Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [14]
We had our private discussion, in a corner of the smoking room. It was a fine, bright day, so most of the passengers were on deck enjoying the sunshine. Gargery offered no excuses except the one that was, for him, sufficient. “I couldn’t let you go off by yourselves, not after all the terrible trouble you got into last year.”
Gargery did not know the details of the “terrible trouble,” for the truth of that business was and would be buried deep in the secret files of the War Office, but it had been impossible to hide certain of the consequences from him and the others. I had therefore, with my usual skill, composed a narrative that explained what could not be concealed and avoided what could not be explained. After all, as Gargery admitted, we got ourselves into trouble almost every year with one set of criminals or another. So far as he and our other friends were concerned, the boys’ injuries had been incurred in the course of another encounter with our old nemesis, the Master Criminal, and his gang of antiquities thieves.
Pursuing his advantage, Gargery went on with mounting indignation. “What’s more, sir and madam, you went and let those two get married out there in Egypt, without us being present or even being told, sir and madam, till it was all over. We took that most unkindly, sir and madam.”
Nefret was trying so hard not to laugh, she was incapable of speech, but Ramses managed to interpose a word.
“We got married again in England, Gargery, primarily to please you and Rose. A man doesn’t make that sort of sacrifice lightly.”
“Well, yes, sir,” said Gargery, with the air of one graciously conceding a point. “It was good of you, Mr. Ramses. And very nice it was, I must say, with all the flowers and Miss Nefret pretty as a picture and the master blowing his nose every few minutes and Rose and Miss Lia and Miss Evelyn crying and you the picture of a proud husband and—”
“Yes, quite,” said Ramses. He was somewhat flushed, whether with embarrassment or suppressed laughter, I could not tell. “We know all about it, Gargery. We were there.”
“Me, too,” said Sennia.
In fact, it had been partially on Sennia’s account that Ramses had agreed to “make an ass of myself” in full formal dress, in the presence of the press and various curiosity seekers, at no less an establishment than St. Margaret’s at Westminster. Sennia had been devastated by the news of his marriage. As she explained indignantly to me, she had counted on marrying him herself, when she was a little older. It required a great deal of tact on Nefret’s part to win her over, and part of the price of acceptance was the offer of being a member of an elaborate wedding, attired in her fluffiest frock and bedecked with flowers. (She behaved throughout the ceremony rather as if she were giving the groom away.) Though the whole business was something of a nuisance, it pleased a good many people and satisfied a nagging doubt of my own as to the legitimacy of the original arrangement. Father Bennett of the Anglican Church had been unwilling to act as promptly as I wanted, and the amiable but very elderly Coptic priest who officiated kept forgetting the words.
The handsome flush that had darkened Emerson’s cheeks was not caused by embarrassment or laughter. He knew he had lost considerable ground during the exchange and was trying to think how to regain it without offending Sennia.
“You need me, sir and madam,” said Gargery. “Especially with Mr. David staying behind and little miss along.”
“Oh—er—bah,” said Emerson, with a wary look at Sennia. She was watching him like a small protective dragon. He forced a sickly, unconvincing smile. “Hmph.”
“So that’s settled,” said Nefret. “Come, Ramses, we haven’t done our mile round the deck yet. Will you join us, Sennia?”
“I will stay with Gargery.” She took his hand.
And stay with him she did, during most of the daylight hours for the remainder of the voyage. It took Emerson several days to get back in her good graces.
“Curse it,” he remarked gloomily. “I daren’t so much as scowl