Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [41]
We turned as one man (so to speak) and beheld, standing motionless on the level ground below the ridge, a woman’s form. The gray-blue shadow blurred her features, and for one startled moment I felt as if I were seeing my own reflection in a dusty mirror. The dark mass of loosened hair was the same shade as my own; the high boots and full nether garment were like mine; the very shape of the body, belted tightly around the waist and swelling out above and below that constriction, was the image of my form.
I remembered the old legend of the doppelgänger, that eerie double whose appearance portends approaching death, and I confess that a momentary thrill of terror froze my limbs. Emerson was equally affected. A low “Oh, curse it” expressed the depth of his emotions and his arm held me close to his side, as if daring even the Grim Reaper to tear me from him.
The shadowy shape below swayed and shivered as when one tosses a stone into a pool of dark water. Slowly it sank forward and lay motionless.
The spell was broken. It was no spirit I had seen, but a living woman—living, at least, until that moment. Though how she had come there, and why, were mysteries almost as great as the ultimate mystery of life and death.
I scrambled down the slope, with Emerson close behind, and knelt beside the fallen form. The woman’s costume was certainly similar to mine, but there was no other resemblance except for the color of her hair. Despite her deadly pallor, she was obviously some years younger than I—hardly more than a girl. A pair of goldrimmed spectacles had been pushed aslant by the force of her fall, and the lashes that shadowed her ashen cheeks were long and curly.
“This is too cursed much,” Emerson declared emphatically. “You know, Amelia, that I am the most tolerant and charitable of men; I don’t mind lending a helping hand to the unfortunate, but two in one day is putting a strain on my good nature. Er—she is not dead, I hope?”
“She appears to have fainted,” I said. “Lift her feet, Emerson, if you will be so good.”
Emerson wrapped one big brown hand round the girl’s slim ankles and hoisted them with such vigorous good will that her limbs formed a perfect right angle to her body. I corrected this little error, uncapped my water bottle, and sprinkled the girl’s face.
“She doesn’t stir,” said Emerson, the tremor in his manly tones betraying the soft and tender side of his nature which few others besides myself are privileged to behold. “Are you sure—”
“Perfectly. Her pulse is steady and strong. You can let go her feet now, Emerson—no, no, don’t drop them, lower them gently.”
His anxiety relieved, Emerson reverted to his natural manner. “It really is too bad of Petrie,” he grumbled. “He doesn’t care if his subordinates drop like flies; oh no, he knows they will come running to us and interfere with our work. I will have a word to say to him next time we meet. Of all the infernal, inconsiderate—”
“You think this is one of Mr. Petrie’s assistants?” I asked.
“Why, who else could it be? Quibell said the young ladies were ill; no doubt this girl has had second thoughts about working with that maniac Petrie. Shows considerable good judgment on her part. Why doesn’t she wake up?”
“I believe she is coming round now,” I said. In fact, I was certain the girl had been conscious for some time—and I had a good idea as to why she had wanted to conceal that state.
“Good.” Emerson peered into the girl’s face, breathing so anxiously that her spectacles misted over. I had replaced them after sprinkling her face, though it was doubtful that she could get any good from them; they appeared to be made of plain window glass.
“Naturally I am happy to assist any ill person,” I said, watching the fluttering lashes and little movements of the lips that were the signs of returning consciousness. She really did it quite well; she must have taken part in a number of home theatricals. “But I hope