Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [157]
We were at least half an hour before our time, but the untroubled countenances of my children informed me that I was too late. Whatever they had been up to, it had been accomplished. At Nefret’s invitation I made a tour of inspection—solely to renew fond memories, as I assured her—and then we returned to the saloon, which was filled with the golden light of late afternoon. Accepting a cup of tea from Nefret, I gazed about with considerable emotion. How many happy hours had I spent in that room with those I loved, engaged in amiable conversation or, upon occasion, in equally pleasurable arguments with Emerson. Except for new curtains and coverings, Nefret had made few changes, but I observed with some surprise that my portrait had been replaced with a copy of one of the scenes from Tetisheri’s tomb.
“Did you tire of having me glare down at you from the wall?” I inquired, laughing to indicate it was just one of my little jokes.
Ramses came at once to sit beside me. He put his arm round my shoulders. “What is it?” I cried in alarm. “Why are you doing that?”
“Because he loves you and is happy to see you,” Nefret said. Ramses had gone a trifle red in the face.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, my dear boy, I am happy to see you too.”
“We are all happy to see one another,” declared Emerson. “Why is it necessary to say so? What the devil have you done with your mother’s portrait, Ramses?”
“That’s rather a long story,” Ramses said.
“Then I will tell mine first,” I declared. “I believe you are au courant about our adventures in Cairo, except for the latest, which occurred this past Sunday.”
I was informed that they knew all about that too, since Sennia had treated Ramses to a highly colored account of her adventure. I had asked her not to speak of it for fear of worrying Bertie, thinking that that admonition would prevent premature disclosure to all parties; nor had she. She had only told Ramses, during a brief interlude when she had got him off by himself. I allowed Emerson to relate the results of our investigation while I indulged in a few cucumber sandwiches.
“He called himself the Master,” Ramses said in an odd flat voice.
“Apparently that is the case,” said Emerson, in the same sort of voice. His eyes locked with those of Ramses. I have never believed that complex messages can be exchanged by means of glances—except in the case of Emerson and myself—but Ramses’s pensive face broke into a smile.
“It’s all right, Father. He’s got a perfect alibi.”
It would be impossible to convey in a few sentences the effect of that simple statement, or the incoherence of the succeeding exchange. As Ramses later admitted, he had been racking his brains to think of a tactful means of breaking the news. I cannot say that it came as a complete surprise. Naturally, the possibility had already occurred to me. What hurt most of all was not the duplicity of my children but that of Emerson.
“You knew!” I cried in poignant reproach. “You have known from the first! Emerson, how could you have kept it from me?”
Emerson began, “General Maxwell—”
“Swore you to secrecy? Such oaths do not, should not, cannot, apply to the relations between husband and wife.”
My attempt to put him on the defensive did not succeed, I am happy to say. I do not care for meekness in a husband, and Emerson is particularly handsome when he is in a rage. His cheeks turned a becoming shade of brick-red and the cleft in his chin vibrated.
“Be damned to that,” he said hotly. “His survival was a military secret, and furthermore, Amelia, it was none of your confounded business.”
I was about to reply, in equally heated terms, when Ramses cleared his throat. “Forgive me for interrupting, but that is beside the point now. You haven’t heard the worst of it. We need your advice.”
The reminder was well-timed. I had not finished with Emerson by any means, but that discussion was best conducted in private. And when I heard “the worst of it,” I could only agree that a council of war was badly needed.