The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [19]
To return to the main stream of the argument, then:
Taking me by the shoulders, Emerson gave me a hearty shake.
“By Gad,” he shouted. “I will be master in my own house! Must I teach you again who makes decisions here?”
“I thought we made them together, after discussing problems calmly and courteously.”
Emerson’s shaking had loosened my hair, which is thick and coarse and does not yield easily to restraint. Still holding me by one shoulder, he passed the fingers of his other hand into the heavy knot at the back of my neck. Combs and hairpins went flying. The hair tumbled down over my shoulders.
I do not recall precisely what he said next. The comment was brief. He kissed me. I was determined not to kiss him back; but Emerson kisses very well. It was some time before I was able to speak. My suggestion that I call my maid to help me out of my frock was not well received. Emerson offered his services. I pointed out that his method of removing a garment often rendered that garment unserviceable thereafter. This comment was greeted with a wordless snort of derision and a vigorous attack upon the hooks and eyes.
After all, much as I commend frankness in such matters, there are areas in which an individual is entitled to privacy. I find myself forced to resort to a typographical euphemism.
* * *
By midnight the sleet had stopped falling, and a brisk east wind shook the icy branches of the trees outside our window. They creaked and cracked like spirits of darkness, protesting attack. My cheek rested against my husband’s breast; I could hear the steady rhythmic beat of his heart.
“When do we leave?” I inquired softly.
Emerson yawned. “There is a boat on Saturday.”
“Good night, Emerson.”
“Good night, my darling Peabody.”
CHAPTER
Three
READER, do you believe in magic—in the flying carpets of the old Eastern romances? Of course you don’t; but suspend your disbelief for a moment and allow the magic of the printed word to transport you across thousands of miles of space and many hours of time to a scene so different from wet, cold, dismal England that it might be on another planet. Picture yourself sitting with me on the terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo. The sky is a brilliant porcelain blue. The sun casts its benevolent rays impartially on rich merchants and ragged beggars, on turbaned imams and tailored European tourists—on all the infinitely varied persons who compose the bustling crowds that traverse the broad thoroughfare before us. A bridal procession passes, preceded by musicians raising cacophonous celebration with flutes and drums. The bride is hidden from curious eyes by a rose silk canopy carried by four of her male relations. Poor girl, she goes from one owner to another, like a bale of merchandise; but at that moment even my indignant contemplation of that most iniquitous of Turkish customs is mellowed by my joy in being where I am. I am filled with the deepest satisfaction. In a few moments Emerson will join me and we will set out for the Museum.
Only one ripple mars the smooth surface of my content. Is it concern for my little son, so far from his mother’s tender care? No, dear reader, it is not. The thought that several thousands of miles separate me from Ramses inspires a sense of profound peace such as I have not known for years. I wonder that it never before occurred to me to take a holiday from Ramses.
I knew he would receive from his doting aunt care as tender and devoted as he could expect at home. Walter, who had followed Ramses’ developing interest in archeology with profound amusement, had promised to give him lessons in hieroglyphs.