Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [37]
“Makes one feel like a general, doesn’t it, Peabody?” he said, in high good humor.
I glanced back at the ragged crowd straggling after us. “More like a leader of one of the madder crusades. Where is Nemo?”
“Hot on the trail of Ramses.” Emerson grinned. “I fancy the boy won’t find it as easy to elude or corrupt him as he did Selim. I look forward to accomplishing a great deal of useful work this season, Peabody. Without interruption, Peabody!”
I knew the poor dear man was deluding himself, but I did not voice my doubts aloud. It was hard to think of murder, abduction, and assault on such a morning. The air was fresh and cool and the purity of the atmosphere strengthened every sense. Sounds carried farther, vision seemed magnified, and the surface of the skin tingled to the slightest touch. I drew in deep breaths of the salubrious air, and although Emerson set a rapid pace, I had no difficulty in matching it.
Our march was accompanied by the musical jingle of the accouterments dangling from my belt, all of them objects I find essential on a dig, such as matches in a waterproof box, small flasks of water and brandy, writing implements, a pocket knife, and so on. Emerson was not too fond of my carrying these things, for he complained that their sharp edges were an impediment to the impulsive embraces to which he was prone; but upon at least one occasion my chatelaine, as I jestingly called it, had been instrumental in saving our lives. His opinions had not altered, but he now kept them to himself.
Ever since my first season in Egypt, when I had sometimes found myself uncomfortably, not to say dangerously, encumbered by the absurd attire fashion forces upon the helpless female form, I had been refining and improving my working costume. Though I have never received credit for my innovations from the couturier establishments of Paris—and probably never shall, for envy is a characteristic of such people—I am convinced my bold ideas have had their effect on persons such as Worth and Lanvin. Only this past year I had come upon an ensemble known as a bicycle dress which incorporated many of my inventions, and which was the latest Paris mode. I had therefore caused several versions of this costume to be made for myself, not in the impractical brown velveteen of the original, but in serge and lightweight flannel. The darker colors that are more suitable in England and in Europe, matching as they do the natural shades of nasty French mud and good healthy English dirt, are not appropriate for Egypt, so I had indulged myself in cheerful shades that would not show sand and dust. In honor of our first day, I had assumed the gayest of the collection. The wide Turkish trousers, gathered in at the knee, were so full that when I remained upright and motionless, the division was obliterated. Stout boots and gaiters completed the nether portion of the costume. A short double-breasted jacket was buttoned over a white shirtwaist, collar, and tie, and a broad leather belt adorned with the aforementioned accouterments (and of course a pistol in a matching leather holster) supported the trousers. The fabric was a brilliant crimson, Emerson’s favorite shade. Though some might have considered it too flamboyant for an archaeological expedition, I felt it added a colorful touch.
Though concern about my personal appearance has never been a matter of paramount importance to me, I will candidly admit that my spirits rise when I know I look my best. I fancy there is nothing wrong with that. It displays a proper self-respect without which no individual, man or woman, can achieve great things. I was conscious that morning of looking my best. Add to that the glorious promise of the pyramids, pale gold in the morning light, and the presence of the man at my side, towing me along with hearty precipitation, and I knew there was not a woman in the universe happier than I.
I realized that I would not be able to penetrate the interior of the pyramid that day. Indeed, that pleasure would