Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [76]
“You are quite right, Emerson,” I murmured. “And I will sit down—I really will—the instant I have finished washing—”
“You can wash him just as easily in a sitting position,” thundered Emerson.
I sat.
Appeased by this gesture of compliance, Emerson lowered his voice to a fairly endurable level. “Pray confine your attentions to the young man’s injury, Amelia. If the rest of him requires washing, he can do it himself.”
“Oh, quite, Emerson. I was only—”
“Enough, Amelia.” Emerson folded his arms and surveyed us with a masterful air. The men had collapsed onto the ground at the instant of his command, and now formed a fascinated audience, mouths ajar and eyes wide. Enid clutched the sides of the stool with both hands, as if she were expecting to be plucked off it; Nemo sat with bowed head, the mark of the girl’s fingers printed crimson on his cheek.
“Ha,” said Emerson, with satisfaction. “That is better. Now, young lady, you had better begin. I address you in that manner since I am certain your name is not Marshall.”
I could not but admire my husband’s cleverness; for his statement was admirably composed so as not to give away the fact that—as I firmly believed, and believe to this day—he was still ignorant of her true identity. Only the briefest flicker of his lashes betrayed his surprise when she admitted who she was, and repeated the narrative she had told me.
“Most interesting,” said Emerson. “Of course I recognized you immediately, Miss Debenham. I was merely—er—biding my time before challenging you.”
He fixed his stern gaze on me, where I sat next to Mr. Nemo. I started to speak, but thought better of it.
“Ha,” Emerson said again. “However, Miss Debenham, you have omitted something from your most interesting story. You have, in fact, omitted everything of importance. I assume you are intimately acquainted with Mr. Nemo here, or you would not have addressed him so informally. Who is he? What is your relationship?”
Nemo rose to his feet. “I can answer those questions and others. If I can spare Enid—Miss Debenham—that shame, in recounting a history replete with—”
“Never mind the rhetoric,” Emerson snapped. “I am a patient man, but there are limits to my patience. What the devil is your name?”
“My name is Donald Fraser.”
I started up. “Ronald Fraser?”
“No, Donald Fraser.”
“But Ronald Fraser—”
The vibration of the dimple in Emerson’s chin warned me that he was about to roar. I stopped, therefore, and Emerson said, with the most exquisite courtesy, “I would be grateful, Mrs. Emerson, if you would refrain from any comment whatever—refrain, if possible, even from breathing loudly—until this gentleman has finished. Begin at the beginning, Mr. Fraser—for of your surname at least I feel fairly confident—and do not stop until you have reached the end.”
Thus directed, the young man began the following narrative.
“My name is Donald Fraser. Ronald is my younger brother. Our family is old and honorable; never, until recently, did a blot of shame darken the name of Fraser—”
“Humph,” said Emerson skeptically. “I take leave to doubt that. The ancient Scot was a bloodthirsty fellow; wasn’t there some tale about an ancestor of yours serving up the severed head of an enemy to the widow of the deceased at a dinner party?”
I coughed gently. Emerson glanced at me. “Quite right, Amelia. I did not mean to interrupt. Continue, Mr. Donald Fraser.”
“It will not take much time, Professor. The story is only too familiar, I fear.” With an attempt at insouciance, the young man started to cross his arms, but winced and let the injured member fall back. For an instant the girl’s face mirrored the pain on his and she made as if to rise. Almost immediately she sank back onto the stool. Ha, I thought, but did not speak aloud.
Donald—as I shall call him, in order to prevent confusion with his brother—proceeded. “Being the elder, I was the