Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [71]
“You’re in for a surprise, Father,” Ramses warned.
“Good Gad,” Emerson exclaimed. He lowered the girl gently to the ground and stared at her. “That isn’t Miss—er. She looks familiar, though. Now where . . .”
“Molly,” said his wife. Only a slight catch of breath betrayed her surprise. Imperturbably she went on, “And, I believe, Miss—er—as well. Might one ask . . . But perhaps not now. You appear to have suffered a slight accident. Come with me, if you please.”
Head bowed, Molly allowed herself to be led into the house. Ramses looked at his wife. “What the hell—” she began.
“Language,” Ramses said. “Come in and close that door. Davy, no!”
He captured the little boy before he had got far, and carried him back.
“Well, well,” said Emerson. “This is a surprise. What’s she doing here?”
“She is Mrs. Fitzroyce’s companion,” Ramses replied. “She came to the West Bank looking for Justin.”
The boy’s smile was sunny and untroubled. “She didn’t find me, though. I’m glad. I have had a nice time with my friends and the pretty Mrs. Emerson.”
Ramses began, “You shouldn’t have . . .” Then he stopped himself. It wasn’t his job to scold the boy.
“I would like another cup of tea, please,” Justin said politely. “And Evvie would like another biscuit.”
He directed his charming smile at Evvie, who was standing next to him, with obvious designs on the platter of cakes. Justin patted her cheek. “I like her,” he announced. “I like all the children.”
I HAD QUITE A LONG conversation with Molly—or Maryam, as she said she preferred to be called—while I cleaned and bandaged the cut on her arm. The conversation was, however, somewhat one-sided. Her answers to my questions were brief and uninformative, her manner withdrawn. If I had not known better, I would have thought she was afraid of me. Only once did she respond with her old energy, when I told her that her father had been searching for her and would be extremely relieved to know she was safe and well.
“You mustn’t tell him!” she cried. “Promise you won’t.”
“I cannot promise that. He certainly would not like to hear that you have been reduced to working as a paid companion. You must tell Mrs. Fitzroyce that you are leaving her employ.”
“I can’t,” Maryam said in a low voice. “You’ve seen what Justin is like. He trusts me. He has difficulty getting used to new people, and François, though utterly devoted, has his failings.”
“He certainly does,” I said. “Well, Maryam, your sense of duty does you credit. However, your father—”
“I will not be dependent on him or anyone else.” Her chin lifted. “He doesn’t care about me. He used me when he needed me for his own purposes.”
“You are mistaken about that,” I assured her.
“Perhaps. May I go now? Mrs. Fitzroyce will be worried about Justin.”
“I cannot detain you if you choose to leave. Please think about what I have said. There is no shame in honest labor of any kind, but your position is onerous, and as a member of our family you are entitled to our assistance.”
“Thank you.” Her remote expression did not change. She got to her feet, pulling her torn sleeve down.
Despite the artificially grayed locks she looked little older than she had when I last saw her, though she must now be eighteen or nineteen. Her long-lashed hazel eyes were shaped like those of her father. The dreadful frock did not entirely hide a trim little figure.
I said, “May I give you a hat?”
It was quite a nice hat, of natural straw with quantities of veiling and several artificial flowers. Justin, who was nothing if not candid, remarked that she looked almost pretty. He added, “She would like a cup of tea, I expect.”
“No,” Maryam said quickly. “We must be getting back, Justin. Your grandmother will be worried.”
“We can’t go yet,” Justin said comfortably. “My donkey has run away.”
“I will get the motorcar,” Emerson announced, and went out after shooting a defiant glance at me. He was a trifle sensitive still about the car, which he had not been allowed to use as often as he would have liked. I was as anxious to be rid of the pair as he, and