Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [46]
“You are kind,” she said again. “But I need nothing. Your son was kind to me too. Did he tell you that I came to him in his cabin?”
“Yes, he did,” I replied. The big dark eyes widened; I believe she expected the question would come as a shock, which it certainly would have done had Ramses not told us what had happened. It hadn’t been easy for him. I understood why, of course, and now that I had seen the girl, I understood even better. He had been attracted, and tempted. Quite natural, in my opinion, and all the more credit to him for resisting. Unfortunately Nefret had not seen it that way, and I had to insist she apologize.
“He said he intended to, but I wondered if he would have the courage.”
“No one could accuse my son of lacking in courage,” I replied somewhat acerbically. “Nor in the instincts of a gentleman. Do you wish to be free of that man? I assure you that my husband and my son, to say nothing of myself, are capable of ensuring that, if you wish it.”
“Mother,” said a voice behind me. Ramses walks like a cat, and I had been too interested in the conversation to notice him approaching. “Please come with me. Father is ready to leave.”
“I can’t just yet,” I explained, turning to meet a scowl almost as dark as one of his father’s. “Mr. Newbold asked me to stay with—er—the young lady until he comes back.”
Ramses looked round. It was certainly a rather rough crowd, and a noisy one, as would-be porters shoved and shouted, vying for the attention of the passengers. Torn between his chivalrous concern for females—instilled in him by me—and his obvious dislike of the young woman, he hesitated.
The girl had not replaced her veil. “There are your friends, come looking for you,” she said with unmistakable mockery. “Another…young lady.”
The young lady was Miss Campbell, accompanied, of course, by her brother. Miss Campbell was buttoned up to the chin, her prim white collar and cuffs wilted by the heat, and her hair concealed by a broad-brimmed hat. She looked miserably hot compared with Daria, in her loose garments and light head scarf—and her conspicuous respectability made the other girl look even less respectable. They eyed each other and then, as if a signal had passed between them, both turned and stared at Ramses.
Mr. Campbell noisily cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Emerson, but would you be good enough to come and talk to those porters? I can’t seem to make them understand me.”
“I’ll come, sir,” said Ramses, with relief. “Mother?”
Daria murmured, “There is my…father coming. Thank you, Mrs. Emerson, for protecting me, though it was unnecessary.”
“You are welcome,” I said. “Good-bye and good luck.”
Miss Campbell took out a limp white handkerchief and wiped her perspiring face. “Is she really…Oh dear. I feel rather…”
“Come out of the sun,” I said, putting an arm round her swaying form. “Your attire is quite unsuitable for this climate, you know.”
“It is suitable for her position,” said Mr. Campbell, and let out a bleat of alarm as she sagged heavily against me.
I could do no more than keep the girl from falling, for she was a dead weight. “Ramses,” I gasped.
After a wary glance at Mr. Campbell, who was wringing his hands ineffectually, Ramses lifted the young woman, who had gone quite limp. “Now what shall I do with her?” Ramses demanded. “There’s no place to put her down.”
“Sit on that packing case and continue to hold her,” I instructed. “Mr. Campbell, if you wish to be useful, open my parasol and hold it over her. Over her head, you silly man!” As I spoke, I unfastened Miss Campbell’s collar, took the pins from her hat, removed that article of clothing, and began fanning her with it.
Ramses had laid her as flat as possible, across his knees, one arm under her shoulders. Her head had fallen back and she looked quite pretty and pathetic with her loosened hair framing