The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [38]
I pinched Emerson. “If you say just one of the words that are in your mind…” I hissed, leaving the threat unspecified.
“I’ll keep quiet if you will,” Emerson replied. His shoulders were shaking and his voice quivered.
“And try not to laugh,” I added.
A stifled whoop was the only answer.
Madame Berengeria swept toward us, towing her daughter along in her wake. A closer examination confirmed what I had suspected—that the unnaturally black hair was a wig, like those worn by the ancients. The contrast between this dreadful object, which appeared to be constructed of horsehair, and Miss Mary’s soft, shining locks would have been amusing if it had not been so horrid.
“I came,” Madame Berengeria announced dramatically. “The messages were favorable. I was given the strength to endure a meeting devoid of spiritual comfort.”
“How nice,” said Lady Baskerville, baring her long white teeth as if she thirsted to sink them in the other woman’s throat. “Mary, my child, I am delighted to see you. Let me present you to Professor and Mrs. Emerson.”
The girl acknowledged the introduction with a shy smile. She had very pretty, old-fashioned manners—which she had certainly not learned from her mother. Emerson, his amusement forgotten, studied the girl with a blend of pity and admiration, and I wondered if her lovely face, so Egyptian in character, had reminded him of the murdered Aziza.
Without waiting to be introduced, Madame thrust herself forward, catching Emerson’s hand and holding it, with odious familiarity, in both of hers. Her fingers were stained with henna and quite dirty.
“We need no formal presentation, Professor,” she boomed, in a voice so loud that the few heads that had not turned to mark her entrance now swiveled in our direction. “Or may I call you… Set-nakhte?”
“I don’t see why the devil you should,” Emerson replied in astonishment.
“You don’t remember.” They were almost of a height, and she had come so close to him that when she let out a gusty sigh Emerson’s hair waved wildly. “It is not given to all of us to remember former lives,” she went on. “But I had hoped… I was Ta-weseret, the Queen, and you were my lover.”
“Good Gad,” Emerson exclaimed. He tried to free his hand, but the lady hung on. Her grip must have been as strong as a man’s, for Emerson’s fingers turned white as hers tightened.
“Together we ruled in ancient Waset,” Madame Berengeria continued raptly. “That was after we had murdered my wretched husband, Ramses.”
Emerson was distracted by this inaccuracy. “But,” he protested, “Ramses was not the husband of Ta-weseret, and it is not at all certain that Set-nakhte—”
“Murdered!” Madame Berengeria shouted, causing Emerson to flinch back. “Murdered! We suffered for that sin in other lives, but the grandeur of our passion… Ah, Set-nakhte, how could you forget?”
Emerson’s expression, as he contemplated the self-proclaimed partner of his passion, was one I will long remember with enjoyment. However, the woman was beginning to wear on me, and when my husband cast a look of piteous appeal in my direction, I decided to intervene.
I always carry a parasol. I find it invaluable in many different ways. My working parasol is of stout black bombazine with a steel shaft. Naturally the one I carried that evening matched my frock and was eminently suitable for formal occasions. I brought it down smartly on Madame Berengeria’s wrist. She yelped and let go of Emerson.
“Dear me, how careless of me,” I said.
For the first time the lady looked directly at me.
Black kohl, lavishly smeared around her eyes, made her look as if she had suffered a severe beating. The orbs themselves were unusual. The irises were of an indeterminate shade between blue and gray, and so pale that they blended with the muddy white of the eye. The pupils were dilated to an unusual degree. Altogether it was a most unpleasant set of optics, and the concentrated and venomous intelligence with which they regarded me assured me of two things: one, that I had made an enemy; two,