The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [60]
“How ridiculous!” Mary, who had been standing quietly to one side, now came forward. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. She looked amazingly pretty; and for a moment all the men, including my husband, stopped arguing and stared at her in open admiration.
“No one insulted me,” she declared. “I appreciate your efforts to defend me; but you are being very silly, and I insist you shake hands and make up, like good boys.”
This speech—accompanied by a languishing glance from under her thick black lashes, impartially divided between Milverton and Karl—did not do much to improve relations between the two, but it forced them to make a pretense at reconciliation. Coldly they touched fingertips. Mary smiled. Emerson threw up his hands. I returned to my rubbish heap.
Early in the afternoon Emerson came up to join me.
“How is it going?” he inquired genially, fanning himself with his hat.
We were talking quietly, about one thing and another, when Emerson’s eyes wandered from my face and his own countenance underwent such a dreadful alteration that I turned in alarm.
A fantastic cortege was approaching. Leading it were six men whose bowed shoulders supported two long poles on which was balanced a boxlike structure completely enclosed by curtains. This object swayed dangerously as the bearers staggered along under what was clearly a considerable weight. A straggling crowd of natives in turbans and long robes accompanied the apparition.
The procession made its laborious way to where we stood staring. I then saw a man in European garb walking behind the palanquin. His hat was drawn down over his brows, but a few locks of red hair had escaped to betray an identity he seemed not eager to proclaim.
The panting, sweating bearers came to a halt and lowered the carrying poles. Unfortunately they did not move in unison; the palanquin tilted and spilled a stout form out onto the ground, where it lay emitting cries of pain and alarm. I had already surmised who the occupant of the weird structure must be. No one else in Luxor would have attempted to travel in such a way.
Madame Berengeria was wearing her linen robe, a clumsy copy of the exquisite pleated gowns noble ladies were accustomed to wear in pharaonic times. Her fall had disarranged this garment to betray a truly appalling extent of fat, pallid flesh. Her black wig, which was surrounded by a cloud of small insects, had tumbled over her eyes.
Emerson stood with his hands on his hips, staring down at the writhing form of the lady. “Well, help her up, O’Connell,” he said. “And if you want to avert a nasty scene, shove her back into that ridiculous contraption and take her away.”
“Mr. O’Connell has no desire to avoid a scene,” I said. “He promotes them.”
My acerbic comment restored the young man’s composure. He smiled and pushed his hat back so that it rested at a jaunty angle.
“How unkind, Mrs. Emerson. Will one of you give me a hand? I can’t manage the job alone, and that’s the truth.”
The bearers had collapsed onto the ground, panting and cursing. It was clear that we would get no help from them. Seeing that Emerson had no intention of touching the prostrate form—and indeed, I could not blame him—I joined Mr. O’Connell in his attempt to hoist Madame Berengeria to her feet. We succeeded, though I think I strained several muscles in my back.
Hearing the altercation, the others emerged from the tomb. I distinctly heard Mary pronounce a word I never expected a well-bred English girl to say.
“Mother, what in heaven’s name are you doing here? You should not have come. The sun—the exertion—”
“I was called!” Madame Berengeria flung off the hand her daughter had placed on her shoulder. “I was told to come. The warning must be passed on. My child, come away!”
“Curse it,” Emerson said. “Clap your hand over her mouth, Amelia, quickly.”
Of course I did nothing of the sort. The damage was done. The watching tourists, the natives who had followed the palanquin—all