The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [130]
I was vaguely aware of sounds in the distance, but so loud was the beating of my fevered heart, I paid them little heed until the door of the bedroom burst open. How can I describe the sensations that filled every square inch of my anatomy to overflowing when I beheld . . . Emerson. That one word says it all. I cannot describe those sensations and will not attempt to.
After an interval which I will not attempt to describe either, Emerson held me off at arms’ length and looked at me inquiringly. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate your ardour, Peabody,’ he remarked, ‘but I am at somewhat of a loss to account for it. Has something happened?’
‘Has something . . . has . . .’ I put both hands in the middle of his chest and shoved as hard as I could. Emerson fell back against the door; his broad grin infuriated me even more. ‘How dare you ask me that?’ I cried, clenching my fists. ‘How dare you leave this house without a word of explanation, and stay away for hours, missing your dinner and leaving me prostrate with anxiety –’
‘That’s more like it,’ remarked Emerson. Folding his arms, he watched me stride up and down, the jingling of my implements providing a musical accompaniment. After a moment he said, ‘And where were you off to, Peabody? For I presume you were not planning to retire fully dressed and armed to the teeth?’
I came to a sudden stop. How typical of a man, I thought bitterly, to stay away just long enough to rouse the direst of apprehensions – and then turn up in time to foil my plans. If he had stayed away five minutes longer, I would have been out of the house.
‘I was going out to look for you,’ I murmured.
‘Were you, Peabody?’ He rushed to my side; he enfolded me in his arms. ‘My darling Peabody . . .’
Life, dear Reader, is sometimes ironic. The very embraces I had encouraged – and which I welcomed, needless to say, for their own sake – proved my undoing. For the cursed paper, which I had placed in my pocket (never mind which one) crackled under the pressure of Emerson’s hand. My explanation had pleased and touched him, but it had not wholly allayed his doubts – for Emerson is neither stupid nor gullible. Before I could stop him he had plucked the message from its hiding place and was reading it.
‘Whom is this from, Amelia?’ he asked quietly.
‘Don’t you know, Emerson? Cannot you hazard a guess?’
‘Not really. None of my acquaintances writes such vile Egyptian.’ He strove to speak lightly, but the ridges of muscle on his jaws and the quivering of that magnificent indented chin betrayed the struggle he made to keep from bellowing. I turned from him; his steely fingers caught my shoulders and whirled me around to face him.
‘You were not going to look for me. How the devil could you? Where, in all this teeming rat cage of a city would you . . .’
‘Where do you suppose? Where else? I would have begun my inquiries there; fortunately she has saved me the trouble.’
‘She?’ Emerson’s grip relaxed. He gave me a look almost of awe. ‘How could you possibly have known . . .’
‘I saw you enter her house, Emerson. Not once, but twice. I was in the park, watching, the second time; did you suppose that silly beard and a basket of fish could hide you from my eyes?’
‘Fish!’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘Fish? Fish . . .’ Enlightenment dawned; the bunched muscles of cheek and jaw smoothed out, the lowered brows rose. ‘Ayesha! It is Ayesha of whom you are speaking. Is this note from her?’
‘You mean there is another one?’ I cried.
Emerson paid no attention. Now it was he who paced up and down uttering broken ejaculations. ‘Then she is ready to talk. But why would she . . . Midnight, she said. How very trite and conventional . . . Amelia! You weren’t going to respond to this ingenuous invitation, were you? You couldn’t be such a bumbling blockhead! Oh, curse it, but of course you could. You would!’
‘I could, would, and am about