He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [214]
“Think,” Ramses repeated. His voice was glacial. Nefret looked from him to Emerson, and got no help there; his chin was jutting out and his face was turning red. “You understand, Aunt Amelia,” she cried. “You would have done the same.”
Emerson could contain himself no longer. “Would? She did do the same! Straight into the lion’s den, armed with a parasol and that damnable self-assurance of hers—I suppose you thought he wouldn’t take advantage, Peabody?”
“It wasn’t the same at all,” I exclaimed.
“No,” said Ramses, in an oddly muffled voice. “He didn’t want to marry you.”
“Are you laughing at your mother, Ramses?” I demanded.
“I’m trying not to. It hurts when I laugh.”
He did, though. I gave Emerson an approving nod. His little outburst had cleared the air wonderfully.
“So,” I said, after Ramses had stopped laughing, and Nefret had tenderly wiped the blood from his cut lip. “How did you find out about the old palace?”
She sat back on her heels. “From Sylvia Gorst. That, Aunt Amelia, dear, was another of my penances—making it up with Sylvia! You’d have been proud of me if you had seen how I apologized and fawned on her. She’s the worst gossip in Cairo, and I felt certain that if she knew anything to Percy’s discredit, I could get it out of her.
“He’d never taken her to his little love nest. He only took married women. He assumed they wouldn’t talk about it for fear of blemishing their reputations, but of course they did—in strictest confidence to their closest friends. Sylvia pretended to be shocked, but it was such a juicy bit of scandal she couldn’t keep it to herself.
“So I confronted Percy with the information. First he denied the whole thing. I’d expected that and was prepared for it; eventually I convinced him that I understood about men having special needs and . . . Ramses, stop gritting your teeth, your lip is bleeding again!”
“Perhaps you had better—er—edit your narrative, Nefret,” I suggested. “I understand how you went about persuading him to take you there. That was the afternoon you came home late for dinner? I could see you had had an—er—unpleasant experience.”
“I turned bright-red like some silly schoolgirl,” Nefret muttered. “I could feel my face burning. It had its unpleasant moments, but I didn’t let him—”
“It’s all right,’ Ramses said softly. “I’m sorry.”
Unself-consciously she bent her bright head and kissed the hand she clasped. “I never was in real danger. I know how to defend myself, and I had my knife. It was a wasted afternoon, though. He never left me alone for a moment. I didn’t even see the rest of the house, only the bedroom.”
“Nefret,” I said quickly, “it is not necessary to say more. Your sacrifice—for it was nothing less, my dear, whatever happened or did not happen—was not in vain. I doubt we could have got directions from poor David, he was in no condition to converse at length. Yes; as Ramses wisely remarked, we work well as a family. Perhaps we have all learned a valuable lesson from this experience.”
Emerson’s expression indicated that he doubted such was the case. Before he could mar the felicity of the occasion by expressing that doubt, I went on, “Ramses should rest now. Good night, my dear boy; in case I neglected to mention it earlier, I love you and I am very proud of you.” Leaning over him, I found an unmarked spot on his face and kissed him.
“Quite,” said Emerson emphatically.
“Thank you,” said Ramses, wide-eyed and red-faced.
Nefret rose in a single graceful movement. She came to me and put her hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. Turning to Emerson, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him too, as she had done when she was a girl. “Good night, Mother,” she said softly. “Good night, Father.”
My dear Emerson was so overcome I had to