The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [72]
Cyrus burst out laughing. “And provide college scholarships for the lot! My dear, you may start a dozen schools if it will make you happy.”
After dinner we retired to the drawing room, where we were affectionately greeted by the Vandergelts’ cat, Sekhmet. She had belonged to us originally; we had brought her to Egypt in the hope that she would compensate Ramses for the loss of his longtime companion, the cat Bastet. He had not taken to Sekhmet, referring to her contemptuously as “the furry slug.” It is true that Sekhmet was so fatuously and indiscriminately affectionate she did not care whose lap she occupied, but this very trait had endeared her to Cyrus. She now lived like a princess in “the Castle,” fed on cream and filleted fish by the majordomo when the Vandergelts were in America, and never leaving the walled borders of the estate—for Cyrus would not allow her to mingle with common cats.
She settled down on David’s knee, purring hysterically, and Nefret went to the pianoforte. Cyrus took me aside.
“Thank you, Amelia, my dear,” he said warmly. “You have given Katherine a new interest. She was moping a bit before you arrived; missed the kiddies, you know.”
“And so did you, I daresay.”
Katherine’s children by her first, unhappy marriage were at school in England. I had not met them, since they spent their holidays in America with their mother and stepfather; but Cyrus, who had always wanted a family of his own, had taken them to his generous heart. He sighed wistfully.
“Yes, my dear, I did. I wish you could persuade Katherine to let them come out with us next season. I’ve offered to hire tutors, teachers, anything she wants.”
“I will talk to her, Cyrus. It strikes me as an excellent idea. There is no climate so salubrious as that of Luxor in winter, and the experience would be extremely educational.”
He took my hand and pressed it warmly. “You are the best friend in the world, Amelia. We could not get on without you. You will—you will take care of yourself, won’t you?”
“I always do,” I said, laughing. “And so does my dear Emerson. What makes you say that, Cyrus?”
“Well, I just sort of figured you were up to something, since you always are. The quieter things look, the more I expect an explosion. You wouldn’t refuse me the chance to help, would you?”
“Dear Cyrus, you are the truest of friends. At the moment, however, I am not up to anything. I only wish—”
But at that moment Emerson called my name, ostensibly to request that we come join in the singing. Emerson had quite got over his jealousy of Cyrus, but he does not appreciate having other men hold my hand quite so long or quite so warmly.
I am extremely fond of music, but it was the genial company rather than the quality of the performances that made our little impromptu concerts so enjoyable. Emerson cannot carry a tune at all, but he sings very loud and with great feeling. His rendering of “The Last Chord” was one of his best. (A good deal of the melody is on the same note, which was all to the good.) We did a few of the jollier choruses of Gilbert and Sullivan, and Nefret badgered Ramses into joining her in a song from the new Victor Herbert operetta. Cyrus always brought the latest American music out with him, and none of us had heard this one.
“It’s a duet,” Nefret pointed out. “I can’t sing two parts simultaneously, and you’re the only other one who can sight-read.”
Ramses had been reading the words over her shoulder. “The lyrics are even more banal and sentimental than usual,” he grumbled. “I won’t be able to keep a straight face.”
Nefret chuckled. “What’s wrong with golden hair and eyes of blue? It’s hard to find words that rhyme with ‘brown.’ You come in on the chorus: ‘Not that you are fair, dear . . .’ ”
I must confess they sounded very well together, even though Ramses could not resist breaking into a tremulous falsetto on the last high note.
After the impromptu concert had concluded with Cyrus’s rendition of his favorite “Kathleen Mavourneen”—making calf’s eyes at his wife the whole time, as Emerson inelegantly