Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [89]
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“You always defend the . . . the man!” Emerson shouted. Even in an extremity of temper, he avoided using his favorite epithet to describe his illegitimate brother.
“Mother.” Nefret tugged at my sleeve. “Send him away.”
“I have my own reasons for wanting Smith to remain,” I said. “I will explain them later. Oh, there you are, Fatima. Thank you for waiting; you may bring tea now, if you will be so good. Nefret, will you find Walter and Ramses and David and tell them to come here? And bring the children too. All the children.”
Smith’s expression, when the rest of the family erupted onto the veranda, gave me a great deal of malicious satisfaction. The three youngest children whizzed round like projectiles, bouncing off one adult after the other, delivering embraces and greetings in their sweet, high, extremely penetrating voices. They ended up standing in a row in front of Smith, who had the wild-eyed look of a man cornered by pariah dogs.
“Who are you?” Evvie asked.
“This is Mr. Smith,” I said. “Say hello nicely.”
They continued to stare unblinkingly.
“Hello there,” said Smith. He reached out to pat Evvie on the head.
“I hate people to do that,” she announced, pushing his hand away. “So does Davy. And Charla bites.”
“All right, children, that’s enough.” Ramses took hold of his two. “Go to Mama. Leave the gentleman alone.”
“What charming children,” said Smith, with a forced smile. “Yours?”
“Two of them. Including the one that bites.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Smith murmured. “And this must be Mr. Todros. A pleasure to meet you at last.”
David nodded without speaking, his dark eyes cool. Nefret must have told him the identity of the visitor.
“This is my uncle, Mr. Walter Emerson. I would introduce you formally if I knew what name you are currently using,” said Ramses.
A fleeting, tight-lipped smile acknowledged the gibe. “Smith will do. Good afternoon, Mr. Emerson.”
“And I am Sennia Emerson,” said that young person, holding her skirts and curtsying. “You have heard of me, I expect.”
“Yes—quite—er—how do you do?”
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“Sit down, Sennia,” Ramses said somewhat sharply. “A gentleman remains standing until all the ladies present have seated themselves.”
This was actually directed at Nefret, who stood clutching the twins like Niobe trying to protect her children from the deadly arrows of Apollo and Diana. She flushed and sank onto the settee next to Lia.
“Tea, everyone?” I asked.
Ramses came to take the cups as I filled them. “I presume you have a reason for this?” he inquired sotto voce.
“I always have at least one reason. Now that he has been thrown off-balance by the dear children, I may be able to get a few sensible answers out of him.”
Having dispensed the genial beverage and asked Sennia to pass the biscuits round, I cleared my throat. “Mr. Smith came to bring us news of our kinsman. He has been ill, but is recovering.”
“Malaria again?” Nefret asked, professional interest overcoming maternal protectiveness.
“No. He suffered certain injuries. Nothing serious.”
Walter had been thinking it over. In describing Sethos’s wartime activities to him we had not mentioned Smith, but Walter’s analytical mind was quick to make the connection. “What is his name?”
“I beg your pardon?” Smith turned those gimlet eyes on him.
“I gather that he works for you, or with you, or under your direction, in a certain governmental agency,” said Walter, unintimidated by the stare. “I cannot believe the British bureaucracy would employ a man without investigating every detail of his past life—including his name.”
The question seemed to arouse Smith’s usually dormant sense of humor. His eyes narrowed, wrinkles fanning out at the corners. “None of you know? Well, well. If he has not seen fit to tell you, it would not be right for me to betray his confidence.”
“Where is he?” Ramses asked.
“Just a moment, please,” I said, with a warning frown at my son. “Sennia, dear, would you take the children to their little corner and give them their paper and