Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [99]
“No, no,” he said, in the genial growl that sometimes deceived insensitive persons into believing he was in an affable mood. “In case it has slipped your mind, Mr. Fraser, a gentleman does not force his attentions upon a lady when she is unwilling to receive them. Particularly when I am able to prevent it.”
“She is not unwilling,” Ronald said. “You don’t know her, Professor. She has always scolded and insulted me; we got into the habit as children. It is just her way of showing her affection.”
“A most peculiar way, I must say,” Emerson said skeptically. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
“I appeal to Mrs. Emerson,” said Ronald with a smile. He certainly was a volatile young person; all traces of sorrow had vanished, and a look of satisfaction brightened his handsome face. “Isn’t it true, Mrs. Emerson, that some young ladies enjoy tormenting the persons they love? She treats Donald just the same; you must have observed that.”
“Had I had the opportunity to see them together, I might indeed have observed it,” I replied shortly, for I resented his transparent attempt to trick me into an admission. “Without wishing to seem inhospitable, Mr. Fraser, I suggest you leave.”
Ronald bent his earnest gaze upon me. “Now that I am at ease about Enid’s safety, I have only one concern. My brother, Mrs. Emerson—my poor, suffering brother. Enid has always taken his part; she has for him the affection of a sister. He did wrong, but he has been punished enough. I want to find him and take him home. Together we will face whatever troubles the world sends us. If I could only tell him—only speak with him! I would remind him of the happy days of childhood, the hours we spent in harmless play, the reeds by the canal where we lay for hours watching the little birds fly in and out—”
“Oh, really, I cannot stand any more of this,” said Emerson, half to himself. “First he bleats and sobs at the girl, now he is blathering on about his childhood days—and in the most maudlin, sentimental clichés I have ever heard. Goodnight, Mr. Fraser. Go away, Mr. Fraser.”
There was no way even Ronald Fraser could turn this into a conventional and courteous farewell, but he did his best, bowing over my hand and repeating his thanks for my protection of his poor delicate darling, as he put it. The phrase was unfortunate, for it moved Emerson into abrupt action. I think he meant only to snatch Mr. Fraser up and throw him onto his horse, but Mr. Fraser anticipated him. After he had galloped away, Emerson bellowed to Abdullah to close and bar the gates. “If anyone tries to come in, shoot to kill,” he shouted.
Then he turned to me. “How long until dinner, Peabody? I am ravenous.”
“It has been a busy day,” I agreed. “Sit down, Emerson, and have another cup of tea. I can boil more water in an instant.”
“I think I will have whiskey instead. Will you join me, Peabody?”
“Yes, thank you. Where is everyone?”
“Fraser—our Fraser—is probably skulking around somewhere in back.” Emerson picked up the chair and looked at it critically. “One of the legs is broken. These young men are deuced hard on the furniture, Peabody.”
“So they are, Emerson.”
“The young woman,” Emerson went on, “is, if I know young women, weeping wildly in her room. That is what young women do when they are in a state of emotional confusion. Have I mentioned to you, Peabody, that one of the reasons why I adore you is that you are more inclined to beat people with your umbrella than fall weeping on your bed? The latter is a very trying habit.”
“I quite agree with you, Emerson. That takes care of Enid, then. We have only to account for Ramses before we can settle down to a nice quiet—”
“I am here, Mama,” said Ramses, emerging from the house with the whiskey bottle and glasses on a tray. Emerson leaped to take it from him, and Ramses continued, “I heard all that transpired through the crack in the door. I considered that my appearance on the scene might divert the course of the discussion, which I found most interesting and