The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [12]
“It is time for bed, Ramses; Nurse will be waiting,” I said. “You may take the last cake with you.”
Ramses gave me a long, considering look. He then turned to his father, who said cravenly, “Run along, my boy. Papa will read you an extra chapter from his History of Egypt when you are tucked in your cot.”
“Vewy well,” said Ramses. He nodded at me in a manner reminiscent of the regal condescension of his namesake. “You will come and say good night, Mama?”
“I always do,” I said.
When he had left the room, taking not only the last cake but the book on zoology, Emerson began pacing up and down.
“I suppose you want another cup of tea,” I said.
When I really supposed was that since I had suggested the tea, he would say he did not want it. Like all men, Emerson is very susceptible to the cruder forms of manipulation. Instead he said gruffly, “I want a whiskey and soda.”
Emerson seldom imbibes. Trying to conceal my concern, I inquired, “Is something wrong?”
“Not something. Everything. You know, Amelia.”
“Were your students unusually dense today?”
“Not at all. It would be impossible for them to be duller than they normally are. I suppose it is all this talk in the newspapers about Luxor that makes me restless.”
“I understand.”
“Of course you do. You suffer from the same malaise— suffer even more than I, who am at least allowed to hover on the fringes of the profession we both love. I am like a child pressing its nose against the window of the toy shop, but you are not even permitted to walk by the place.”
This flight of fancy was so pathetic, and so unlike Emerson’s usual style of speaking, that it was with difficulty that I prevented myself from flinging my arms about him. However, he did not want sympathy. He wanted an alleviation of his boredom, and that I could not provide. In some bitterness of spirit I said, “And I have failed to obtain even a poor substitute for your beloved excavations. After today, Lady Harold will take the greatest pleasure in thwarting any request we might make. It is my fault; I lost my temper.”
“Don’t be a fool, Peabody,” Emerson growled. “No one could make an impression on the solid stupidity of that woman and her husband. I told you not to attempt it.”
This touching and magnanimous speech brought tears to my eyes. Seeing my emotion, Emerson added, “You had better join me in a little spirituous consolation. As a general rule I do not approve of drowning one’s sorrows, but today has been a trial for both of us.”
As I took the glass he handed me I thought how shocked Lady Harold would have been at this further evidence of unwomanly habits. The fact is, I abominate sherry, and I like whiskey and soda.
Emerson raised his glass. The corners of his mouth lifted in a valiant and sardonic smile. “Cheers, Peabody. We’ll weather this, as we have weathered other troubles.”
“Certainly. Cheers, my dear Emerson.”
Solemnly, almost ritually, we drank.
“Another year or two,” I said, “and we might consider taking Ramses out with us. He is appallingly healthy; sometimes I feel that to match our son against the fleas and mosquitoes and fevers of Egypt is to place the country under an unfair disadvantage.”
This attempt at humor did not win a smile from my husband. He shook his head. “We cannot risk it.”
“Well, but the boy must go away to school eventually,” I argued.
“I don’t see why. He is getting a better education from us than he could hope to obtain in one of those pestilential purgatories called preparatory schools. You know how I feel about them.”
“There must be a few decent schools in the country.”
“Bah.” Emerson swallowed the remainder of his whiskey. “Enough of this depressing subject. What do you say we