The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [53]
“You aren’t afraid of me, I hope,” I said, laughing.
“Oh, no,” Mary replied quickly.
“I should hope not. My temper is always mild—though at times Emerson would try the patience of a saint. That is one of the small difficulties of the married state, my dear, as you will discover.”
“It is most unlikely that I will,” Mary replied bitterly. Before I could pursue this interesting comment, she went on, “I could not help overhearing, Mrs. Emerson. Do you really believe poor Alan is still alive?”
“What other explanation can there be?”
“I don’t know. I cannot explain the mystery, but I am sure Alan would never have harmed Lord Baskerville. He was the gentlest of men.”
“You knew him well?”
Mary blushed and lowered her eyes. “He… he had done me the honor to ask me to be his wife.”
“My dear child.” I placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “I did not know you were engaged to Mr. Armadale, or I would not have spoken so critically of him.”
“No, no, we were not engaged. I was obliged to tell him his hopes could never be realized.”
“You did not love him?”
The girl gave me a strange look, in which surprise and amusement were blended with a fatalism unexpected in one of her tender years. “How often does love come in question, Mrs. Emerson?”
“It is—it should be—the only possible basis for marriage,” I exclaimed.
Mary continued to study me curiously. “You really believe that! Oh, do forgive me; I did not intend—”
“Why, there is nothing to forgive, my dear. I am always pleased to pass on the benefit of my age and experience to the young, and at the risk of hubris I must say that I consider my marriage a sterling example of what that condition can and should be. My feelings for Emerson, and his for me, are too deep to be concealed. I am the most fortunate of women. And he considers himself the most fortunate of men. I am sure he would say so, if he ever discussed such matters.”
Mary was overtaken with a sudden fit of coughing. Struggling heroically to control it, she covered her face with her hands. I administered a brisk slap on the back, remarking, “You had better come up out of the dust for a while.”
“No, thank you; I am quite all right now. It was… something caught in my throat. Mrs. Emerson—”
“Amelia. I insist.”
“You are too kind. I would like, if I may, to return to the subject of Alan Armadale.”
“By all means. I am not so narrow-minded, I hope, to refuse to entertain other hypotheses.”
“I certainly cannot blame you for suspecting poor Alan,” Mary said ruefully. “You are not the first to do so. But if you had been acquainted with him, you would know he could not be guilty of such a vile act. Lord Baskerville was his patron, his benefactor. Alan was devoted to him.”
“Then what do you think has become of Mr. Armadale?”
“I fear he has met with a fatal accident,” Mary said. Her voice was grave but composed; it assured me that her feelings for the missing man, though affectionate, were not of that degree of tenderness that made it impossible for me to discuss his guilt or innocence freely. She went on, “He had been in a strange mood for several weeks preceding Lord Baskerville’s death: wildly gay one moment, gloomy and silent the next. I wondered if my refusal of his offer of marriage was preying on his mind—”
“That hardly seems likely,” I interrupted, attempting to reassure her.
“Believe me, I do not assess my charms so highly,” Mary replied, with a faint smile. “He took it well at the time; it was not until a week or so later that he began to exhibit the characteristics I speak of, and he did not renew his offer. Something was certainly amiss with him—whether physical or spiritual, I cannot say. Naturally we were all shocked by Lord Baskerville’s mysterious death, but Alan’s reaction… He was like the man in the poem—perhaps you know the one I am thinking of—fearful to turn his head lest he see some foul fiend close behind. I am convinced that his mind gave way and that he wandered into the mountains, where he met with