Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [70]
“I had a donkey,” she whispered. “It ran away when that man . . .”
“It’s all right, he’s gone.” He slit the tight sleeve and pushed it up. The cut was long and shallow, across the back of her forearm. “Not bad,” he said, with a reassuring smile. “You had better come with me to the house and let Mother bandage it properly.”
“No, I can’t! Don’t make me go there. If you could take me back—to the dock—I can get a boat . . .”
She was trembling violently. “Don’t argue, you’re not in fit condition to think straight,” he said. “Small wonder, after an experience like that. Mother loves tending to people. She will be happy to see you.”
He picked her up and put her onto Risha’s back. She looked very small and frightened, perched there with her feet dangling. He mounted behind her and supported her with one arm. She sat stiff as a statue, her face turned away, and took a handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt.
“I didn’t want any of you to see me,” she repeated in a small quavering voice.
Made up like a middle-aged woman, a paid dependent? She had certainly come down in the world since they’d last heard of her. She had been only fourteen at the time of that hideously embarrassing encounter in his room, when she told him she loved him and wanted to stay with him. The memory still made him cringe; she had been so passionate and so pathetic, and so young! That had been four years ago—or was it five? She didn’t look much older now, but they had heard from mutual acquaintances that she was married. What had happened to the rich doting American husband? What was she doing alone on the West Bank, and who was the man who had attacked her? Ramses decided to leave the questions to his mother. He didn’t want to interrogate the child when she was in such a nervous state. One more question might be risked, though.
“What were you doing on the West Bank?” he asked casually.
“Justin.” Carefully she wiped her face, removing the last traces of makeup and tears. “He got away from François this afternoon. I thought he might have come across the river. He kept talking about watching you excavate, and about the other temple ruins. I went to the Ramesseum and I was going to Deir el Bahri when—”
“It’s over now,” Ramses said quickly. “I’m sorry about the boy. We’ll get you straightened out and then I’ll take you across the river. If he hasn’t turned up we’ll help you look for him.”
“She’ll be angry.” The words were muffled; she had relaxed and turned her face against his breast.
“Mrs. Fitzroyce? It wasn’t your fault. We’ll find him, I promise.” He went on talking, since his matter-of-fact manner seemed to have put her more at ease. “Do you suppose he went to our house? He said something the other day about visiting us.”
There was no answer. He wondered uneasily if she had fainted. She was as limp as a rag doll, her face hidden against his breast. He tightened his grasp.
THEY WERE ALL ON THE veranda, adults, children, cats—and a slim figure in brown tweeds whose fair head glowed like a nimbus. “There, what did I tell you?” Ramses said cheerfully. “He’s here. Unhurt and perfectly happy.”
Accustomed as the family was to unexpected appearances, the sight of him with an unconscious female in his arms was startling enough to capture everyone’s attention. Nefret had been watching for him. She was the first to reach the door, but his parents weren’t far behind her.
“What happened?” Nefret demanded. “Who is she?”
His mother, of course, had the answer. “Mrs. Fitzroyce’s companion, I believe. I remember that—er—garment quite well. Is she hurt?”
“Not seriously, Mother. Can someone take her? I think she’s fainted.”
“No.” The slender figure stiffened. She turned her head to look up at him. Except for the piebald hair, she looked no older than the girl of fourteen he remembered so well. Her eyes were dry and her expression was wary but resigned. “You can put me down, please.”
His father held up his arms.