He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [182]
“In your room.”
“My room?” he echoed in surprise.
Fatima twisted her hands together. “She asked me not to tell anyone else. She said you had invited her. Did I do wrong?”
“No, it’s all right.” He smiled reassuringly. “Thank you, Fatima.”
He took the stairs two at a time, anxious to solve this little mystery. He couldn’t imagine who the woman might be. Anna? One of the village women seeking help from an abusive husband or father? It was well known that the Emersons wouldn’t tolerate that sort of thing, and some of the younger women were too much in awe of his mother and father to approach them. Obviously they weren’t in awe of him.
The smile on his lips faded when he saw the small figure seated on his bed. Reflexively his arm shot out and slammed the door.
“What the—what are you doing here?”
The child’s face was limpid with innocence. Streaks had plowed a path through the dust on her cheeks; they might have been caused by perspiration or by tears. She had got herself up in proper visiting attire, but now her pink, low-necked frock was wrinkled, and her hair was loose on her shoulders. With the cool confidence of an invited guest, she had made herself at home; her hat and handbag and a pair of extremely grubby white gloves lay on the bed beside her.
“I wanted to play with the cat,” she explained. “But it scratched me and ran away.”
A low grumble of confirmation came from Seshat, perched atop the wardrobe, beyond the reach of small hands.
“Don’t be childish, Melinda,” Ramses said sternly. “Come downstairs with me at once.”
Before he could open the door, she had flung herself at him and was hanging on like a frightened kitten. “No! You mustn’t tell anyone I’m here, not yet. Promise you’ll help me. Promise you won’t let him send me away!”
He put his hands over hers, trying to detach them, but they were clenched tight as claws, and he didn’t want to hurt her. He lowered his arms to his side and stood quite still. “Your uncle?”
“Yes. He wants to send me back to England. I won’t go! I want to stay here!”
“If he has decided you must go, there is nothing I can do to prevent it, even if I would. Melinda, do you realize what an ugly position you’ve put me in? If your uncle found out you were here with me, alone in my room—if anyone saw us like this—they would blame me, not you. Is that what you want?”
“No . . .”
“Then let go.”
Slowly the hard little fingers relaxed. She was watching him closely, and for a moment there was a look of cold, adult calculation in her eyes. It passed so quickly, drowned in twin pools of tears, he thought he must have imagined it.
“He hurt me,” she said. With a sudden movement she tugged the dress off one shoulder and down her arm almost to the elbow.
Her bones were those of a child, fragile and delicate, but the rounded shoulder and the small half-bared breasts were not. There were red spots on her arm, like the marks of fingers.
“Don’t send me away,” she whispered. “He beats me. He’s cruel to me. I want to be with you. I love you!”
“Oh, Christ,” Ramses said under his breath. He couldn’t retreat any farther, his back was against the door, and he felt like a bloody fool. Then he heard footsteps. The cavalry had arrived, and in the nick of time, too.
“Pull your dress up,” he snapped.
She didn’t move. Ramses grasped the handle and opened the door. “Mother? Will you come here, please?”
The girl wasn’t crying now. He had never seen so young a face look so implacable. “Hell hath no fury . . . ?” He turned with unconcealed relief to his mother, who stood staring in the doorway.
“We have a runaway on our hands,” he said.
“So I see.” She crossed the room, heels thudding emphatically, and yanked the girl’s dress into place. “What are you running away from, Melinda?”
“My uncle. He beat me. You saw the bruises.”
“He took you by the shoulders and shook you, I expect. I cannot say I blame him. Come with me.”
She shrank back. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Give you a cup of tea and send you home.”
“I don’t want tea. I want . . .”
“I know what you want.” She directed a quizzical look