Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [78]
“Yes. I presume you mean to call on Mrs. Fitzroyce. Father wouldn’t approve.”
“That is why I wanted him out of the way. You see the necessity of such a visit.”
“I see why you believe it to be necessary.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I don’t know,” Nefret said, frowning slightly. “I have nothing against the girl, and I would like to see her reconciled with her father, for his sake as much as hers.”
“But?”
“But . . .” Nefret’s brow smoothed out and she smiled affectionately at me. “No buts. You offered to assist her, and if I were in your place I would wait for her to make the next move. It’s your decision, though.”
The Isis was one of the few private dahabeeyahs moored alongside the tourist steamers. Nefret let out a low whistle (an unladylike habit she had got from Ramses) when she saw it. It was a steam-dahabeeyah, one of the largest and most ostentatious boats I had ever seen. Brass railings shone and gilt tassels adorned the gold-and-crimson awning that shaded the upper deck. Large gold lettering spelled out the name, and the British flag flew at the stern. A wide carpeted gangplank extended from the boat to the bank. There was no one in sight on deck or on the shaded upper deck, but as soon as I set foot on the gangplank, a man dressed in Egyptian style appeared and hailed me in English, asking what I wanted. I replied in Arabic that I had come to call on the Sitt. “Take this to her,” I went on, handing the fellow one of my cards. “And ask if she will see me.”
He bowed very politely, but instead of going on his errand he handed the card to another servant who had come up, soft-footed in felt slippers. “You will wait here, please,” he said.
He was a sturdy, muscular fellow, who was obviously prepared to stop us if we disregarded his request. I did not blame Mrs. Fitzroyce for taking such steps to prevent intrusion. As I knew from personal experience, some idle visitors had no scruples about forcing themselves on persons they believed to be important.
We did not have to wait long. When the second servant returned he was accompanied by a portly person wearing a fez on his large head. His hair was very black and very thick, and his face was practically spherical. It was a young face, fair-skinned and good-natured, and set off by a set of curling mustaches. He was formally attired in frock coat and striped trousers and an extraordinary waistcoat embroidered with pink roses.
“It is an honor to meet you, Sitt Hakim,” he said, nodding vigorously and smiling broadly. “I am Dr. Mohammed Abdul Khattab, Mrs. Fitzroyce’s personal physician.”
I presented him to Nefret, which brought on another round of nods and grins. “I trust Mrs. Fitzroyce is not ill?” I inquired.
“She is only old,” said the doctor nonchalantly. “She will receive you, but may I remind you that she tires easily.”
“You may,” I said. “We won’t stay long.”
The curtains of the windows of the saloon had been drawn to shut out the direct rays of the declining sun. There was enough light for me to see reasonably well, however. The room was elegantly furnished—over-furnished, in fact—with a pianoforte, rows of bookshelves, tables and chairs and sofas. It was reminiscent of the style of decoration popular before the turn of the century, and the lady who awaited us was also reminiscent of that era. She sat bolt upright in an armchair with her hands resting on the head of her stick, and her widow’s weeds were as black and enveloping as those of the late Queen, who had mourned her deceased husband for—in my opinion—far too long. Instead of gloves she wore black lace mitts, of a style I hadn’t seen for years. Dr. Khattab went at once to her and took her hand, his fingers pressed against the pulse in her wrist. She shook him off.
“I trust Mrs. Emerson will not be offended,” she said in a creaking voice, “if I say that welcome as her visit is, it is not likely to overexcite me.”
“Not at all,” I said, acknowledging her little jest with a genteel chuckle.
“Please take a chair,” she went on. “May I offer you tea?”