The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [45]
When the men saw that Karl, Emerson, and I pitched in with the work they stopped complaining. Indeed, Abdullah was horrified when I raised the first basket of rock in my arms and prepared to carry it off.
“Obviously you have forgotten my habits, Abdullah,” I said. “You have seen me do ruder labor than this.”
The old man smiled. “I have not forgotten your temper, at least, Sitt Hakim. It would take a braver man than Abdullah to prevent you from acting as you choose.”
“There is no such man,” I retorted. I was pleased with this remark, for it conveyed a delicate compliment as well as being a simple statement of fact. I then asked my husband where he wished to form the refuse dump, since my basket would have the honor of being the first to be deposited there.
Emerson looked up over the rim of the staircase and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “There,” he said, pointing to a spot to the southwest, near the entrance to Ramses the Sixth’s tomb. “There can be nothing of interest in that area; the ruins are only the remains of ancient workmen’s huts.”
As I trudged back and forth with my basket I was, at first, a strifle self-conscious under Mr. O’Connell’s steady regard and unfailing smile, for I knew he was drawing a verbal portrait of me for the benefit of his readers. Gradually, however, I forgot him in the pressure of work. The pile of debris mounted with what seemed painful slowness. Since I did not enter the tomb, but received my loaded basket from the man who had filled it, I had no way of measuring the progress being made, and I found it devilish discouraging, as Emerson might have said.
I also developed a considerable respect for the humble basket children. How they could run merrily back and forth, singing and making jokes, I did not know; I was dripping with perspiration and conscious of unfamiliar aches in various portions of my anatomy. The tourists gathered as the morning went on, and in addition to the fence around the tomb itself, it became necessary to string ropes along the path between the entrance and the rubbish dump. The more impertinent tourists ignored these, and I was constantly having to shove gaping idiots aside. Half blinded by sun, dust, and perspiration, I paid no more attention to these forms than was necessary to propel them out of my way, so that when I encountered a very elaborate pale-gray walking gown trimmed with black lace, in the exact center of the path, I gave it a little nudge with my elbow in passing. A shriek, echoed by a masculine exclamation, made me pause. Wiping my sleeve across my brow to clear my vision, I recognized Lady Baskerville. No doubt it was her corsets that prevented her from bending at the waist; her entire body was tilted backward, as stiff as a tree trunk, her heels resting on the ground and her shoulders supported by Mr. Vandergelt. She glowered at me from under the flower-trimmed bonnet, which had fallen over her brow.
“Good morning, Mrs. Emerson,” said Mr. Vandergelt. “I sure hope you’ll excuse me for not removing my hat.”
“Certainly. Good morning, Lady Baskerville; I did not see you. Excuse me while I empty this basket.”
When I returned Lady Baskerville was standing upright, adjusting her hat and her temper. The sight of me, unkempt, dusty and damp, restored her equanimity. She gave me a pitying smile.
“My dear Mrs. Emerson, I never expected to see you engaged in menial labor.”
“It is necessary,” I replied briefly. “We could do with a few more workers.” I inspected her from head to toe and saw her face go rigid with indignation before I added, “I hope Mr. Milverton is better?”
“You saw him yourself earlier, I am told,” Lady Baskerville replied, following after me, for of course I did not pause in my work any longer than was absolutely necessary.
“Yes, I told him to stay indoors today.”
I was about to continue when a shout from the tomb made me drop my basket and break into a trot. The watching crowd also realized the significance of that cry; they