Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [32]
“Physical force would not be necessary,” Emerson declared. “Moral persuasion is what I had in mind.” He sighed. “I really cannot spare the time, though. A pity. I wonder if—”
I interrupted before he could go on. Emerson has not the patience for subtle hints, and that was what we needed now.
“How were things at the hospital, Nefret?” I asked. “I trust Dr. Sophia is well. She must be very busy with all the wounded in addition to her usual patients.”
The color rose into Nefret’s cheeks. “There aren’t any wounded.”
“But every hospital in Alex and in Cairo is full,” I said. “And the military is sending them on to England. Why—”
“Why do you suppose?” Nefret’s voice rose. “Because the bloody military won’t let a woman surgeon or a woman physician treat their men, that’s why! Sophia went round to headquarters in person as soon as the casualties from Gallipoli began pouring in. They thanked her and sent her away.”
“Damned fools,” Emerson grunted.
“It is worse than folly, it is criminal negligence,” Nefret said angrily. “By the time the wounded are taken onto the hospital ships, many of their injuries are gangrenous, and the surgeons have to amputate. They don’t suture the wounds, they just apply wet dressings and pray. An even greater number of the men are suffering from dysentery, jaundice, typhoid, and God knows what other diseases. We could save some of them if we were given the opportunity.”
“How do you know this?” Emerson asked.
Nefret shrugged. “Not all the army doctors are blind fools. Sophia spoke to one of them, who had come round—without official permission—to ask for supplies. He was rather bitter.”
At the end of the day Ramses and Nefret came back to the house with us for tea. We were a little late—as we often were, since Emerson would have gone on working till sundown if I had not insisted he stop—so we found Sennia waiting for us on our rooftop salon, vibrating with indignation and, as she explained, faint with hunger.
“How was school?” I inquired, for this had been her first day.
“I did not like it,” said Sennia, through a mouthful of cake. “It was very—”
“Do not say ‘boring,’ ” I warned.
“But it was, Aunt Amelia.”
She was sitting on the settee between Ramses and Nefret. Nefret put her arm round the child. “Did you make any friends?”
“No. The other children are—”
“Boring?” Nefret laughed, but her lovely face was a little sad. “A new school is always hard at first, Sennia.”
“Was it hard for you?”
“Oh, my, yes.” Nefret and I exchanged reminiscent smiles. “Just ask Aunt Amelia. I didn’t know the things the other girls knew, languages and music and deportment, and they were horrid to me.”
“It was very hard for you, my dear,” I said. I still regretted having put Nefret into a situation whose difficulties I ought to have anticipated. She had been thirteen when she came to us, straight from the remote oasis in the Western Desert where she had been born and raised. Intelligent and anxious to please, she had adjusted to civilized customs so quickly that I had believed her ready for school. I had forgotten that young children of both sexes are inherently vicious.
Sennia would not have an easy time either. Socially and educationally she was better off than Nefret had been, since she had been with us long enough to learn our ways, but while Nefret had been a fair blossom of English loveliness, some of the little beasts would make fun of Sennia’s dark skin and call her names. I wondered whether Saint Mary’s might have been easier . . . Well, we would have to see. Sennia was a fighter, and should the occasion arise I would pay a few calls on the parents of the offenders—or send Emerson to call on them. If she really hated it we would have to reconsider the case.
I said cheerfully, “In some ways it was more difficult for Nefret than it will be for you, Sennia. Children of six are not expected to know French and German or play a musical instrument. That is why they are sent to school, to learn those things.”
“I can play two tunes on the piano,” Sennia said hopefully.
“Thanks to your