He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [43]
In fact, I knew very well what he was doing. Raising me to my feet, he drew me into a close embrace. “I would rather have you than Nefertiti, Cleopatra, or Helen of Troy,” he murmured against my cheek.
“Now?” I exclaimed.
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, it is eight o’clock in the morning, and for another, they are waiting for you at Giza, and . . . and . . .”
“Let them wait,” said Emerson.
It was like the old days, when Emerson’s tempestuous affection was wont to display itself in places and under circumstances some might consider inappropriate. I had never been able to deny him then; I was unable to deny him now. When he left me I was in a much improved state of mind. Humming under my breath, I returned to my study to finish my letters.
Not until the euphoria of the encounter had begun to subside did I begin to harbor certain suspicions. Emerson’s demonstrations of affection are often spontaneous and always overwhelming. He knows very well how they affect me, and he is not above employing them for purposes of distraction.
Putting down my pen, I reconsidered our conversation. Had there not been something unusual about his willingness to incur delay? As a rule he was impatient to get to the site, nagging the rest of us to hurry. We had talked about costumes and disguises, and now that I thought about it he had had a somewhat shifty look when I mentioned beards. . . . Curse the man, I thought, he is up to something! His disclaimers notwithstanding, I knew he yearned to play some part in the war effort. He sympathized with Ramses’s pacifist sentiments, but did not entirely share them, and I suspected that what he really wanted was a chance to prowl the streets of Cairo in disguise, looking for spies and exposing foreign agents. I had no strong objections, so long as he did not try to prevent me from doing it too.
At Emerson’s request I had written to Major Hamilton inviting him and his niece to tea. The following afternoon I was in receipt of a brief communication from him. Nefret was reading her own messages; the one she was presently perusing appeared to contain something of particular interest.
We were on the roof terrace waiting for the others to return from the dig. For the past several days I had been the one to sort through the messages and letters that had arrived in our absence. Naturally I would never have opened a letter addressed to Nefret; I only wanted to know whether Percy would have the audacity to correspond with her. Thus far she had received no communication that aroused suspicion, but today she had got to the post basket on the hall table before me.
“Not bad news, I hope?” I inquired, seeing a frown wrinkle the smooth surface of her brow.
“What?” She looked up with a start. “Oh. No, nothing of the sort. Only an invitation I shan’t accept. Is there anything of interest in your letters?”
“I have heard from Major Hamilton—you know, the uncle of the young lady who was here the other day. It is a rather curious communication. What do you think?”
I handed her the letter, thinking it might inspire her to return the compliment. It did not. She folded her own letter and slipped it into her skirt pocket before taking the paper from my hand. As she read it her lips pursed in a silent whistle.
“Curious? Rude, rather. The terms in which he declines your invitation make it clear he doesn’t care to make our acquaintance, and has no intention of allowing his niece to visit us. He doesn’t say why.”
“I think I can hazard a guess.”
Nefret looked at me in surprise. “I didn’t think you knew.”
“Knew what?”
She looked as if she were sorry she had spoken, but my unblinking gaze silently demanded a response. “About Ramses having cut the Major out with Mrs. Fortescue.”
“What a vulgar way of putting it. Do you mean that Ramses and that woman are—er—associating? She is old enough to be his mother. What about her other admirer—that French count?”
Nefret’s delicate lips curled. “I detest this sort of gossip, but