Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [19]
He attempted to rise, but sank back, swooning. I took advantage of his helpless state to pluck the filthy turban and the underlying brown felt libdeh (cap) from his head. No wonder he had resisted my attempts to remove them! I had known Berbers with blue or gray eyes, but never one with hair of that peculiar red-gold that is the hallmark of the northern peoples. Strands of silver intertwined with the gold. Yet as I examined the sun-browned countenance, further darkened (as Ramses had said) by a layer of grime, I realized it was that of a young man. What terrible tragedy had rendered him prematurely gray? Or was it the result of dissipation and drugs?
My cogitations were rudely interrupted by Emerson, who had concluded his discussion with Abu and appeared in excellent spirits. This is often the case with Emerson after he has scolded someone.
“So Ramses’ hero is an Englishman? A Scot, rather, I think. He would not thank you for the error, Ramses.” He bent over the young man. “You had better return with us to the hotel, my friend.”
The gentleman—for such he must be, from his educated accent—glared malevolently and impartially upon us all. “If you wish to repay me for any fancied service, you can do so by leaving me at liberty to do as I like.”
“I am in complete sympathy with your desire for privacy and independence,” Emerson said. “I do not wish to reward you; I wish to offer you a position.”
“What?” Astonishment smoothed the scowl from the young man’s brow and gave his countenance an ingenuous look that made me yearn to assist him. What he needed was a woman’s firm and compassionate care, and I was about to say so when Emerson nudged me with such force that I was caught off balance—squatting being a position I never assume with ease—and toppled gently onto my side. While I was endeavoring to reassume an upright position, Emerson continued.
“I have been searching for a muscular and dependable person to take charge of my son. My name is Emerson, and this lady—”
“I know who you are, sir.”
“Then you may also know that Mrs. Emerson is my professional associate as well as my wife. (Do get up, Amelia, you look very unprofessional squirming on the ground like an overturned beetle.) She has not the time to give Ramses the attention he requires—”
“I would say that Master Ramses requires a good deal of attention, if the events of this evening are typical.” A faint smile accompanied this comment.
“This evening’s events are not . . .” Emerson stopped. “Er—be that as it may, we are leaving tomorrow morning for Dahshoor, in order to begin our excavations. You would do us a favor if you would consent to take the position, for which you have already proved yourself so admirably qualified.”
I fancy the young man’s surprise at this offer was scarcely less than my own. His response was a sardonic laugh. “You are out of your head, Professor. Would you entrust your son to a renegade, a beggar, a smoker of opium, a hashish-eater?”
“As to that,” I began, but did not finish the sentence because I saw Emerson’s elbow jut out, and my balance was still precarious.
“So long as you refrain from indulging in drugs while on duty, your habits are not my concern,” said Emerson.
“Well . . . Why not? It would be a new experience, at any rate.”
“Then let us return to the hotel,” I said, rising.
“I will not go with you,” said the young man firmly.
“In heaven’s name, why not?”
“Because . . . I choose not to,” was the sullen reply.
“You may choose to go to Shepheard’s or to the devil,” snapped Emerson, whose patience was at an end. “Do I understand that you have refused my offer, Mr.—”
“Call me Nemo.”
Emerson raised his eyebrows. Before he could comment, the young man continued, “I do not refuse. But I have certain personal matters to attend to before