The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [41]
“Mary will help me,” she muttered. “Dear daughter— help Mother—good daughter never leaves Mother….”
Mary turned pale. Supporting Madame, she said in a low voice, “Perhaps you would call a carriage, Mr. O’Connell. We had better not stay. Mother, you are unwell.”
“Never felt better,” Madame Berengeria declared. “Have a little coffee. Must talk to old lover—Amenhotep—I called him the Magnificent—he was, too—you remember your darling queenie, don’t you, Amen?”
Releasing her daughter’s arm, she lunged at Emerson.
But this time she had underestimated my husband. On the first occasion he had been caught off guard; now he acted, and Emerson is seldom, if ever, restrained from action by any remote notion of what is socially acceptable. Catching the lady in a paralyzing grip, he frogmarched her toward the door, calling out, “A carriage here! Madame Berengeria’s carriage, if you please!”
The hotel porter leaped to assist him. Mary started after them. O’Connell caught her hand.
“Can you not stay? I haven’t had a chance to talk to you—”
“You know I cannot. Good night, everyone. Lady Baskerville, my thanks—and apologies—”
Slim and graceful in her shabby frock, her head bowed, she followed the porters who were dragging her mother out the door.
Mr. O’Connell’s countenance plainly displayed his chagrin and his affectionate concern. I began to warm to the young man; but then he gave himself a sort of shake and remarked, “Well, Mrs. Emerson, have you changed your mind about that interview? Your thoughts on arriving in Luxor would interest my readers enormously.”
The transformation of his face was extraordinary. His eyes sparkled with malice, his mouth curved in a tight-lipped half-moon grin. This expression, which I thought of as his journalist’s face, reminded me of the leprechauns and mischievous elves which are said to abound in the Emerald Isle.
Not wishing to dignify the suggestion with a reply, I ignored it. Fortunately Emerson had not heard the question. Leaning on the back of Lady Baskerville’s chair, he was explaining his plans for the next day. “And,” he added, glancing at me, “since we must be out at the first light, we had better be getting back, eh, Amelia?”
I promptly rose. To my surprise, so did Lady Baskerville.
“I am packed and ready. If you will summon the porter, Radcliffe?” Seeing my expression, she smiled sweetly at me. “Had I not explained that I mean to go with you, Mrs. Emerson? Now that you are here, I need not fear scandal if I resume my old place, hallowed by so many fond memories.”
I need not say that my response was perfectly calm and courteous.
II
I had feared the presence of Lady Baskerville in the adjoining room might inhibit Emerson to some extent. It did, in the beginning. Casting an irritated glance at the closed portal, which I had promptly bolted, he muttered, “Curse it, Amelia, this is going to be a nuisance; I shan’t be able to say a thing for fear of being overheard.” However, as time went on he became so involved in what he was doing that all reserve fled and all external distractions were forgotten. My own contributions toward achieving this end were not inconsiderable.
Lying at peace in my husband’s arms, I drifted off to sleep. But we were not destined for a quiet rest that night. Scarcely, it seemed, had my eyelids closed when I was reft of slumber by an outrageous howl, so penetrating that it seemed to come from within our very chamber.
I pride myself on being able to arise from meditation or sleep fully alert and ready for whatever action seems required. Rising up, I prepared to bound out of bed. Unfortunately I had not completely readjusted to the sleeping arrangements necessary in that clime; and, as I had done on another memorable occasion, I plunged headlong into the mosquito netting draped around the bed. My efforts to free myself only wound the fabric more tightly around me. The howling continued. It had now