The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [16]
Once again my aggravating but useful child rescued me from an unwelcome guest. Our good-night visits to Ramses were an invariable custom. Emerson read to him, and I had my part as well. We were late in coming, and patience is not a conspicuous virtue of Ramses. Having waited, as he thought, long enough, he came in search of us. How he eluded his nurse and the other servants on that particular occasion I do not know, but he had raised evasion to a fine art. The drawing-room doors burst open with such emphasis that one looked for a Herculean form in the doorway. Yet the sight of Ramses in his little white nightgown, his hair curling damply around his beaming face, was not anticlimactic; he looked positively angelic, requiring only wings to resemble one of Raphael’s swarthier cherubs.
He was carrying a large folder, clasping it to his infantile bosom with both arms. It was the manuscript of The History of Egypt. With his usual single-minded determination he gave the visitor only a glance before trotting over to his father.
“You pwomised to wead to me,” he said.
“So I did, so I did.” Emerson took the folder. “I will come soon, Ramses. Go back to Nurse.”
“No,” said Ramses calmly.
“What a little angel,” exclaimed Lady Baskerville.
I was about to counter this description with another, more accurate, when Ramses said sweetly, “And you are a pitty lady.”
Little did the lady know, as she smiled and blushed, that the apparent compliment was no more than a simple statement of fact, implying nothing of Ramses’ feelings of approval or disapproval. In fact, the slight curl of his juvenile lip as he looked at her, and the choice of the word “pretty” rather than “beautiful” (a distinction which Ramses understood perfectly well) made me suspect that, with that fine perception so surprising in a child of his age, which he has inherited from me, he held certain reservations about Lady Baskerville and would, if properly prompted, express them with his customary candor.
Unfortunately, before I could frame an appropriate cue, his father spoke, ordering him again to his nurse, and Ramses, with that chilling calculation that is such an integral part of his character, decided to make use of the visitor for his own purposes. Trotting quickly to her side, he put his finger in his mouth (a habit I broke him of early in his life) and stared at her.
“Vewy pitty lady. Wamses stay wif you.”
“Dreadful hypocrite,” I said. “Begone.”
“He is adorable,” murmured Lady Baskerville. “Dear little one, the pretty lady must go away. She would stay if she could. Give me a kiss before I go.”
She made no attempt to lift him onto her lap, but bent over and offered a smooth white cheek. Ramses, visibly annoyed at his failure to win a reprieve from bed, planted a loud smacking kiss upon it, leaving a damp patch where once pearl powder had smoothly rested.
“I will go now,” Ramses announced, radiating offended dignity. “You come soon, Papa. You too, Mama. Give me my book.”
Meekly Emerson surrendered his manuscript and Ramses departed. Lady Baskerville rose.
“I too must go to my proper place,” she said, with a smile. “My heartfelt apologies for disturbing you.”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Emerson. “I am only sorry I was unable to be of help.”
“I too. But I understand now. Having seen your darling child and met your charming wife—” Here she grinned at me, and I grinned back—“I comprehend why a man with such affable domestic ties would not wish to leave them for the danger and discomfort of Egypt. My dear Radcliffe, how thoroughly domesticated you have become! It is delightful! You are quite the family man! I am happy to see you settled down at last after those adventurous bachelor years. I don’t blame you in the least for refusing. Of course none of us believes in curses, or anything so foolish, but there is certainly something strange going on