The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [37]
(I do not apologize for this digression into fashion. Not only is it intrinsically interesting, but it shows something of the woman’s character.)
Lady Baskerville gave me her fingertips and clasped Emerson’s hand warmly. She then turned to introduce us to her companion.
“We met earlier,” said Cyrus Vandergelt, beaming down at us. “It sure is nice to see you folks again. Mrs. Emerson, may I say your dress is right pretty. That red color suits you.”
“Let us go in to dinner,” Lady Baskerville said, with a slight frown.
“I thought Miss Mary and her friend were joining us,” Vandergelt said.
“Mary said she would come if she were able. But you know her mother.”
“I sure enough do!” Vandergelt rolled his eyes heavenward. “Have you met Madame Berengeria, Mrs. Emerson?”
I indicated that I had not had the pleasure. Vandergelt went on, “She claims she came here to study ancient Egyptian religion, but I opine it’s because living is cheap. I don’t like to speak ill of any member of the fair sex, but Madame Berengeria is an awful woman.”
“Now, Cyrus, you must not be unkind,” said Lady Baskerville, who had listened with a faint pleased smile. She enjoyed hearing other women criticized as much as she disliked hearing them complimented. “The poor thing cannot help it,” she went on, turning to Emerson. “I believe her mind is deficient. We are all very fond of Mary, so we tolerate her mother; but the poor child is kept dancing attendance on the old… on the unfortunate creature, and can seldom get away.”
Emerson shifted restlessly from one foot to the other and inserted a finger under his collar, as he does when he is uncomfortable or bored. Reading these signs correctly—as any married woman would—Lady Baskerville was turning toward the dining salon when Mr. Vandergelt let out a muffled exclamation.
“Holy shucks!” (At least I believe that was the phrase.) “How the dickens—look who’s here. You didn’t invite her, did you?”
“Certainly not.” Lady Baskerville’s voice had a distinct rasp as her eyes lit on the person who had prompted Vandergelt’s remark. “That would not prevent her from coming, though. The woman has the manners of a peasant.”
Coming toward us was a singular pair. One was a young lady dressed modestly in a somewhat out-of-date evening frock of pale-yellow voile. Ordinarily she would have captured anyone’s attention, for she was the possessor of an unusually exotic style of beauty; her olive skin and dark, long-lashed eyes, her delicate features and slender frame were so like those of the aristocratic Egyptian ladies depicted in the tomb paintings that her modern dress looked out of place, like a riding habit on an antique statue of Diana. One expected to see diaphanous linen robes, collars of turquoise and carnelian, anklets and bracelets of gold adorning her limbs.
All these, and more, bedecked the woman who was with her, and whose extraordinary appearance drew the eye from the girl’s pretty face. She was an extremely large woman, standing several inches taller than her daughter and being correspondingly broad. The linen robe she wore was no longer pure white, but a dingy gray. The beaded collar that attempted in vain to cover her ample bosom was a cheap imitation of the jewels worn by pharaohs and their ladies. On her very large feet were skimpy sandals; around the imprecise region of her waist a brightly embroidered sash had been knotted. Her hair was a huge black beehive surmounted by a bizarre