He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [120]
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Nine
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When Nefret asked how long I meant to wait, I did not know the answer. Farouk might be late (although an individual expecting to receive a large sum of money generally is not), and there would certainly be a heated discussion when Emerson insisted upon verification before payment. I did not doubt my formidable husband’s ability to overcome an opponent, even one as treacherous as Farouk, but Emerson and Ramses would then have to bind and gag the young villain and transport him across the river to the house. The journey could take anywhere from an hour to two hours, depending on the available transportation, and precipitate action by Nefret and me would only confirm Emerson’s unjust (for the most part) opinion of women.
In order to discipline myself, I had turned to a task I particularly dislike—mending. Nefret read for a while, or pretended to; finally she declared her intention of writing to Lia. I ought to have emulated her; my weekly letter to Evelyn was overdue; but it was confounded difficult to write a cheery, chatty letter when I did not feel at all cheery, and it was impossible to chat about the subject uppermost in my mind. We were both masking our true feelings; when Evelyn wrote me she did not mention her worries about her boys in the trenches and her other boy, dear as a son, in exile so far away. I must also prevaricate and equivocate; it would only increase Evelyn’s anxiety if she learned that David and Ramses were also risking their lives for the cause. Nor had I forgotten Ramses’s warning to Nefret, that the post would almost certainly be read by the military authorities, and his even more pointed remarks about the need for secrecy.
I wondered what the deuce Nefret found to write about. Perhaps her letters to Lia were as stilted as mine to Evelyn.
By half past one o’clock in the morning I had mended eight pairs of stockings. Later I had to discard all but the first pair; I had sewed the toes to the heels and the tops to the soles, passing my needle in and out of the fabric without paying the least attention to what I was doing. After I had run the needle deep into my finger for the tenth time I bit off the thread and pushed the sewing basket aside. Nefret looked up from her letter.
“I’ve finished,” she said. “Is it time?”
“We will wait another half hour.”
Nefret bowed her head in silent acquiescence. The lamplight gilded her bright hair and shone on her ringless hands, which rested in her lap. She had removed her wedding ring the day after Geoffrey died. I never asked what she had done with it.
I was trying to think of something comforting to say when Nefret looked up. “They are safe,” she said gently. “I’m sure nothing has happened.”
“Of course,” I said.
Twenty-seven minutes more. I began planning what I would do. At my insistence, Emerson had described the location of the house, which I had never seen. Should we drive the motorcar, disdaining secrecy, or find a boat to take us directly across the river?
Twenty-five minutes. How slowly the time passed! I decided the motorcar would be quicker. I would send Ali after Daoud and Selim . . .
At twenty minutes before two, the shutters rattled. I sprang to my feet. Nefret ran to the window and flung the shutters back. I heard a thump and saw movement, and there was Seshat, sitting on the windowsill.
“Curse it,” I exclaimed. “It is only the cat.”
“No.” Nefret looked out into the dark garden. “They are coming.”
Like a butler ushering visitors into a room, Seshat waited for the men to reach the window before she jumped down onto the floor. Emerson was the first to enter. Ramses followed him, and drew the shutters closed.
“Well?” I cried. “Where is he? Where have you put him?”
“He did not come,” Emerson said. “We waited for over an hour.”
They had had time to accept the failure of our hopes, though I could see it weighed heavily upon them. I turned away for fear Nefret would see what a terrible blow the news had dealt me. Her expressive face had mirrored her own disappointment, but she did not,