The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [184]
“Guilt!” I cried. “About what, in heaven’s name? That is ridiculous, Dr. Willoughby. No one blames her; how could we? I will tell her so.”
“If it were only that simple!” Dr. Willoughby sighed and shook his head. “I am not a follower of the new schools of psychological theory, Mrs. Emerson, but years of experience have taught me that the causes of mental illness cannot be countered by rational argument. You cannot cure an individual suffering from melancholia by pointing out that he has many reasons to be happy. You cannot remove Nefret’s feelings of guilt by telling her they are groundless. She must come to terms with them herself.”
My own experience told me he was right. “But if we could discover why she feels guilty?” I persisted.
“That is a task for an expert,” Willoughby replied. “Not for me, or even for you—especially for you, Mrs. Emerson, if I may be so bold as to say so. The power of love is strong, but it can cloud the clinical detachment necessary for diagnosis and cure.”
“In other words,” said Emerson heavily, “you are telling us to keep out of it.”
“I wouldn’t have put it quite that way.” Willoughby smiled. “Be of good heart, my friends, I gave you the bad news first. The good news is that I feel certain she will make a full recovery, in time.”
“Have you any practical suggestions?” Emerson inquired.
“Originally I intended to suggest you bring her to Luxor, to my clinic. Now I think it would be advisable to remove her altogether from anything that reminds her of the tragedy.”
“Including us?” Ramses asked. It was the first time he had spoken.
“I don’t know,” Willoughby admitted wearily. “We could hire a nurse to escort her; there is a private sanitarium in Switzerland that specializes in such cases.”
“I will accompany them,” I said firmly. “Without Nefret’s knowledge, if you think it advisable.”
Willoughby smiled at me. “I assumed you would say that. As soon as possible, then.”
The arrangements were soon underway. With the doctor’s concurrence, I told Nefret what had been planned.
It had been several days since I had ventured to visit her. I dreaded that interview and yet I yearned for it; the sympathetic Reader will understand those conflicting emotions. Nefret was sitting by the window wearing one of her pretty dressing gowns; Kadija, who had been with her, slipped out of the room when I entered, and I knew it was that silent, loving woman who had helped her to dress and brushed her hair. She looked better, I thought, and she summoned a faint smile of welcome.
“Dr. Willoughby told you we are sending you to Switzerland?” I inquired, taking the chair next to hers.
“Yes. I am sorry to cause so much trouble.”
The listless voice struck straight to my heart, destroying my habitual self-control. I reached for her hand. “Don’t you know that there is no trouble we would not take for you—you, who are as dear as a daughter?”
She flinched as if I had struck her. The fingers of the hand I held twisted, not in rejection, but in order to clasp mine more tightly. “You don’t know what I have done.”
“I don’t know what you think you have done. It could not make me love you less.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she held them back. “I’ll be better soon. I promise.”
“I am sure you will. Do you want—will you let me come with you to Switzerland?”
She was silent for a moment. Then she murmured, as if to herself, “I must make a start. I am only hurting them more.”
I ached with pity—and, yes, with curiosity—but I knew I dared not question her. So I waited, holding her hand in mine, until she nodded. “I would like you to come.”
“Thank you,” I said warmly. “What about … the others? Emerson has been so worried about you he isn’t fit to live with. I don’t believe I can stand his fits of temper much longer.”
That brought another smile. “Bless him. Would he leave his work, though?”
“He would abandon the richest tomb in Egypt to be with you.”
Her lips trembled. “If that is what he wants …”
I decided I had better not push my