The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [103]
It was midafternoon before Emerson returned, and by then even my iron constitution was beginning to feel some strain, for in the meantime, in addition to the tasks I have described, I had visited the sick man and forced some broth down his throat, had interviewed Mr. O’Connell on his return from the Valley, dressed his injured hand and put him to bed, and had enjoyed an acrimonious argument with Madame Berengeria over the luncheon table. Like many drunkards, she had astonishing powers of recuperation; a few hours’ rest completely restored her, and when she forced her way into the dining room she was again dressed in her appalling costume. The strong perfume she had poured over her frame did not entirely cover the unmistakable olfactory evidences of her lack of interest in the most rudimentary personal cleanliness. She had learned of Armadale’s death, and her dire predictions of further disasters to come were interrupted only by intervals of munching and mumbling as she crammed food into her mouth. I did not blame Lady Baskerville for her precipitate departure from the table. Vandergelt followed, but I felt obliged to remain until Madame had eaten herself into a semistupor. My request that she return to her room revived her and was the cause of the argument, during the course of which she made a number of unwarranted personal remarks and asserted her intention of reclaiming her reincarnated lover, Thutmosis-Ramses-Amenhotep the Magnificent-Setnakhte.
When Emerson entered our room, by way of the window, he found me recumbent on the bed with the cat at my feet. He hastened to my side, dropping the armful of papers he was carrying.
“Peabody, my dear girl!”
“Everything is under control,” I assured him. “I am a little tired, that is all.”
Emerson sat down beside me and wiped the perspiration from his brow. “You cannot blame me for being alarmed, my love; I don’t recall ever seeing you in bed during the daytime—to rest, that is. And,” he added, with an amused glance at the sleeping cat, “you looked for all the world like a small Crusader on a tombstone with your faithful hound at your feet. What is the cause of this unusual weariness? Have the police been here?”
I gave him a succinct, well-organized summary of the events of the day.
“What a frightful time you have had,” he exclaimed. “My poor girl, I only wish I could have been with you.”
“Bah,” I said. “You don’t wish that at all. You are relieved to have missed all the fuss, particularly Madame.”
Emerson smiled sheepishly. “I confess that the lady comes as close to throwing me off balance as any living creature— with the exception of yourself, my love.”
“She is more appalling every day, Emerson. The ways of Providence are inscrutable, to be sure, and I would never dream of questioning its decree; but I cannot help but wonder why Madame Berengeria is allowed to flourish when good young men like Alan Armadale are cruelly cut off. It would be an act of positive benevolence to remove her from this world.”
“Now, Amelia, be calm. I have something for you that will restore your equanimity; the first mail from home.”
Shuffling through the envelopes I came upon a familiar hand and a sentiment long repressed, through stern necessity, would not be denied. “A letter from Ramses,” I exclaimed. “Why did you not open it? It is addressed to both of us.”
“I thought we could read it together,” Emerson replied. He stretched out across the bed, his hands supporting his head, and I opened the envelope.
Ramses had learned to write at the age of three, disdaining the clumsy art of printing. His hand, though unformed, proclaimed the essentials of his character, being large and sprawling, with emphatic punctuation marks. He favored very black ink and broad-nibbed pens.
“’Dearest mama and papa,’” I read. “’I miss you very much.’”
Emerson let out a choked sound