The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [6]
It cannot be said that the child’s feet left muddy prints. No; an unbroken stream of liquid filth marked his path, pouring from his person, his garments, and the unspeakable object he was flourishing. He slid to a stop before me and deposited this object in my lap. The stench that arose from it made its origin only too clear. Ramses had been rooting in the compost heap again.
I am actually rather fond of my son. Without displaying the fatuous adoration characteristic of his father, I may say that I have a certain affection for the boy. At that moment I wanted to take the little monster by the collar and shake him until his face turned blue.
Constrained, by the presence of the ladies, from this natural maternal impulse, I said quietly, “Ramses, take the bone from Mama’s good frock and return it to the compost heap.”
Ramses put his head on one side and studied his bone with a thoughtful frown. “I fink,” he said, “it is a femuw. A femuw of a winocowus.”
“There are no rhinoceroses in England,” I pointed out.
“A a-stinct winocowus,” said Ramses.
A peculiar wheezing sound from the direction of the doorway made me look in that direction in time to see Wilkins clap his hands to his mouth and turn suddenly away. Wilkins is a most dignified man, a butler among butlers, but I had once or twice observed that there were traces of a sense of humor beneath his stately exterior. On this occasion I was forced to share his amusement.
“The word is not ill chosen,” I said, pinching my nostrils together with my fingers, and wondering how I could remove the boy without further damage to my drawing room. Summoning a footman to take him away was out of the question; he was an agile child, and his coating of mud made him as slippery as a frog. In his efforts to elude pursuit he would leave tracks across the carpet, the furniture, the walls, the ladies’ frocks….
“A splendid bone,” I said, without even trying to resist the temptation. “You must wash it before you show it to Papa. But first, perhaps Lady Harold would like to see it.”
With a sweeping gesture, I indicated the lady.
If she had not been so stupid, she might have thought of a way of diverting Ramses. If she had not been so fat, she might have moved out of the way. As it was, all she could do was billow and shriek and sputter. Her efforts to dislodge the nasty thing (it was very nasty, I must admit) were in vain; it lodged in a fold of her voluminous skirt and stayed there.
Ramses was highly affronted at this unappreciative reception of his treasure.
“You will dwop it and bweak it,” he exclaimed. “Give it back to me.”
In his efforts to retrieve the bone he dragged it across several more square yards of Lady Harold’s enormous lap. Clutching it to his small bosom, he gave her a look of hurt reproach before trotting out of the room.
I will draw a veil over the events that followed. I derive an unworthy satisfaction from the memory, even now; it is not proper to encourage such thoughts.
I stood by the window watching the carriages splash away and humming quietly to myself while Rose dealt with the tea-things and the trail of mud left by Ramses.
“You had better bring fresh tea, Rose,” I said. “Professor Emerson will be here shortly.”
“Yes, madam. I hope, madam, that all was satisfactory.”
“Oh, yes indeed. It could not have been more satisfactory.”
“I am glad to hear it, madam.”
“I am sure you are. Now, Rose, you are not to give Master Ramses any extra treats.”
“Certainly not, madam.” Rose looked shocked.
I meant to change my frock before Emerson got home, but he was early that evening. As usual, he carried an armful of books and papers, which he flung helter-skelter onto the sofa. Turning to the fire, he rubbed his hands briskly together.
“Frightful climate,” he grumbled. “Wretched day. Why are you wearing that hideous dress?”
Emerson has never learned to wipe his feet at the door. I looked at the prints his boots had left on the freshly cleaned floor. Then I looked at him, and the