The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [122]
“What are they all doing up there?” he demanded. “I thought you would bring her down with you. She will be hungry. Where is Ramses?”
Patiently I explained that no child of two, whatever its nationality, is a pleasant table companion, reminded him that Ramses had not been allowed to take meals with us until he was six, pointed out that the little girl had nothing to wear, and added that Fatima would make certain she had a suitable breakfast. The advent of Ali with the telegram distracted Emerson from the complaints he had undoubtedly been about to make.
“Finally,” he exclaimed. “They have been long enough about it. Now we can get some work done. I want to leave for the site as soon as possible. Finish your breakfast, Peabody.”
“I do not see how I can come with you today, Emerson,” I said. “I must do a bit of shopping. The child hasn’t a stitch to her name, or a proper child’s cot, or a hairbrush, or anything she needs. We must fit up a room as a nursery and find a nursemaid; Fatima cannot look after her and carry out her other duties. Now I must also make certain the dahabeeyah is ready for Lia and David. I cannot take Fatima with me, since the child is getting comfortable with her, so—”
“Don’t tell me about it, Peabody,” Emerson growled. “Ah, here is Ramses. All right, are you, my boy?”
He looked as if he had not slept a wink. I handed him the telegram and had the pleasure of seeing his haggard face brighten.
“It will be good to see them,” he said.
“It will be good to have them on the dig,” said Emerson. “All these interruptions have wreaked havoc with my schedule. Yesterday was a total loss, and your mother is planning to waste the entire day in Cairo, and Nefret is off somewhere, and … I trust you have no other plans, Ramses?”
“No, sir.”
Ramses said no more. Emerson’s brow furrowed—not with annoyance, but with paternal anxiety. He knew better than to express it; instead he attempted a diversion.
“I have a new plan,” he announced.
I said nothing. Ramses said, “Yes, sir,” in the same polite, disinterested voice.
“If Vandergelt’s idea is right, someone is trying to keep us away from the site. That means—it must mean—that there is something at Zawaiet el ’Aryan this chap doesn’t want us to find. So,” said Emerson triumphantly, “we will find it. Not by random digging or concocting baseless theories, but by methodical excavation that will sweep the site from side to side and top to bottom! Well? What do you say?”
“It will be a long job,” Ramses said. He looked a little more alert, though.
“We’ll hire as many men as we can use. With the four of us, and David and Lia and Selim and Daoud, there will be ample supervision.”
“Excellent, Emerson,” I said, frowning at the list I had made out and adding another item.
Emerson looked over my shoulder and read the words aloud. “’Small enamel bath.’ Hmmm. The trouble with your mother, Ramses, is that she has no maternal instincts to speak of.”
I did not mind being the butt of Emerson’s little joke, for it actually brought a smile to Ramses’s face. Emerson popped a last bit of toast into his mouth and left the room, beckoning Ramses to follow. Ramses paused by my chair, bent his tall frame and gave me a quick, clumsy kiss on the cheek. In fact it landed on my ear, but it was meant for my cheek, I believe. When I turned toward him he stepped back, looking embarrassed.
“Watch over your father,” I said in a low voice. “Unobtrusively, of course. He is superbly indifferent to his own safety, but the plan he has proposed is likely to be dangerous.”
“I know. I will do my best, Mother.”
“And look after yourself. Be careful. Don’t take foolish chances.”
“Yes, Mother. Thank you, Mother.”
“Ramses?”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Don’t worry about Nefret. I will stop by the Vandergelts and fetch her home.”
“I am not worrying about her,” Ramses said. “She is a free agent and will do as she likes.”
I was a trifle put out with Nefret myself. We all sympathized with her