The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [15]
“Why, to take over the direction of the excavation,” she said. “It must be carried on, and without delay. I honestly believe my darling Henry will not rest quietly in the tomb while this work, possibly the culmination of his splendid career, is in peril. It will be a fitting memorial to one of the finest—”
“Yes, you said that in your interview in the Yell,” I interrupted. “But why come to us? Is there no scholar in Egypt who could take on the task?”
“But I came first to you,” she exclaimed. “I know Radcliffe would have been Henry’s first choice, as he is mine.”
She had not fallen into my trap. Nothing would have enraged Emerson so much as the admission that she had approached him only as a last resort. And, of course, she was quite correct; Emerson is the best.
“Well, Emerson?” I said. I confess, my heart was beating fast as I awaited his answer. A variety of emotions struggled for mastery within my breast. My feelings about Lady Baskerville have, I trust, been made plain; the notion of my husband spending the remainder of the winter with the lady was not pleasing to me. Yet, having beheld his anguish that very evening, I could not stand in his way if he decided to go.
Emerson stood staring at Lady Baskerville, his own feelings writ plainly across his face. His expression was that of a prisoner who had suddenly been offered a pardon after years of confinement. Then his shoulders sagged.
“It is impossible,” he said.
“But why?” Lady Baskerville asked. “My dear husband’s will specifically provides for the completion of any project that might have been in progress at the time of his demise. The staff—with the exception of Alan—is in Luxor, ready to continue. I confess that the workers have shown a singular reluctance to return to the tomb; they are poor, superstitious things, as you know—”
“That would present no problem,” Emerson said, with a sweeping gesture. “No, Lady Baskerville; the difficulty is not in Egypt. It is here. We have a young child. We could not risk taking him to Luxor.”
There was a pause. Lady Baskerville’s arched brows rose still higher; she turned to me with a look that expressed the question she was too well bred to voice aloud. For really, the objection was, on the face of it, utterly trivial. Most men, given an opportunity such as the one she had offered, would coolly have disposed of half a dozen children, and the same number of wives, in order to accept. It was because this idea had, obviously, not even passed through Emerson’s mind that I was nerved to make the noblest gesture of my life.
“Do not consider that, Emerson,” I said. I had to pause, to clear my throat; but I went on with a firmness that, if I may say so, did me infinite credit. “Ramses and I will do very well here. We will write every day—”
“Write!” Emerson spun around to face me, his blue eyes blazing, his brow deeply furrowed. An unwitting observer might have thought he was enraged. “What are you talking about? You know I won’t go without you.”
“But—” I began, my heart overflowing.
“Don’t talk nonsense, Peabody. It is out of the question.”
If I had not had other sources of deep satisfaction at that moment, the look on Lady Baskerville’s face would have been sufficient cause for rejoicing. Emerson’s response had taken her completely by surprise; and the astonishment with which she regarded me, as she tried to find some trace of the charms that made a man unwilling to be parted from me, was indeed delightful to behold.
Recovering, she said hesitantly, “If there is any question of a proper establishment for the child—”
“No, no,” said Emerson. “That is not the question. I am sorry, Lady Baskerville. What about Petrie?”
“That dreadful man?” Lady Baskerville shuddered. “Henry could not abide him—so rude, so opinionated, so vulgar.”
“Naville, then.”
“Henry had such a poor opinion of his abilities. Besides, I believe he is under obligation to the Egypt Exploration Fund.”
Emerson proposed a few more names.