm, “to induce your opinion, not a question about mine.”
“Oh. I don’t think I really have one. It’s entirely up to you.” Her expression told him this wasn’t what she wanted to hear, so he tried again. “They never knew Abdullah; he is as remote to them, at their age, as—well, as one of the heroes in the books you read to them. It can’t hurt, surely, to tell children about the brave deeds of their friends and ancestors.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Do you want to go with them?”
“Some other time, perhaps. Selim is expecting us, and Kadija would be disappointed if we didn’t go. Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” He added with a smile, “Fond as I am of our family, it will be good to be with you and the twins.”
“Ramses . . .”
“What is it, dear?”
She had been playing with the objects on her dressing table, shifting them back and forth. Turning, she put her hands on his shoulders. “Did Mother tell you . . .”
“Tell me what?”
Her hands cradled the back of his head and bent it down to meet her upturned face. Her mouth was soft and yet urgent, and as he held her close he began to think of other things he’d rather do than pay social calls.
“I love you very much,” she whispered.
“I love you too. What brought this on? Not that I really care,” he added. “Let’s do that again.”
He tried to hold her, but she slipped away, laughing. Her face was unclouded. “Darling, you know the children will be pounding on the door if we don’t come.”
She was right, of course. Children were a blessing, no doubt of that, but there were times . . . With nostalgia not unmixed with guilt he remembered