The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [3]
“Hasn’t Ramses told you about his encounters with Percy?” I asked. I felt sure he had; David was my son’s best friend and confidant.
“I saw several of them,” David reminded me. “When—er—Percy was in Egypt three years ago. I could tell Ramses was not—er—overly fond of his cousin, but he didn’t say much. You know how he is.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do. He keeps things too much to himself. He always has done. There has been bad blood between him and Percy since the summer Percy and his sister Violet spent several months with us. Percy was only ten years of age, but he was already a sneak and a liar, and ‘little Violet’ was not much better. They played a number of vicious tricks on Ramses, and they also blackmailed him. Even at that tender age, he was vulnerable to blackmail,” I admitted. “He was usually doing something he didn’t want his father and me to know about. His original sins were relatively harmless, however, compared with the things Percy did. A belief in the innocence of young children has never been one of my weaknesses, but I have never encountered a child as sly and unprincipled as Percy.”
“But that was years ago,” David said. “He was cordial enough when I met him.”
“To the Professor and Aunt Amelia,” Nefret corrected. “He was superciliously condescending to Ramses and barely civil to you, David. And he kept on proposing to me.”
That got Emerson’s complete attention. Rising from his chair, he flung his pen across the room. Ink speckled the marble countenance of Socrates—not the first time it had received such a baptism. “What?” he (Emerson, to be precise) bellowed. “Proposed marriage? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because you would have lost your temper and done something painful to Percy” was the cool response.
I didn’t doubt Emerson could have and would have. My spouse’s magnificent physical endowments have not declined with the years, and his temper has not mellowed either.
“Now, Emerson, calm yourself,” I said. “You can’t defenestrate every man who proposes to Nefret.”
“It would take too much of your time,” David said, laughing. “They will do it, won’t they, Nefret?”
Nefret’s pretty lip curled. “I have a great deal of money and, thanks to the Professor, the power to dispose of it as I like. That is the explanation, I believe.”
It wasn’t the only explanation. She is a beautiful young woman, in the English style—cornflower-blue eyes, golden hair with just a hint of copper, and skin as fair … well, it would be as fair as a lily if she would consent to wear a hat when out-of-doors.
Nefret tossed the book aside and rose. “I am going for a ride before luncheon. Will you come, David?”
“I’ll have a look at Percy’s book, if you have finished with it.”
“How lazy you are! Where is Ramses? Perhaps he’ll go with me.”
I am sure I need not say that I had not given my son that heathenish appellation. He had been named Walter, after his uncle, but no one ever called him that; when he was a young child his father had nicknamed him Ramses because he was as swarthy as an Egyptian and as arrogant as a pharaoh. Raising Ramses had put quite a strain on my nerves, but my arduous efforts had borne fruit; he was not so reckless or so outspoken as he once had been, and his natural talent for languages had developed to such an extent that despite his comparative youth he was widely regarded as an expert on ancient Egyptian linguistics. As David informed Nefret, he was presently in his room, working on the texts for a forthcoming volume on the temples of Karnak. “He told me to leave him be,” David added emphatically. “You had better do the same.”
“Bah,” said Nefret. But she left the room by way of the window instead of going into the hall toward the stairs. David took up the book and settled himself in his chair. I returned to my lists and Emerson to his manuscript, but not for long. The next interruption came from our butler, Gargery, who entered to announce there was a person to see Emerson.
Emerson held out his hand. Gargery, rigid with disapproval, shook his head. “He did not have a card, sir. He wouldn’t give