Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [45]
“That is an old wives’ tale,” Emerson retorted furiously “And even if it were not, hair on the head and hair on the face are not the same.”
“I really cannot proceed while you struggle so,” Walter complained. “Very well… Miss Peabody will be pleased.”
There was a brief silence.
“Peabody will be pleased that I retain my beard?” Emerson inquired.
“Miss Peabody claims that men grow beard in order to hide weak features. Receding chins, spots on the face…”
“Oh, does she? She implies my chin is weak?”
“She has never seen it,” Walter pointed out.
“Hmph.”
That was all he said; but since silence followed the grunt, I knew Walter had won his point.
Seeing, as I now did, the beardless countenance of Emerson, I understood why he had cultivated whiskers. The lower part of his face looked a little odd, being so much paler than the rest, but the features were not displeasing— although the mouth was set in such a tight line I could not make out its shape. The chin was certainly not weak; indeed, it was almost too square and protuberant. But it had a dimple. No man with a dimple in his chin can look completely forbidding. A dimple, for Emerson, was out of character. No wonder he wished to hide it!
Emerson’s defiant eyes met mine, and the comment I had been about to make died on my lips.
“Tea or lemonade?” I inquired.
When I handed him his cup, a half-stifled expletive burst from his lips. Walter followed his gaze.
“My dear Miss Peabody, your poor hands!”
“There must be some better way of going about it,” I muttered, trying to wrap my skirt around the members in question. “I haven’t given the matter much thought as yet.”
“Naturally not,” Emerson said gruffly. “Women don’t think. A little forethought would prevent most of the suffering they constantly complain about.”
Walter frowned. It was the first time I had seen the young fellow look at his brother with anything but affectionate admiration.
“You should be ashamed to speak so, Radcliffe,” he said quietly. “Miss Peabody’s hand was swollen and painful for hours after you passed the crisis of your sickness, you held it so tightly; and I had to carry her to her bed because her limbs were cramped from kneeling beside you all night long.”
Emerson looked a little uncomfortable, but I think I was even more embarrassed. Sentimentality always embarrasses me.
“No thanks, please,” I said. “I would have done as much for a sick cat.”
“At least you must stop working on the pavement,” Walter said. “Tomorrow I will take over the task.”
“You can’t do the pavement and supervise the workers at the same time,” I argued, conscious of an inexplicable annoyance.
Emerson, slouching in his chair, cleared his throat.
“Abdullah is an excellent foreman. There is no need for Walter to be on the spot at all times. Or is there, Walter?”
How he had sensed the truth I do not know, but Walter’s uneasy silence was answer enough.
“Come,” Emerson insisted, in a voice of quiet firmness. “I knew this evening that something was worrying you. What is it? Fruitless speculation will be worse for me than the truth, Walter; be candid.”
“I am willing to be candid, but it isn’t easy to be explicit,” Walter said, smiling faintly. “You know how one becomes sensitive to the feelings of the men. There are so many meaningful signs—the singing of the work crews, the way in which they move about, the joking and laughter—or the lack thereof. I don’t know how long it has been going on. I only sensed it today.”
“Then it has not been going on long. You are too experienced to be unaware, preoccupied though you are.” Emerson glanced meaningfully at Evelyn, who sat listening with her hands folded in her lap. “Are the men hostile? Are they hiding something they don’t want us to know about?”
Walter shook his head; the dark hair tumbled over his high brow, giving him the look of a worried schoolboy.
“Neither of those, I think. Your illness disturbed them; you know how superstitious they are, how ready to find evil demons behind every accident.