Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [61]
“The work is very hard,” Ramses said
Nefret knew this approach was not going to be effective. Ramses wasn’t taking the girl seriously, but she was not deceived by the pretty face and childish figure. Jumana had got more than an education at Katherine Vandergelt’s school. If she had been English she would have been out with the Pankhursts, chaining herself to railings and demanding the vote.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Sixteen. But I am very strong. I can climb the cliffs as well as Jamil, and carry heavy baskets.”
Ramses leaned back and looked helplessly at Nefret. Unlike some men, he had sense enough to know when he was out of his depth.
“What you want is impossible,” Nefret said. “In the first place, your father would never agree to that arrangement. In the second place, you are too young for such a responsible position. The men wouldn’t take orders from you and you have not had the proper training.”
The big brown eyes filled with tears. “I thought you would help me. You do all the things I want to do. And they said you were kind.”
“It took me many years to learn to do those things. When I was your age . . .” She saw the corners of Ramses’s mouth twitch, and stopped herself. Good Lord, I sound like one of those sententious old ladies I always despised, she thought. “I will tell you what we will do,” she went on. “We will speak with your father and if he agrees you can spend some time with us while we are here. We will see how you get on, and then, perhaps, it might be possible for you to have the training you want. I make no promises, you understand.”
The girl jumped up and flung herself at Ramses’s feet. Grasping his hands, she began pressing kisses on them. “The blessings of God be on you, Brother of Demons! You will do it? You will speak to my father?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Flushed with embarrassment, he tried to free his hands. “Uh—please don’t do that. You had better run along now, before Jamil gets here.”
She gave him a radiant smile—spared a noticeably dimmer one for Nefret—and darted out.
“You’re perspiring,” Nefret said critically. “Where is your handkerchief?”
He hadn’t misplaced it yet; the day was still young. After wiping his forehead, he demanded, “What did she do that for? I didn’t say anything! You were the one who promised we’d give her a try.”
“Because you’re a man. She thinks I need your lordly permission to carry out my promise, and,” Nefret added with a grin, “she knows men are susceptible to big brown eyes and fawning flattery.”
“I’m not. If I have to put up with that sort of thing every time she comes round—”
“Well, you may, though now that she’s got her way she won’t be quite so attentive. She’s a calculating little baggage. It’s a good thing I was here. What would you have promised her to stop her crying?”
“I hate to think. Did you really mean what you said? Yusuf isn’t going to like it. He’s probably selected a husband for her. Most Egyptian girls of sixteen are already married.”
“Of course I meant it, and I don’t care whether Yusuf likes it or not. We’ll see how she works out. You of all people are not going to tell me she doesn’t deserve a chance because she is female?”
“I of all people am not.” Taking her hand, he raised her to her feet. “There’s Jamil at last. She’s right, he is slow.”
Jamil looked like his younger sister—big brown eyes, well-shaped features, brilliant smile—except for his mustache, which was large and luxuriant. He was of medium height and obviously conscious of his lack of inches; when he shook hands with Ramses he rose onto his toes and straightened his shoulders. He made no mention of Jumana, so Ramses concluded the girl must have made good her escape before he got there.
“The horses have been washed,” Jamil announced, stroking his mustache fondly.
Ramses nodded. His mother had begun