He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [162]
It was during the penultimate week of January that Ramses returned one afternoon from Cairo with the news we had so anxiously awaited. One look at him told me all I needed to know. I ran to meet him and threw my arms round him.
Eyebrows rising, he said, “Thank you, Mother, but I haven’t come back from the dead, only from Cairo. Yes, Fatima, fresh tea would be very nice.”
I waited, twitching with impatience, until after she had brought the tea and another plate of sandwiches. “Talk quickly,” I ordered. “Nefret has gone to the hospital, but she will soon be back.”
“She didn’t go directly to the hospital.” Ramses inspected the sandwiches.
“You followed her?” It was a foolish question; obviously he had. I went on, “Where did she go?”
“To the Continental. I presume she was meeting someone, but I couldn’t go into the hotel.”
“No,” Emerson said, giving his son a hard look. “Has she given you any cause to believe she was doing anything she ought not?”
“Good God, Father, of course she has! Over and over! She—” He broke off; his preternaturally acute hearing must have given him warning of someone’s approach, for he lowered his voice and spoke quickly. “I need to attend that confounded costume ball tomorrow night.”
“What confounded costume ball?” Emerson demanded.
“I told you about it several weeks ago, Emerson,” I reminded him. “You didn’t say you would not go, so I—”
“Procured some embarrassing, inappropriate rig for me? Curse it, Peabody—”
“You needn’t come if you’d rather not, Father,” Ramses said somewhat impatiently.
“We’ll come, of course,” Emerson said. “If you need us. What do you want us to do?”
“Cover my absence while I trot off to collect a few more jolly little guns. I got the message this afternoon.” The parlor door opened, and he stood up, smiling. “Ah, Nefret. How many arms and legs did you cut off today? Hullo, Anna, still playing angel of mercy?”
•
Twelve
•
Over the years we had become accustomed to take Friday as our day of rest, in order to accommodate our Moslem workmen. The Sabbath was therefore another workday for us, and Emerson, who had no sympathy with religious observances of any kind, refused even to attend church services. He had often informed me that I was welcome to do so if I chose—knowing full well that if I had chosen I would never have felt need of his permission—but it was too much of a nuisance to get dressed and drive into Cairo for what is, after all, only empty ceremony unless one is in the proper state of spiritual devotion. I feel I can put myself into the proper state wherever I happen to be, so I rise early on Sunday morning and read a few chapters from the Good Book and say a few little prayers. I say them aloud, in the hope that Emerson may be edified by my example. Thus far he has displayed no evidence of edification; in fact, he is sometimes moved to make critical remarks.
“I do not claim to be an authority, Peabody, but it seems to me that prayer should take the form of a humble request, not a direct order.”
My prayers that Sunday morning may have had a somewhat peremptory tone. Emerson was dressing when I rose from my knees.
“Finished?” he inquired.
“I believe I covered all the necessary points.”
“It was a comprehensive lecture,” Emerson agreed. He finished lacing his boots and stood up. “I was under the impression that you believed that God helps those who help themselves.”
“I am doing all I can.”
My voice was somewhat muffled by the folds of my nightdress, which I had started to remove. Emerson put his arms round me and pressed me close. “My darling, I know you are. Don’t cry, my love, it will be all right.”
“I am not crying, I have several layers of cloth over my nose and mouth.”
“Ah. That’s easily dealt with.”
After a time Emerson said, “Am