Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [85]
“I think, my son,” said Emerson uneasily, “that your mama will excuse you now. You had better go to bed.”
“Yes, Papa. But first there is a matter I feel obliged to bring to Mama’s attention. Gregson is—”
“I will hear no more, wretched boy,” I exclaimed, rising to my feet. “I am thoroughly out of sorts with you, Ramses. Take yourself off at once.”
“But, Mama—”
I started toward Ramses, my arm upraised—not indeed to strike, for I do not believe in corporal punishment for the young except in cases of extreme provocation—but to grasp him and take him bodily to his room. Misinterpreting my intentions, the cat Bastet rose in fluid haste and wrapped her heavy body around my forearm, sinking her teeth and claws into my sleeve. Emerson persuaded the cat of her error and removed her—claw by claw—but instead of apologizing, she chose to be offended. She and Ramses marched off side by side, both radiating offended hauteur, the cat by means of her stiff stride and switching tail, Ramses by neglecting to offer his usual formula of nightly farewell. I daresay they would have slammed the door if there had been one to slam.
Emerson then suggested we retire. “After such a day, Peabody, you must be exhausted.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I am ready to go on talking for hours if you like.”
Emerson declined this offer, however, and after gathering our belongings we started for our tent. I was uneasy about leaving the others, but we had taken all possible precautions, requesting Abdullah to close and bar the gates and to set a guard. I felt sure I could rely on Donald, not only to watch over both his charges, but to maintain a respectful distance from one of them. Poor boy, he was so in awe of the girl, he hardly dared speak to her, much less approach her.
I promised myself I would have a little talk with him on that subject. For in my opinion (which is based on considerable experience), there is nothing that annoys a woman so much as fawning, servile devotion. It brings out the worst in women—and in men, let me add, for a tendency to bully the meek is not restricted to my sex, despite the claims of misogynists. If someone lies down and invites you to trample him, you are a remarkable person if you decline the invitation.
I told Emerson this as we strolled side by side through the starlit night. I half-expected him to sneer, for he takes a poor view of my interest in the romantic affairs of young people; instead he said thoughtfully, “So you recommend the Neanderthal approach, do you?”
“Hardly. What I recommend is that all couples follow our example of marital equality.”
I reached for his hand. It lay lax in my grasp for a moment; then his strong fingers twined around mine and he said, “Yet you seem to be saying that a certain degree of physical and moral force—”
“Do you remember remarking on one occasion that you had been tempted to snatch me up onto a horse and ride with me into the desert?” I laughed. Emerson did not; in fact, his look was strangely wistful as he replied, “I do remember saying it. Are you suggesting I ought to have done so?”
“No, for I would have resisted the attempt with all the strength at my disposal,” I replied cheerfully. “No woman wants to be carried off against her will; she only wants a man to want to do it! Of course, for old married folk like us, such extravagance would be out of place.”
“No doubt,” Emerson said morosely.
“I admit that a proper compromise between tender devotion and manly strength is difficult to achieve. But Donald has gone too far in one direction, and I intend to tell him so at the earliest possible opportunity. He adores her; and I rather think she reciprocates, or would, if he went about wooing her in the proper manner. She would not say such cruel cutting things to him if she did not—”
We had reached the tent. Emerson swept me