Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [101]
Darkness had fallen. The waning moon cast a pallid light across the courtyard. In the silence that followed Emerson’s statement, the cheerful voices of the men gathered around the cookfire struck strangely on our ears.
“Surely not,” I said. “As a matter of fact, Emerson, you were the one who informed me, when I made that very suggestion, that Donald could not possibly be the man in question.”
“It could be either of them,” Emerson said. “Donald or his brother.”
“The same objection holds, Papa,” said Ramses. “The color of their eyes—”
“Oh, never mind that,” Emerson and I burst out simultaneously.
I added, “We might question Enid, to learn whether one or both of the brothers was away from England last winter.”
“I will go and ask her now,” said Ramses, rising.
“I think not, my boy.”
“But, Papa, she is in great distress. I meant to go to her before this.”
Emerson shook his head. “Your intentions do you credit, my boy, but take Papa’s word for it: Young ladies in a state of great distress are best left alone, except by the persons who occasioned said distress.”
“Is that indeed the case, Mama?” Ramses turned to me for confirmation.
“Decidedly I am of your papa’s opinion, Ramses.”
“Yet I would think,” Ramses persisted, “that a demonstration of affectionate concern and perhaps a brief lecture on the futility of excessive emotion would have a positive effect.”
A hideous premonition crept through my limbs. I had not failed to observe the tolerance with which Ramses permitted Enid to pet and caress him. It was a liberty he did not allow strangers unless he had some ulterior motive, and I had naturally assumed he had an ulterior motive with regard to Enid—that, in short, he hoped to win her confidence by pretending to be a normal eight-year-old boy. Now, hearing the earnest and anxious tone in his voice, I began to have horrible doubts. Surely it was much too soon. . . . But if Ramses proved to be as precocious in this area as he had been in others. . . . The prospects were terrifying. I felt a cowardly reluctance to pursue the inquiries I knew I ought to make, but the traditional Peabody fortitude stiffened my will.
“Why did you allow Enid to embrace you today?” I asked.
“I am glad you asked me that, Mama, for it leads me into a subject I am anxious to discuss with you. I was conscious today of a most unusual sensation when Miss Debenham put her arms around me. In some ways it resembled the affectionate feelings I have for you and, to a lesser extent, for Aunt Evelyn. There was, however, an additional quality. I was at a loss to find words for it until I recalled certain verses by Mr. Keats—I refer in particular to his lyric poem ‘The Eve of St. Agnes,’ which aroused—”
“Good Gad,” I cried in agonized tones.
Emerson, naive creature, chuckled in amusement. “My dear boy, your feelings are quite normal, I assure you. They are the first childish stirrings of sensations which will in time blossom and mature into the noblest sentiments known to mankind.”
“So I surmised,” said Ramses. “And that is why I wished to discuss the matter with you. Since these are normal, natural sensations, I ought to know more about them.”
“But, Ramses,” his father began, belatedly aware of where the conversation was leading.
“I believe I have heard Mama say on several occasions that the relationships between the sexes were badly mishandled in our prudish society, and that young persons ought to be informed of the facts.”
“You did hear me say that,” I acknowledged, wondering what had ever possessed me to say it in his hearing.
“I am ready to be informed,” said Ramses, his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, and his great eyes fixed on me.
“I cannot deny the justice of the request,” I said. “Emerson—”
“What?” Emerson started violently. “Now, Peabody—”
“Surely this is a matter more suitable for a father than a mother.”
“Yes, but—”
“I will leave you to it, then.” I rose.
“Just a moment, Papa,” Ramses said eagerly. “Allow