Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [117]
We had dined formally; I was wearing my crimson gown and I had taken some pains with my hair. I thought, when I looked at myself in the mirror that evening, that I did look well; perhaps Evelyn’s flattery had not all been false. As I approached Emerson I was pleasantly aware of the rustle of my full skirts and the movement of the ruffles at my throat.
“No,” I said, as Emerson made a sideways movement, like a crab.“Don’t try to run away, Emerson, it won’t do you a particle of good, for I mean to have my say if I have to shout it after you as we run about the boat. Sit or stand, don’t mind me. I shall stand. I think better on my feet.”
Emerson squared his shoulders.
“I shall stand. I feel safer on my feet. Proceed, then, Peabody; I know better than to interfere with you when you are in this mood.”
“I mean to make you a business proposition,” I said. “It is simply this. I have some means; I am not rich, like Evelyn, but I have more than I need, and no dependents. I had meant to leave my money to the British Museum. Now it seems to me that I may as well employ it for an equally useful purpose while I live, and enjoy myself in the bargain, thus killing two birds with one stone. Miss Amelia B. Edwards has formed a society for the exploration of Egyptian antiquities; I shall do the same. I wish to hire you as my archaeological expert. There is only one condition….”
I had to stop for breath. This was more difficult than I had anticipated.
“Yes?” said Emerson in a strange voice. “What condition?”
I drew a deep breath.
“I insist upon being allowed to participate in the excavations. After all, why should men have all the fun?”
“Fun?” Emerson repeated. “To be burned by the sun, rubbed raw by sand, live on rations no self-respecting beggar would eat; to be bitten by snakes and mashed by falling rocks? Your definition of pleasure, Peabody, is extremely peculiar.”
“Peculiar or not, it is my idea of pleasure. Why, why else do you lead this life if you don’t enjoy it? Don’t talk of duty to me; you men always have some high-sounding excuse for indulging yourselves. You go gallivanting over the earth, climbing mountains, looking for the sources of the Nile; and expect women to sit dully at home embroidering. I embroider very badly. I think I would excavate rather well. If you like, I will list my qualifications—”
“No,” said Emerson, in a strangled voice. “I am only too well aware of your qualifications.”
And he caught me in an embrace that bruised my ribs.
“Stop it,” I said, pushing at him. “That was not at all what I had in mind. Stop it, Emerson, you are confusing me. I don’t want—”
“Don’t you?” said Emerson, taking my chin in his hand and turning my face toward his.
“Yes!” I cried, and flung my arms around his neck.
A good while later, Emerson remarked,
“You realize, Peabody, that I accept your offer of marriage because it is the only practical way of getting at your money? You couldn’t join me in an excavation unless we were married; every European in Egypt, from Baring to Maspero, would be outraged, and Mme. Maspero would force her husband to cancel my concession.”
“I fully understand that,” I said. “Now if you will stop squeezing me quite so hard…. I cannot breathe.”
“Breathing is unnecessary,” said Emerson.
After another interval, it was my turn to comment.
“And you,” I said, “understand that I accept your proposal of marriage because it is the only way in which I can gain my ends. It is so unfair—another example of how women are discriminated against. What a pity I was not born a hundred years from now! Then I would not have to marry a loud, arrogant, rude man in order to be allowed to excavate.”
Emerson squeezed my ribs again and I had to stop for lack of breath.
“I have found the perfect