Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [3]
The expression on Emerson’s handsome countenance might have led an observer to suppose it was not sympathy but rising fury that caused his brows to lower and his eyes to snap. Since I had a few doubts on that subject myself, I hastened to satisfy the curiosity he had expressed some minutes earlier.
“Naturally I look forward to the work of this season. You know my enthusiasm for pyramids, and one could hardly find finer specimens than at Dahshoor. I particularly anticipate investigating the burial chamber of the Black Pyramid under more auspicious circumstances than those that surrounded our initial visit. One’s critical faculties are not at their best after one has been dropped through Stygian darkness into a flooded subterranean pit and left to perish there.”
Emerson had released his hold on my shoulders and turned back to the rail. His eyes fixed on the horizon, he said rapidly, “We will have to wait until later in the season to explore the Black Pyramid, after the inundation has receded to its lowest point. If the chamber is still flooded, perhaps a pump—”
“I have also considered that problem, my dear Emerson. However, that is not the issue at the present time.”
“A hydraulic pump, with a hose—”
“Have you forgotten, Emerson, the circumstances under which we first made our acquaintance with the interior of the Black Pyramid?”
“I am not so elderly that I suffer from lapses of memory,” Emerson replied waspishly. “Nor have I forgotten your response when I expressed my intention of dying in your arms. I confess I had expected a trifle more appreciation.”
“You misunderstood me, Emerson. As I said at the time, I would be happy to have that arrangement prevail should the inevitability of doom be upon us. I never doubted for a moment, my dear, that you would find a way out. And I was quite correct.”
I moved closer and leaned against his shoulder.
“Well,” Emerson said gruffly. “We did get out, didn’t we? Though if it had not been for Ramses—”
“Let’s not talk about Ramses or the circumstances of our escape. You know what is on my mind, Emerson, for I am certain that it haunts you in equal measure. I will never forget our final encounter with the villain who was responsible for our near demise. I can still see his sneering smile and hear his contemptuous words. ‘This, then, is farewell. I trust we shall not meet again.’ ”
Emerson’s hands clenched on the rail with such force that the tendons stood out like whipcord. However, he did not speak, so I continued, “Nor can I forget the vow I made at the time. ‘We will meet again, never fear; for I will make it my business to hunt you down and put an end to your nefarious activities.’ ”
Emerson’s hands relaxed. In a querulous tone he remarked, “You may have been thinking that at the time, Amelia, but you certainly didn’t say so, not until that young whippersnapper from the Daily Yell interviewed you this past July. You deliberately deceived me about that interview, Amelia. You never told me you had invited O’Connell to my house. You smuggled him in and smuggled him out, and instructed my own servants to keep me in the dark—”
“I was only trying to spare you, my dear, knowing how you dislike Mr. O’Connell. After all, you once kicked him down the stairs—”
“I did no such thing,” said Emerson, who honestly believed this. “But I might have done, if I had caught him in my drawing room smirking and leering at my wife and getting ready to print a pack of lies about me. His story was absolutely embarrassing. Besides, it was inaccurate.”
“Now, Emerson, I must differ with you. I am certain one of us hurled that challenge at the Master Criminal; perhaps it was you who said it. In the interview I may have omitted a few of Ramses’ activities, for I thoroughly disapprove of giving children too high an opinion of themselves. In every other way the report was entirely accurate, and it certainly did not embarrass ME. What, am I not to praise my husband for his courage and strength, and commend him for rescuing me from certain death?”
“Er, hmmm,” said Emerson.