The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [11]
The rest of us were already at breakfast when Ramses entered the room. I had felt it necessary to give him a little lecture the previous night, about working too hard and not getting enough sleep, and I was pleased to observe that he had apparently taken it to heart—something I could not always count upon his doing—for the unmistakable (to a mother) signs of fatigue were not apparent. Like the Egyptians he so closely resembles, Ramses has black eyes and long thick lashes. When he is tired, drooping lids hood his orbs and dark circles underline them. He pretended not to notice my intent regard and began consuming eggs and bacon, toast and muffins.
The others had been arguing about who would go to meet our Egyptian friends, whose boat was due to dock in London that day. It would have been unthinkable to have the wedding without those members of David’s family who were closest to him and to us. Now that dear Abdullah was gone, there were only three of them. Selim, Abdullah’s youngest son, had replaced his father as our reis; Daoud, one of David’s innumerable cousins, was deeply attached to Lia, and she to him; Fatima, who looked after our house in Egypt, had become a trusted friend.
Everyone wanted to go to meet them, including Gargery. Voices were raised. Emerson’s language became increasingly intemperate. Rose, our devoted housekeeper, kept buttering muffins for Ramses and urging him to stay at home and have a nice rest. Really, I thought, in mounting exasperation, there never was a household in which so many people felt free to offer their unsolicited opinions! I am bound to confess that our relationship with certain of our servants is somewhat unusual, owing in part to the criminal encounters that have so often disturbed the even tenor of domestic life. A butler who wields a cudgel as handily as he carves a roast is entitled to certain privileges, and Rose had been Ramses’s loyal defender since he was three years of age, her affection unshaken by the mummified mice, the explosions of various chemicals, and the square acres of mud he had tracked through the house.
“Rose is right, Ramses,” I said, nodding at her. “The weather looks unsettled, and you should not risk catching a cold.”
Ramses raised his eyes from his plate. “As you like, Mother.”
“Now what are you up to?” I demanded.
“I cannot imagine,” said my son, “why you should suppose that my ready agreement with your thoughtful suggestion should be taken as an indication of—”
“Quite right,” said Emerson, who knew that Ramses was capable of continuing the sentence until subject and verb were buried under an avalanche of subordinate clauses. “I will go in your place.”
I had been afraid he would say that. Emerson’s accompanying the welcoming committee was one thing; Emerson driving the motorcar, which he would insist upon doing, was quite another. The locals had become used to him, and promptly cleared off the road whenever he took the automobile out. One could not count on the inhabitants of London being so obliging.
After I had let everyone express his or her opinion, which is the inalienable right of every citizen of a democracy, I informed them of my decision.
“Nefret must go; Fatima will be more comfortable with another female present. David must go, they are his kin. There won’t be room in the automobile for anyone else. Daoud, you know, is a very large person. So, that is settled. You had better get off at once. Telephone if the boat is late in docking, or if you are otherwise delayed. Drive carefully. Wrap up well. Good-bye.”
It began to rain late in the afternoon, and the cloudy skies produced an early twilight. Nefret had telephoned shortly after midday to say that the boat was late and would not dock for several hours. All was in readiness; I had ordered cheerful fires to be lit in every room, and welcoming lights shone through the dusk.