The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [106]
Jack looked up and I said calmly, “I am glad to find you keep dangerous weapons secure, Jack. You don’t leave the key lying about, I hope.”
“No. No, ma’am. I have been very careful about that, after one of them was stolen. It was one of the Colts, a forty-five caliber—”
“That is all right, then,” I said, for I did not want to hear a lecture on weapons. What I had wanted to know was where he kept the key, but neither by gesture nor word had he indicated the answer to that.
“Good-bye, then, for now,” I continued. “I trust in your promise of reformation, Jack. You are too fine a man to succumb to this weakness. If you are tempted, remember those angelic presences that even now watch over you; and come to me, at any time, if you are in need of earthly consolation.”
Or words to that effect.
I was reasonably certain I had made Jack see the injustice of his suspicions of Ramses. Others were not so easily dealt with. Stories of Maude’s involvement with various young men sprang up like noxious weeds, but there was no doubt that the name most often mentioned was that of my son. Apparently the poor wretched girl had made no secret of her infatuation. As young girls will, she had confided in her friends, and they had confided in their brothers and their fiancés and their mamas.
I heard none of this firsthand. My connections with British officials and their ladies were few, and the most venomous of the latter would not have dared mention the subject to me. It was Nefret who told me what was being said, and I had to force it out of her. I happened to be in the courtyard the afternoon she returned from a luncheon party, and one look at her stormy face was enough; I intercepted her when she would have started toward her room and made her come and sit with me.
She was one of those girls who really did look very pretty when she was angry; her eyes flashed and her cheeks took on a wild-rose blush. They matched the gown she was wearing that afternoon and the silk roses that adorned her elegant hat. The only discordant notes were her gloveless hands and the scraped knuckles on the right one. When she saw me staring at it she tried to hide it under her full skirts.
“Dear me,” I said. “How did you do that?”
“I … uh … Would you believe me if I said I caught my hand in the carriage door?”
“No.”
Nefret burst out laughing and gave me a quick hug. “I did, though. Did you think I was so unladylike as to punch another young lady on the jaw?”
“Yes.”
“I was sorely tempted. Why do you suppose I went to that stupid woman’s stupid little party? I wanted to know what they were saying about us. I knew some of them wouldn’t be able to resist tormenting me—they think they’re so clever, with their innuendoes and sly hints and pursed lips and sidelong looks! I was in complete control of myself until Alice Framington-French said she soooo admired Ramses for keeping a stiff upper lip after his tragic loss, and I said we all missed Maude, we had been very fond of her, and she said, well, but that was a bit different, wasn’t it, and really couldn’t I persuade Ramses it was time he settled down and stopped breaking hearts, that was a sister’s role, wasn’t it—oh, but of course he wasn’t really my brother, was he, and then she and Sylvia Gorst exchanged one of those looks …”
She stopped to catch her breath. Nefret’s way of talking in italics intensified as she became angrier. I was neither surprised nor angry—not very. No one has a nastier imagination than a well-bred lady. One must learn not to care what such people are thinking and saying or one will be in a perpetual state of agitation.
I said as much to Nefret, who nodded glumly. She took the pins out of her hat and began fanning herself vigorously with it. “I did not hit her. I just curled my lip and said yes, it was a pity she hadn’t been able to catch Ramses year before last, she certainly pursued him hard enough, though not as hard as Sylvia, and then