Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [40]
These sentiments did not last two minutes.
When I entered I saw Emerson half out of bed, restrained only by Walter’s arm. He was partially clad; his nether limbs were covered by the most incredible garments, pink in color. He was shouting at Walter, who waved a small dish under his nose like a weapon.
Emerson stopped shouting when he saw me. His expression was hardly welcoming, but I was so glad to see his eyes aware and sensible, instead of flaring wildly with fever, that I gave him a cheerful forgiving smile before I inspected the contents of the dish Walter was holding.
I forgot myself then; I admit it. I had picked up several forceful expressions from Father, and I used them in his presence, since he never heard a word I said; but I endeavored to avoid them in other company. The sight of the sickly gray-green contents of the dish were too much for my self-control.
“Good Gad,” I burst out. “What is that?”
“Tinned peas,” said Walter. He looked apologetic, as well he might. “You see, Miss Peabody, they are an excellent cheap source of food. We also have tinned beef and beans and cabbage, but I thought this might be more—”
“Throw it out,” I said, holding my nose. “Tell your cook to boil a chicken. One can obtain chickens, I hope? If this is what you eat, no wonder your brother had fever. It is a wonder he doesn’t also have dysentery and inflamed bowels.”
Walter brought his hand to his brow in a military salute and marched out.
I turned to Emerson. He had flung himself back onto the bed and pulled the sheet up to his chin.
“Go on, Miss Peabody,” he said, drawling offensively. “Comment on my other organic failures if you will. I understand I am to thank you for saving my life. Walter is inclined to dramatize things; however, I thank you for ministering to me in your inimitable fashion. Consider yourself thanked. Now go away.”
I had intended to go, until he told me to. I sat down on the bed and reached for his hand. He jerked it away.
“I wish to take your pulse,” I said impatiently. “Stop acting like a timid maiden lady.”
He let me hold his wrist for a few moments. Then he pulled his hand free.
“I wish Miss Nightingale had stayed at home where she belongs,” he growled. “Every wretched Englishwoman now wants to become a lady of the lamp. Now, madam, if your instincts are satisfied, take yourself away or—or I shall rise from my bed!”
“If that is what you intend, I shall certainly remain. You cannot get up today. And don’t think to frighten me by threats. I watched you all night, remember; your anatomy is not prepossessing, I agree, but I am tolerably familiar with it.”
“But my pavement,” Emerson shouted. “What is happening to my pavement? You fiend of a woman, I must go and see what they are doing to my pavement!”
“My pavement” had been a recurrent theme in his delirium, and I wondered what he was talking about. The only allusion that occurred to me was the description in the Gospel of Saint John: “When Pilate therefore heard that saying, he brought Jesus forth, and sat down in the judgment seat in a place that is called the Pavement…” However, although I considered Emerson quite capable of blasphemy, I doubted that he would compare his illness with that divine Martyrdom.
“What pavement?” I asked.
“My painted pavement.” Emerson looked at me consideringly. “I have found part of Khuenaten’s royal palace. Pavements, walls, and ceilings were painted. Some have miraculously survived.”
“Good—that is, how amazing! Do you mean that the royal heretic’s palace once stood where that waste of sand now stretches?”
“You know of Khuenaten?”
“Yes, indeed. He is a fascinating personality. Or do you think he was a woman?”
“Balderdash! That is typical of the fools who manage archaeological research today. Mariette’s notion, that he was taken captive by the Nubians and cas—that is, operated upon—”
“I have read of that theory,” I said, as he stuttered to a halt. “Why is it not possible? I believe the operation does produce feminine characteristics