Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [74]
Ramses spoke with unusual heat. “Nefret, that couldn’t possibly happen. Even if he visits us again—which he is as likely to do whether she is here or not—no one would be fool enough to leave him alone with any of the children, or let him take them from the house.”
“Quite right,” I declared.
In fact, Maryam’s reappearance had disturbed me more than I wanted to admit. Yet—I assured myself—what reason had I to mistrust the girl? During our brief acquaintance with her she had been a nuisance, headstrong and undisciplined, but never a danger. Her father believed that after she fled from him she had found a masculine protector, but even if it was true, she was more to be pitied than censured.
“Never a dull moment,” I declared cheerfully. “Now I suggest we all get ready for our guests.”
By the time the Vandergelts arrived I had bathed and changed, and written out a telegram. Emerson had insisted on seeing it before I sent it off.
“I did not want to be explicit,” I explained, handing it over. “Sethos’s colleague Smith, who promised to pass on messages, is not the sort of individual to be trusted with such painfully personal information.”
“He has used it against us before,” Emerson muttered. “Hmmm. Well, this should be all right. ‘Missing person found. Come at once if possible.’ I will send Ali across to the telegraph office.”
With that matter taken care of I was able to greet our guests with a mind at ease and a smiling countenance. The evening had turned chilly, so we gathered in the sitting room instead of on the veranda.
“Hope we’re not too early,” Cyrus said, for Evelyn and I were the only members of the family present.
“No, the others are late,” I said in mild vexation. “I do apologize. I try my best to inculcate proper manners, but sometimes I think it is a hopeless chore, especially with Emerson.”
“And Walter,” his wife said with a smile. “I expect he decided to steal a few minutes with his texts. When he is involved with a tricky translation I sometimes have to shake him to get his attention.”
Lia and David entered, closely followed by Nefret. Ramses was conspicuous by his absence, and I observed that Nefret’s brow bore faint lines of worry or annoyance. “I am so sorry,” she began.
“Not at all,” Katherine said graciously. “Were the children restless tonight?”
“Ours were,” David replied. “We took them to Abdullah’s tomb this afternoon. They couldn’t stop talking about it. Dolly wanted to hear every story I could remember about my grandfather, and Evvie asked the most outrageous questions—”
“She is only two,” Lia expostulated. “I don’t see what was so outrageous about them.”
“ ‘Do all dead people look like the ones in Uncle Radcliffe’s books?’ “ David was obviously quoting.
“Good heavens,” Katherine exclaimed. “Has he been showing those poor children photographs of mummies?”
“I strictly forbade him to do that,” I said indignantly.
“It doesn’t seem to have bothered them,” David said.
“What did you tell Evvie?” I asked.
“I said no, they didn’t. And changed the subject before she could inquire further,” David added with a laugh.
I decided I would do the same, for I did not want to fall into the error of some doting females, who assume that others enjoy an entire evening of stories about their grandchildren.
“We had an interesting visitor this afternoon,” I said. “Katherine, do you remember a young person called Molly Hamilton?”
Katherine nodded. “That spoiled child who raised such a fuss when her uncle wanted to—” She broke off, her green eyes narrowing. “Major Hamilton’s niece . . . but he wasn’t . . . He was . . .”
“Not Major Hamilton,” I said. “And she was not his niece. She was his daughter. And still is.”
They listened to my brief summary in fascinated silence. “The plot thickens,” said Cyrus, shaking his head. “What are you going to do about her?”
“Take her into the bosom of the family, of course,” said Emerson from the doorway. “As my—er—other brother