The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [76]
“What are you suggesting?” I asked.
O’Connell appeared to hesitate; but when he spoke the words poured forth so glibly that it was obvious he had already formulated his plan.
“It’s the most charming of fellows I am,” he said modestly. “But if I never see the girl, my charm is not of much use. If I were to be invited to stay at the house, now…”
“Oh, dear me, I don’t see how I could possibly arrange that,” I said in a shocked voice.
“There would be no difficulty with Lady Baskerville. She thinks the world of me.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt you can get round Lady Baskerville. Unfortunately Emerson is not so susceptible.”
“I can win him over,” O’Connell insisted.
“How?” I demanded bluntly.
“If, for instance, I promised to submit all my stories to him for approval before sending them to my editor.”
“Would you really agree to that?”
“I hate like the very devil—excuse me, ma’am, my feelings got the better of me—I hate the idea. But I would do it to gain my ends.”
“Ah, love,” I said satirically. “How true it is, that the tender emotion can reform a wicked man.”
“Say rather that it can soften the brain of a clever man,” O’Connell replied morosely. He caught my eye; and after a moment the corners of his mouth curved in a rueful smile, devoid of the mockery that so often marred his expression. “You’ve got a bit of charm yourself, Mrs. E. I think you have a great deal of sentiment in your nature, though you try to hide it.”
“Absurd,” I said. “Take yourself off now, before Emerson discovers you. I will discuss your proposal with him this evening.”
“Why not now? I am on fire to begin my wooing.”
“Don’t press your luck, Mr. O’Connell. If you come by the dig tomorrow at about this time, I may have good news for you.”
“I knew it!” O’Connell exclaimed. “I knew a lady with a face and figure like yours could not be cruel to a lover!” Seizing me around the waist he planted a kiss on my cheek. I immediately seized my parasol and aimed a blow at him, but he skipped back out of reach. Grinning broadly and blowing me a kiss, the impertinent young man sauntered off.
He did not go far away, however; whenever I looked up from my work I saw him among the staring tourists. When his eyes met mine he would either sigh and press his hand to his heart or wink and smile and tip his hat. Though I did not show it, I could not help being amused. After an hour or so he evidently felt that his point had been made; he vanished from the scene and I saw him no more.
The molten orb of the sun was low in the west and the blue gray shadows of evening were cool on the ground when a cessation in the monotonous flow of loaded baskets made me sense that something had occurred. I looked up to see the crew file out of the tomb. Surely, I thought, Emerson cannot have dismissed them for the day; there is still an hour of daylight left. I went at once to see what had happened.
The heap of rubble had been considerably reduced. No longer did it consist solely of moderate-sized stones and pebbles. One end of a massive stone block was now visible. Emerson and Vandergelt stood by it, looking down at something on the floor.
“Come here, Peabody,” said Emerson. “What do you think of this?”
His pointing finger indicated a brown, brittle object covered with limestone dust, which Vandergelt began to remove with a small brush.
Experienced in such matters, I realized immediately that the strange object was a mummified human arm—or rather the tattered remains of one, for a great deal of the skin was missing. The bared bones were brown and brittle with age. The patches of skin had been tanned to a hard leathery shell. By some strange quirk of chance the delicate fingerbones had been undisturbed; they seemed to reach out as if in a desperate appeal for air—for safety—for life.
CHAPTER
Ten
I was peculiarly moved by the gesture, though I realized it was only a fortuitous arrangement of skeletal material. However, sangfroid is necessary to an archaeologist, so I did not voice my sentiments aloud.
“Where is the rest