He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [47]
“But I wouldn’t be nursing soldiers.”
“No. Only women who have been abused in another sort of war—the longest-lasting war in history. A war that won’t be won quickly or easily.”
“I’m sorry for them, of course,” Anna muttered. “But—”
“But you see yourself gently wiping the perspiration from the brows of handsome young officers who have suffered genteel wounds in the arm or shoulder. I think,” Nefret said, “it would do you good to meet some of the women who come to us, and hear their stories, and see their injuries. It will give you a taste of what war is really like. Are you game?”
Anna bit her lip, but no young woman of spirit could have resisted that challenge. “Yes,” she said defiantly. “I’ll show you I’m not as frivolous as you think me. I will come tomorrow and do any job you ask me to do, and I’ll stick it out until you dismiss me.”
“Agreed.”
I caught Katherine’s eye. I expected her to object, but she only smiled slightly and picked up her opera glasses. “Ah—there is Major Hamilton, Amelia. Third row center, reddish-gray hair, green velvet coat.”
“Dear me, how picturesque,” I said, identifying the individual in question without difficulty because of the unusual color of his hair. “Is he wearing a kilt, do you think?”
“Presumably. It goes with the coat.”
Since my readers are of course familiar with the opera, I will not describe the performance in detail. When the curtain fell, accompanied by the thunderous crash that sealed the doomed lovers forever in their living tomb, we all joined in the applause except for Emerson, who began fidgeting. If he had his way, he would bolt for the exit the moment the last note of music died. I consider this discourteous and unpatriotic, so I always make him sit through the curtain calls and “God Save the King.”
Cyrus suggested we stop somewhere for a bite of supper, but the hour was late and I knew Emerson would be up before dawn, so we said good night to the Vandergelts and got into our motorcar.
“You can let me off at the Semiramis, Selim,” said Nefret.
I said, “With whom are you having supper, Nefret?”
I expected a poke in the ribs from Emerson. Instead he cleared his throat noisily and muttered, “You need not answer that, Nefret. Er—unless you choose.”
“It is not a secret,” Nefret said. “Lord Edward Cecil and Mrs. Fitz, and some of their set. You know Mrs. Canley Tupper, I believe?”
I did. Like the others in that “set,” including Lord Edward, she was frivolous and silly, but not vicious.
“And,” said Nefret, “Major Ewan Hamilton may join us.”
I found it impossible to sleep that night, though Emerson slumbered sweetly and sonorously at my side. Nefret had not returned by the time we retired, nor had Ramses. Where were they and what were they doing—and with whom? I turned from one unsatisfactory position to another, but it was worry, not physical discomfort, that affected me. In some ways the children had been less trouble when they were young. At least I had had the right to control their actions and question them about their plans. Not that they always obeyed my orders or answered truthfully. . . .
The intruder’s noiseless entrance gave me no warning. It was on the bed, advancing slowly and inexorably toward my head, before I was aware of its presence. A heavy weight settled onto my chest and something cold and wet touched my cheek.
“What is it?” I whispered. “How did you get in here?”
There was no audible response, only a harder pressure against my face. When I moved, the weight lifted from me and the shadowy form disappeared. I got out of bed without, as I believed, waking Emerson. Delaying only long enough to assume dressing gown and slippers, I went to the door. The cat was already there. As soon as I opened the door, she slipped out.
A lamp had been left burning on a table in the hall. I snatched it up. Seshat led me along the hall, looking back now and then to make sure I was following.
The only way she could have entered our room was through the window. One of her favorite promenades