Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [120]
The sentence ended in a gasp and a start, as Emerson, who had realized that any further reference to the mare, especially from his son, would not improve my mood, kicked Ramses in the shin. No one spoke for a while. Donald had not said a word the entire time; I attributed his silence to remorse at his failure to carry out his duty, but as I was soon to learn, there was another reason. He had been thinking. As Emerson says—somewhat unjustly, I believe—the process is difficult for Englishmen, and requires all their concentration.
Not until we had slaked the first pangs of hunger and were nibbling on slices of fruit did the young man rise from his chair and clear his throat. “I have come to a decision,” he announced. “That is, Enid and I have come to a decision.”
He took the hand the girl offered him, squared his shoulders, and went on, “We wish to be married at once. Professor, will you perform the service this evening?”
The sheer lunacy of the request startled me so that I dropped my napkin. It fell on top of the cat Bastet, who was crouched under the table, hoping (correctly) that Ramses would slip tidbits to her. This upset her a great deal, and the rest of the conversation was punctuated with growls and thumps as Bastet wrestled with the napkin.
Emerson’s jaw dropped. He started to speak, or perhaps to laugh. Then a thought seemed to occur to him, for his eyes narrowed and his hand crept to his chin. “That would certainly solve some of our difficulties,” he said musingly, stroking the dimple. “Mrs. Emerson’s obsession with chaperonage and propriety . . .”
“Emerson!” I exclaimed. “How can you entertain such a notion for a split second? My dear Ronald—excuse me, Donald—my dear Enid—whatever gave you the idea that Professor Emerson is licensed to marry people?”
“Why, I don’t know,” Donald said, looking confused. “The captain of a ship has such privileges; I thought the leader of an expedition in a foreign country—”
“You thought wrong,” I said.
Enid lowered her eyes. Yet I had a feeling she had known the truth all along—and had not cared. I should not wish it to be supposed that I ever approve of immorality, but I must confess that my opinion of the girl rose.
“Sit down, Donald,” I said. “You look so very indecisive standing there scratching your ear. Let us discuss this rationally. I thoroughly approve of your decision, which will, of course, have to wait until the proper formalities have been carried out. May I ask what led you to it?”
Donald continued to hold Enid’s hand. She smiled at him with (I could not help thinking) the gentle encouragement of a teacher toward a rather backward child.
“Enid has convinced me,” Donald said. “We cannot continue to hide like criminals who have something to be ashamed of. Surely she is in no danger from the police; only a madman could entertain the notion of her guilt.”
“That is in fact the case,” I said. “We learned today that the police have abandoned any idea that she killed Kalenischeff. You, however—”
“I,” said Donald, lifting his chin, “will face my accusers like a man. They cannot prove I killed the fellow—though I was often tempted to punch him senseless as I followed him and Enid around Cairo and saw him smirk and leer at her.”
“That is the sort of statement I strongly advise you not to make to anyone else,” said Emerson. “However, I agree with you that there is little evidence against you. But you have not explained this sudden surge of gallantry. Was it love, that noble emotion, that strengthened your moral sinews?”
His satirical tone was lost on Donald, who replied simply. “Yes, sir, it was. Besides, reluctant as I am to face the truth, Enid has convinced me that it was Ronald who tried to kill me this morning.”
“Well, of course it was,” Emerson said. “It has been evident from the first that the difficulties you two have encountered are purely domestic in nature. Your brother, Mr. Fraser, appears to be a thoroughly unprincipled person. It was he, was it not, who forged the signature and persuaded you to accept