The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [97]
I had decided not to mention my visit with Ayesha, or indicate by the slightest alteration in my manner that such an event had occurred. Emerson must know I had been there. It was up to Emerson to introduce the subject.
If he had nothing on his conscience, he would introduce the subject. After all – I kept telling myself – he was not responsible to me for his actions before we met. I knew that never once, since that time, had his devotion faltered; aye, I knew it because my trust in him was total, and also because he had not had much opportunity. At least not when we were in Egypt. At least . . .
There were occasions when he and Abdullah had gone off together, purportedly to visit the latter’s village near Cairo. Abdullah would not hesitate to lie for the man he admired above all others.
Ayesha had said Emerson had never visited her in England. But she had not said when she came to England, and she had not struck me as an individual who would rather go to the stake than tell a lie. During the years we lived in Kent, before we resumed our excavations, Emerson was always going up to London for the day, or for several days at a time. He had been lecturing at University College and working at the Reading Room of the Museum. Neither of those activities need fill an entire day.
Startled out of my dismal thoughts by an odd grinding noise, I looked all around the room before I realized it came from me – specifically, from my teeth. I relaxed my jaws and reminded myself of the excellent resolutions I had formed. I would not insult my beloved and devoted spouse by hinting, even in the most oblique fashion, at such unjust suspicions. No. I would wait for him to raise the subject of Ayesha. It would be natural for him to do so. It would be unnatural if he did not. Thanks to Emerson’s precipitate departure that morning, and his long absence from home, we had not had the opportunity to discuss the previous evening’s adventure, and speculate, as was our pleasant custom, on various theories and solutions. It would be extremely odd, under the circumstances, if the name of Ayesha did not arise.
Emerson is under the fond delusion that he can tiptoe. He makes as much noise tiptoeing as he does walking normally, and I was aware of his approach long before he reached the door. He stood outside for quite a time. He was, I felt sure, planning what approach to take, and I waited with interest to see what it would be.
Flinging the door open, he came straight to my side and lifted me out of my chair into a fond embrace.
‘You look lovely tonight, Peabody,’ he murmured. ‘That dress you are wearing . . . it must be new, it becomes you well.’
‘It is not a dress, it is a tea gown,’ I replied, as soon as I was able to speak. ‘The same tea gown I wore last night and on several previous occasions. I wear it because . . . Oh, Emerson! That is certainly one of the reasons, but . . . Emerson . . .’
It cost more effort than I can possibly describe to put an end to the demonstrations the design of the tea gown facilitated, but I was beginning to suspect Emerson’s motives, and resentment strengthened my will. Retreating behind the chair in which I had been sitting, I said sternly, ‘I am about to dress for dinner, and so must you. I daresay the hot water is now tepid. If you don’t hurry, it will be cold.’
‘I am not going to dress for dinner,’ said Emerson.
‘Yes, you are.’
‘No, I am not.’
‘Well, then, perhaps I won’t change either.’ The dawning delight on Emerson’s face should have made me ashamed of myself, but I am sorry to say it did not. I went on, ‘You can wear that beautiful smoking jacket I bought in Cairo – the one you swore you would be seen in only if you were deceased and unable to protest.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Emerson. ‘Peabody, are you annoyed about something?’
‘I? Annoyed? My dear Emerson, what an idea. And the little fez that goes with it.’
‘Oh, curse it, Peabody, must I? The