The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [88]
“I know. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Percy were the villain?”
“Too good to be true, I’m afraid.” He laughed, and so did she; but there had been a note in her voice that made him ask, “Has he been annoying you?”
“You needn’t get all brotherly and protective. If he annoyed me I’d deal with him.”
Had that been an answer? He thought not.
Nefret glanced over her shoulder and beckoned. Their two escorts, who had remained prudently behind, hurried to join them. They were a handsome family; Daoud’s son Hassan had the same gentle brown eyes and large smile as his father. Taking Nefret’s parcels, he said, “Did you find a good present for the Sitt Hakim?”
“I think she will like it,” Nefret said.
Emerson claimed he had never agreed to attend the ball at Shepheard’s that evening. He had not—not in so many words—but I had informed him of the affair several days earlier and he had not said he would not attend. Emerson appealed to Cyrus, but he got no help from that quarter. Cyrus was sociably inclined and had been looking forward to squiring his wife to the affair.
The ball did not begin until midnight, but we planned to dine at the hotel beforehand. Evening dress was de rigeur. Emerson had accepted this, though he did not like it and never would. On this occasion he got himself into his stiff shirt and so on with a minimum of grumbles and with the usual assistance from me. He then obligingly assisted me to button my frock and my gloves. Neither of us employs a personal attendant, though I must say Emerson could use one—if only for the purpose of locating the articles of clothing he misplaces or kicks under the bed, and sewing on the buttons that pop off his shirt because of his impetuous method of removing that garment, and pressing the clothes he leaves lying on the floor, and mending the holes made by sparks from his pipe, and removing the spots of blood that only too frequently stain his clothing, und so weiter, ad infinitum, so to speak.
As I was saying, before understandable wifely vexation distracted me, neither Emerson nor I enjoy being waited upon except by one another. To have Emerson kneel at my feet in order to lace my boots, to feel his fingers moving lightly down my back as he unfastens the buttons of my frock … But perhaps I had better say no more. Any woman of sensibility will understand why I would never exchange Emerson’s attentions for the more efficient but far less interesting assistance of a lady’s maid. Fatima and her staff—most of them related to her by blood or marriage—did most of the mending, cleaning and washing for the entire family and would have done more had we allowed it.
When I was ready I went to see if Nefret needed my help, but found she was already dressed. Fatima was fussing over her hair and one of Fatima’s stepdaughters, the child of her late husband’s second wife, stood by watching attentively. Elia was a pretty girl, barely fourteen, and she aspired to the post of lady’s maid to Nefret, whom she admired enormously. Nefret was no more keen on that kind of attention than I, but she did not want to discourage the girl, who was intelligent and ambitious and who was attending school under our auspices.
“I don’t want to hurry you, my dear, but the others are waiting,” I said, smiling at the bright face reflected in the mirror.
“I am ready.” Nefret jumped up from the dressing table. “Except for my wrap … Oh, thank you, Elia. Don’t tell me Ramses is waiting, Aunt Amelia, he is never on time.”
However, he emerged from his room as we left Nefret’s. I straightened his cravat and brushed a few cat hairs off his sleeve, which he permitted with his usual absence of expression. We then proceeded in splendor to our carriages and to the hotel.
I had been told that Shepheard’s was no longer considered the most fashionable hotel in the city. Younger members of the smart set preferred the Semiramis or the Savoy. So far as I was concerned,