Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [42]
“Since when have I cared about Petrie’s absurd opinions? He thinks the worst of me whatever I do. It will be her decision, of course, but we could use an extra pair of hands. And it would be nice for you to have another woman about.”
The ridiculousness of this remark made me chuckle. “I am hardly the sort that requires female companionship, Emerson. I have plenty to do as it is.”
“No, Amelia, you do not. That active brain of yours is always seeking employment; that is why you keep meddling in police investigations and concocting nonsensical theories about master . . . about criminal conspiracies. Perhaps if you have a young woman to train in archaeology, you won’t be so ready to go off chasing murderers. Good Gad, I have never seen anyone take so long to recover from a faint. Ought I not slap her cheeks or her hands?”
The girl took the hint. Having felt the vigor of Emerson’s grasp, she was wise enough to anticipate what the effect of a gentle slap on the face would be. Her eyes opened
“Where am I?” she said, with a deplorable lack of originality.
“Just where you hoped to be,” Emerson exclaimed. “With me and Mrs. Emerson. Miss . . . What is your name?”
I waited with considerable interest for the young woman’s reply. It was not long delayed; her brief hesitation would have been imperceptible to one who had no reason to suspect her motives. “Marshall. Enid Marshall.”
Emerson sat down on a rock and beamed at her. “Well, Miss Marshall, you made a wise decision to leave Petrie; he is a fair enough scholar—I have known worse—but no sane person can live as he does. Though I don’t think you showed good sense walking all the way from Sakkara in your condition.”
“My—my condition?” the girl gasped.
“Never mind,” Emerson went on. “Mrs. Emerson will fill you up with sulphur and ipecacuanha and you will be on your feet in no time. I will just carry you to our house—”
“No, thank you; I can walk perfectly well.” With my assistance, Enid—to give her the name she had selected—rose to her feet. She looked a trifle dazed, and no wonder; Emerson had labeled her and pigeonholed her and explained her motives with such vigor that even a woman with less cause to conceal her true identity might have been left in doubt as to who she really was.
I, of course, knew who she was. Emerson had been misled, not only by his delight in playing a trick on Mr. Petrie, but by the pitiable inability of the male sex to see beyond a frilly frock and touch of lip rouge. The dark eyes that had snapped with laughter were now shadowed and fearful; the delicate features were drawn and colorless; but they were unquestionably those of the missing English lady, Miss Debenham.
•
Five
•
Emerson’s enthusiasm faded rapidly when he realized that the arrival of his new assistant put an end to his plans for spending the night in a hole in the ground.
“Out of the question, Emerson,” I said, over his querulous objections. “Miss Marshall must certainly spend the night with us, whatever she chooses to do tomorrow, and obviously she cannot be left alone in the same house with a young person of the opposite sex. You know, my dear, that no one despises meaningless social conventions more than I, but some limits of propriety cannot be ignored.”
“Humph,” said Emerson. “But, Amelia, Ramses will be at the house—”
“And so will we, Emerson. I promise you,” I added, smiling at him over the girl’s bowed head, “that first thing tomorrow I will take steps to ensure we do not spend another night at the house.”
“Humph,” said Emerson. But he said it more cheerfully than the first time.
The young woman said nothing. She walked between us with drooping head, but with steps that were firm and steady. I had to commend her quickness; she must be in considerable confusion as to what her precise status was supposed to be, but she had the good sense to keep quiet and say nothing that would challenge Emerson’s assumption.
Emerson is an ebullient