The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [70]
Percy had modestly retired to the corner. His hands and face were smeared with soot, but he assured me he was not burned. ‘It was only a little fire, Aunt Amelia. You see, I was helping Ramses perform a chemical experiment. It was my fault, my hand struck the Bunsen lamp. I take full responsibility.’
I reached for Ramses, anticipating that the phrase would have its usual effect; but he only stood staring at Percy, with an odd look of calculation. ‘The responsibility is mine,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘I ought not to have allowed Percy to help me with the experiment.’
‘What sort of experiment? No, don’t tell me, I really do not want to know. Well, Ramses, I did not forbid you to entertain a guest in your room, and since it never occurred to me you would be carrying out chemical experiments, I neglected to prohibit the Bunsen lamp; so I suppose I cannot hold you accountable. You can thank your cousin for being let off so leniently.’
Ramses’ lips moved; but since he did not pronounce the word aloud, I chose to take no notice of it.
His lordship, lounging in the doorway, chuckled softly. ‘What were we saying about wild oats, Mrs Emerson? I feel quite an affinity with these two lads. Which is yours?’
I introduced the boys, who responded in characteristic fashion: Percy with a bow and an apology for not shaking hands – the sooty palm he displayed being sufficient excuse; and Ramses with a long impertinent inspection of his lordship, from head to toe and back again. He was about to begin one of his interminable speeches when a piercing shriek from the corridor turned all our heads in that direction. It was the familiar and haunting refrain, ‘Dead, dead, oh, dead . . .’
‘Curse the child,’ I said, without stopping to watch my words. ‘Call to her, Percy, and assure her you are not injured, before she has another of her fits.’
It was Lord St John, however, who deftly intercepted the shrieking, ruffled bundle that rolled towards us, and scooped it up into his arms. ‘Hush, little darling,’ he said fondly. ‘No one is dead; it was only a small fire, and your dear brother is not harmed in the least.’
Violet’s shrieks stopped as if they had been cut with a knife. Watching her simper and giggle and twine her arms around Lord St John’s neck, I was tempted to snatch her from him and shake her till her curls came unhitched from the bows.
‘Go back to your room at once, Violet,’ I said sternly. ‘Put her down, your lordship; I am sorry you should have beheld such a spectacle.’
His lordship gave Violet a hug. She squealed with delight. ‘Please don’t apologize, Mrs Emerson. I love children. Especially little girls.’
My dear Emerson professes to despise the works of Mr Dickens (‘next to you, Peabody, the most rampageous sentimentalist I have ever encountered’), but I notice that he often quotes him. On Sunday morning as we sat around the breakfast table, he launched into a diatribe on the English Sabbath, and although he did not mention the source, I recognized it as a passage from Little Dorrit.
‘Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish relief to an overworked people . . . Nothing to see but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to breathe but streets, streets, streets . . . Nothing for the spent toiler to do, but to compare the monotony of his seventh day with the monotony of his six days, think what a weary life he led, and make the best of it – or the worst, according to the probabilities.’
Emerson (and Mr Dickens) had a point. The Sabbath should, of course, be dedicated to rest and reflection and the pursuit of higher ideals; but the same people who saw nothing wrong in requiring a coachman to drive them to and from church, and in returning to a hearty dinner prepared by their servants, were adamant about allowing the workingman any access to the means of edification or wholesome entertainment – including the British Museum, which was, I suspected,