He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [17]
“I was of less assistance than I had hoped to be. Confound you, Russell, if you had given me five minutes more I might have been able to win his trust.”
“Five minutes?” Russell repeated doubtfully.
“It would have taken Mrs. Emerson even less time. Oh, but what’s the use? If you are coming with us, get in. I want to go home.”
We spoke very little on the way back to the hotel. I was preoccupied with an odd idea. I had caught only a glimpse of the silhouetted figure, but for a moment I had had an eerie sense of déjà vu, as when one sees the unformed features of an infant take on a sudden and fleeting resemblance to a parent or grandparent.
Nefret had put the idea into my head. I told myself it was absurd, and yet . . . Had I not sworn that I would know Sethos at any time, in any disguise?
The carriage drew up in front of Shepheard’s. Russell got down from the box and opened the door for us.
“It’s still early,” he said pleasantly. “Will you do me the honor of joining me in a liqueur or a glass of brandy, to prove there are no hard feelings?”
“Bah,” said Emerson. But he said no more.
We made our way through the throng of flower vendors and beggars, dragomen and peddlers who surrounded the steps; and as we mounted those steps I beheld a familiar form advancing to meet us.
“Good evening, Mother,” he said. “Good evening, Nefret. Good evening—”
“Ramses,” I exclaimed. “What have you done now?”
It might have been more accurate to ask what someone had done to him. He had made an attempt to tidy himself, but the raised weal across his cheek was still oozing blood and the surrounding flesh was bruised and swollen.
Russell stepped back. “I must ask to be excused. Good night, Mrs. Emerson—Miss Forth—Professor.”
“Snubbed again,” said Ramses. “Nefret?” He offered her his arm.
“Your coat is torn,” I exclaimed.
Ramses glanced at his shoulder, where a line of white showed against the black of his coat. “Damn. Excuse me, Mother. It’s only a ripped seam, I believe. May we sit down before you continue your lecture?”
Nefret had not said a word. She put her hand on his arm and let him lead her to a table.
In the bright lights of the terrace I got a good look at my companions. Emerson’s cravat was wildly askew—he always tugged at it when he was exasperated—and he had not got all the plaster dust off his coat. Nefret’s hair was coming down, and there was a long rent in my skirt. I tucked the folds modestly about my limbs.
“Dear me,” said Ramses, inspecting us. “Have you been fighting again?”
“I might reasonably ask the same of you,” said his father.
“A slight accident. I’ve been waiting a good half hour or more,” said Ramses accusingly. “The concierge informed me you had left the hotel, but since the motorcar was still here I assumed you would be back sooner or later. Might one inquire—”
“No, not yet,” said Emerson. “Was it here at Shepheard’s that you had your—er—accident?”
“No, sir. It was at the Club. I dined there before coming on to meet you.” His lips closed tight, but Emerson continued to fix him with that cold blue stare, and after a moment he said reluctantly, “I got into a little argument.”
“With whom?” his father inquired.
“Father—”
“With whom?”
“A chap named Simmons. I don’t think you know him. And—well—Cartwright and Jenkins. Egyptian Army.”
“Only three? Good Gad, Ramses, I had thought better of you.”
“They didn’t fight like gentlemen,” Ramses said.
The corners of his mouth turned up a trifle. Ramses’s sense of humor is decidedly odd; it is not always easy for me to ascertain whether he is attempting to be humorous.
“Are you attempting to be humorous?” I inquired.
“Yes, he is,” Nefret said, before Ramses could reply. “But he is not succeeding.”
Ramses caught the eye of the waiter, who hurried to him, ignoring the urgent demands of other patrons. Being snubbed by the Anglo-Egyptian community has only raised Ramses in the opinions of native Cairenes, most of whom admire him almost as much as they do his father.
“Would you like a whiskey and soda, Mother?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Nefret? Father?