Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [72]
I had persuaded Emerson to put the machine in the stableyard, though I did not suppose for a moment that it would remain there. Its admirers were numerous, and some had got into the habit of paying it a daily visit—from a distance, since Emerson and Selim had made it clear that anyone who ventured close enough to touch it would be subject to dire punishment, and possibly a curse or two. When the vehicle appeared I was not surprised to see Selim seated beside Emerson. He spent a good deal of his spare time tinkering with the confounded thing.
The appearance of the motorcar distracted Justin and altered the tenor of his demands. “A motorcar! Am I to ride in it? May I operate it?”
“Do you know how?” I asked.
“No, but I expect it is quite easy to learn. I would like it very much.”
“No one drives the motorcar except me and Selim,” said Emerson forcibly if somewhat inaccurately.
“Let Selim drive them, Emerson,” I ordered. “There isn’t room for all of you, and anyhow, I need you here.”
Emerson grumbled a bit, but I knew that he too was anxious to discuss the latest developments. Selim moved over to the driver’s side, and Emerson caught Justin by the collar as he was climbing up into the seat.
“Let Miss—er—get in first,” he ordered.
The boy’s slim frame stiffened. “Let go of him at once, Emerson,” I said, remembering how he had reacted to being grasped.
“I’m not going to hurt him,” Emerson shouted furiously, but he complied. “Do as I say, Justin. Do not attempt to touch the controls. You are to obey Selim as you would me. If you give him any trouble you will never be allowed to visit us again. Selim, go across with them and deliver the boy to the dahabeeyah.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Maryam said. “He won’t run away from me, will you, Justin?”
“Of course not.” He smiled sweetly. “Good afternoon, everyone. I will see you again soon.”
I watched somewhat apprehensively as the motorcar went off in a cloud of dust. It seemed to be operating correctly. I then asked Fatima to fetch the children’s nurserymaids and get them off to bed. For once, the children’s parents did not offer to assist; everyone sat unmoving and silent, waiting for me to speak first. I dropped rather heavily into a chair. “It is somewhat early, but I do believe that if I were offered a whiskey and soda I might be inclined to accept.”
Emerson at once obliged, and poured a rather stiff one for himself. Observing Walter’s bemused expression, he poured an even stiffer one and pressed it into his brother’s hand.
“Cheer up, Walter. That is the last hitherto unknown relation you are likely to encounter.”
“I certainly hope so.” Walter took a long drink of whiskey. “Don’t we have any respectable missing relations?”
“To the best of my knowledge, Maryam is perfectly respectable,” I replied. I spoke, as I always endeavor to do, the literal truth. I might harbor suspicions, but I did not know for certain.
“But she is—”
I cut him off with an imperative gesture, for I thought I knew what word had been on the tip of his tongue. Sennia did not consider herself “one of the children”; she had remained, and was paying close attention. Illegitimacy was not a topic I intended to discuss in her presence. She had heard the word—and worse—from horrid children at her Cairo school—who had got it from their parents; when she first came to me, tearful and bewildered, to ask what it meant, I had done my best to convince her that only ignorant, vulgar people cared about such things.
“What did you think of her, Sennia?” I asked.
Sennia primped up her mouth and rearranged the bracelets that encircled her slim brown wrists. “I don’t like her. I didn’t like her before.”
“We must not be unkind, Sennia. She has had a hard time, and after all, she is kin.”
“What is she to me?”
“No more than Hecuba to Hamlet,” Ramses murmured. “In actual fact . . . a cousin of some degree, I suppose, Sennia. Is that right, Mother?”
“Let me see. Sennia’s father was my nephew, and Maryam is . . .” In some