Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [45]
“Obviously not,” I replied. “There is a hospital here, I believe? What is it like?”
“I leave it to your imagination, my dear.”
“I would rather trust the evidence of my own eyes, Emerson,” I retorted, mopping my brow. There had been a nice breeze on the river, but now that we were standing still, the heat was really horrid.
“The market at Halfa is one of the best in the Sudan,” Emerson said. “You will want to do some shopping, Peabody.”
“Will I?”
“You always do, my dear. Remember, this is the last good-sized town we will encounter. Kalabsha, the stop for Meroe, hasn’t much beyond a railroad station and a rest house.”
“What about Berber?” Ramses asked.
“Oh. Well, we won’t be getting off the train at Berber, will we? No sense in wasting two or three days there. Straight on to Meroe, that’s the plan.”
“What are you shouting for, Emerson?” I inquired.
“Was I? No, I wasn’t.” He tried the door of the station house and found it locked. A crowd had gathered, drawn by the arrival of the steamer and the hope of earning a few piastres. They were talking excitedly among themselves; then one of them advanced and bowed. “Welcome, Father of Curses. Is it indeed you?”
“Aywa,” Emerson replied. “Myself and no other. Salaam aleikhum, Yusuf Sawar. Send someone to fetch the station master, will you?”
It was not long before this individual came hastening up. He was, of course, an old friend. While Emerson exchanged greetings and gave instructions to him, I felt a touch on my arm and looked round to see Mr. Newbold. His hat was in his hand and behind him stood a veiled female figure.
“May I beg a favor, Mrs. Emerson?” Newbold asked. “I must make arrangements for the transfer of our luggage, and I don’t like to leave my daughter unattended in such a crush of men.”
“Your what?” I exclaimed, staring in open curiosity at the slender, silent figure. “Ramses said—”
“Oh dear,” Newbold murmured. “I’m afraid I yielded to the temptation to tease your son just a bit. Daria is my child, whom I have only lately found again. It is a sad story, which I will tell you one day. Would you look after her, only for a few minutes? Your presence will deter anyone from approaching her rudely.”
He moved away before I could answer, but of course only one answer was possible. Curiosity as well as compassion demanded acceptance.
“It is kind of you,” said a soft voice from behind the fabric she had drawn across her face.
“You speak English?” An unnecessary question, since she obviously did. “Let us step aside,” I went on. “Out of the way of all these people.”
There were a number of questions I wanted to ask her. Why was she a practicing Moslem when her father was Christian? (Not that he was much of a Christian, if the rumors I had heard were true.) What was the “sad story”? Why, if modesty of attire were her aim, was she wearing garments that set off rather than concealed a nicely rounded figure and comely features? It was costly attire, linen as fine as the fabric worn by queens and pharaohs in ancient times, a thin silken scarf covering her head and the lower part of her face—and she was absolutely clanking with jewelry. Courtesy prevailed, however, and as we withdrew I contented myself with saying only, “You are on your way to Khartoum, I presume. It is a long, arduous journey. Is there anything that I can do to make it easier for you?”
She lowered the fold of silk that had concealed her nose and mouth and looked at me in surprise. Ramses had understated the case. “Pretty” did not do the delicate features and tinted lips justice. Her skin was as fair as that of a southern European. The wide dark eyes were skillfully outlined with kohl.
“Why should you offer to do that?” she asked.
“Good,” I said, pleased. “You are direct. I like that. Why, because you are a woman, and young, and a fellow human being. No matter how thoughtful your—er—father may be, he is a man, and men do not always understand the needs of women.”
My brief hesitation before the word “father” passed without comment. I felt certain Newbold had lied to me about the relationship