Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [2]
It would have been immediately apparent, to anyone familiar with the circumstances he described, that Emerson was again engaging in his endearing habit of self-deception. The Director of the Antiquities Service, M. de Morgan, had yielded to us the archaeological site at which he himself had worked the previous year, and which had already produced a number of remarkable discoveries. However, Emerson’s subtle tact, a quality that exists only in his imagination, had nothing to do with it. I was not precisely sure what had produced M. de Morgan’s change of heart. Or, to be more exact, I had certain suspicions I preferred not to think about. It was a natural progression from those suspicions to the excuse I now uttered to account for my somber mood.
“I am distressed about Ramses, Emerson. To have our son misbehave so badly, just when I had hoped we might get through one voyage without incident. . . . How many boys of eight, I wonder, have been threatened with keelhauling by the captain of a British merchant vessel?”
“That was merely the captain’s bluff, maritime exaggeration,” Emerson replied impatiently. “He would not dare do such a thing. You are not concerned about Ramses, Peabody; he does this sort of thing all the time, and you ought to be accustomed to it.”
“This sort of thing, Emerson? Ramses has done a number of unspeakable things, but to the best of my knowledge this is the first time he has instigated a mutiny.”
“Nonsense! Simply because a few ignorant seamen misunderstood his lectures on the theories of that fellow Marx—”
“He had no business lecturing the crew—or being in their quarters in the first place. They gave him spirits, Emerson, I know they did. Even Ramses would not have spoken back to the captain in such terms had he not been intoxicated.”
Emerson looked as if he wanted to protest, but since he obviously shared my opinion he found himself with nothing to say. I went on, “What is even more incomprehensible is why the crewmen should endure Ramses’ presence, much less share their cherished grog, as I believe it is called. What possible pleasure could they find in his company?”
“One of them told me they enjoyed hearing him talk. ‘Wot a mouth that nipper ’as’ was the exact phrase.”
A reluctant smile touched his lips as he spoke. Emerson’s lips are among his most admirable features, chiseled and flexible, shaped with precise delicacy and yet not lacking in fullness. I felt my own lips respond with an answering smile. The untutored sailor had hit the nail on the head, so to speak.
“Forget Ramses,” Emerson said. “I insist, Amelia, that you tell me what is worrying you.”
Despite his smile he was not in good temper with me; his use of my proper name indicated as much. “Peabody,” my maiden name, is the one he uses in moments of marital or professional approbation. With a sigh, I yielded.
“A strange foreboding has come over me, Emerson.”
Emerson’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed, Amelia?”
“I am only surprised you do not share it.”
“I do not. At this moment my heart is suffused with the most agreeable sensations. Not a cloud—”
“You have made your point, Emerson. And if you will forgive my mentioning it, that particular metaphor—”
“Are you criticizing my rhetorical style, Amelia?”
“If you are going to take offense at the least little thing I say, Emerson, I cannot confide in you. I didn’t want to cloud your happiness with my worries. Are you certain you want me to tell you?”
His head on one side, Emerson considered the question. “No,” he said.
“You mean you are not certain, or—”
“I mean I don’t want you to tell me. I don’t want to hear about your foreboding.”
“But you asked—”
“I have changed my mind.”
“Then you share the sense of impending—”
“I didn’t until this moment,” Emerson snarled. “Curse it, Amelia—”
“How strange. I was certain