The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [32]
“Don’t start scolding, Peabody,” he remarked, observing my expression. “We cannot put the books away, the shelves are already full. We need more space, curse it.”
“On that we are agreed, Emerson. I suppose you expect me to find a house and get it ready—repairs, furnishings, servants—”
“Who said anything about a house?” Emerson demanded. “All we need do is clear out a few tables and chairs—”
“And beds? We could sleep on the floor as well as sit on it, I suppose. Emerson, we have had this conversation a dozen times. You know we promised Lia and David we would let them have the Amelia when they join us; young married persons will want their privacy. You are only objecting because you resent giving up a few hours of your precious excavation time in order to assist me in a project which can only be of benefit to us all. And furthermore—”
“Sit down and have your whiskey, Mother,” said Ramses.
“Sit down where? No, thank you, Nefret, I prefer not to hobnob with Horus, he appears to be in a particularly evil mood this evening.”
Horus bared his fangs at me. Ramses cleared the most comfortable overstuffed chair, removing the books to the floor. “Here you are, Mother. I’ll get you your whiskey and your messages.”
The genial beverage had its usual soothing effect. Accepting the pile of envelopes he handed me, I said, “All for me? I presume you have perused yours. Was there anything interesting in them?”
Ramses said, “No.”
Since that was the answer I had expected, I turned to my own messages. A nice plump letter from Evelyn I put aside, to be enjoyed at my leisure. The others were notes of welcome. What a pleasure it was to see the familiar names, to anticipate meeting soon again with such dear friends as Katherine and Cyrus, Howard Carter, Mr. and Mrs. Quibell, and all the rest. One message was from an unexpected source; perusing it, I let out a little exclamation of surprise.
“Well, fancy that! Here is an invitation to luncheon from Miss Reynolds. You remember her and her brother, Emerson; we met them last year.”
“I remember them, but I see no reason why we should improve our acquaintance with them,” said Emerson. “We have too many cursed friends as it is. They interfere with one’s work.”
“Not our professional colleagues, Emerson. Mr. Reisner speaks very highly of young Mr. Reynolds, and his sister is quite pleasant for an American. She says she has heard we are looking for a suitable house—”
“And where did she hear that?” Emerson demanded.
“Not from me, Emerson, I assure you.”
Nefret cleared her throat. “I told you Ramses and I met them in London. I may have mentioned, in the course of conversation, that we were thinking of taking a house.”
“Ah, I see. That explains it. Are you and she such good friends, Nefret?”
“No,” said Nefret. After a moment, she went on, “Maude’s kindly gesture was not prompted by her interest in me.”
“What? Oh! Ramses, did you—”
“Yes, Mother,” said my son, in the exaggerated drawl he adopted when he was trying to annoy me. “I held her hand, looked deep into her eyes, and murmured passionate phrases into her ear while her brother wasn’t listening. She was putty in my hands. Later I lured her away and demanded she find us a house.”
“Ramses!” I exclaimed.
Nefret shook her head. “Really, Ramses, it’s no fun teasing you anymore.”
“Was that what you were doing?” my son inquired.
“Enough,” I said severely. “You are too old to be poking fun at the poor young lady. I shall accept her invitation, and I expect both of you to behave yourselves.”
“What the devil, Amelia,” my husband exclaimed. “I did not come to Egypt to lunch with young ladies. I came here to excavate, and that is what I intend to do, first thing tomorrow morning. Naturally I expect you and the children to accompany me.”
“Accompany you where? You have not condescended to tell us where we will be excavating this year. Really, Emerson, you have carried your habit of reticence to an extreme no person of character could possibly accept. Do you expect us to trail meekly at your heels through the sandy wastes of