The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [110]
“Why should they?” Emerson asked in surprise.
“Really, Emerson, you of all people should not have to ask that question.”
“Oh,” said Emerson.
“Jumana and Sennia will be with us. That should be entertainment enough for you.”
They were on the veranda, sitting side by side and looking very pleased with themselves.
“Only see what Jumana has given me,” Sennia shouted.
“Unless the Museum takes it,” Jumana warned.
“Yes, you said that, but I know Mr. Quibell will let me have it, he is a very kind man.”
It was the little stela with the two cats which I had seen Bertie copying. I admired it all over again, while Emerson smiled sentimentally at the two. Sennia had not been an admirer of Jumana’s, perhaps because she was aware of Jumana’s admiration of Ramses. I gave Jumana credit for wanting to win Sennia’s friendship. A present is a sure way of influencing a young child in one’s favor.
Fatima brought the tea and Emerson settled down with his pipe, and I began looking through the post. There was a several days’ accumulation of letters and messages, which I sorted, putting aside the ones directed to Nefret or Ramses, and opening the envelopes addressed to Emerson before I handed them to him.
“Howard Carter, by G—— by heaven,” Emerson exclaimed, extracting one of the letters. “High time we heard from him. Listen to this, Peabody, he says he won’t be coming to Luxor for—”
He looked up and stopped speaking in mid-syllable. “Peabody? What is it?”
“Nothing,” I said, forcing a smile. Sennia, quick to catch every nuance, especially the ones one hoped she would miss, demanded, “Is something the matter, Aunt Amelia?”
“Nothing,” I repeated. “Have another biscuit, my dear.”
I handed Emerson the missive that had occasioned my lapse. It was a telegram, addressed to Ramses and bearing the stamp of the C-in-C of the Egypt Expeditionary Force.
We had to wait until dinnertime to find out what was in the cursed thing. I think that if I had not been watching him, Emerson would have ripped it open—and if he had not been watching me, I might have done the same. Delivering it immediately to the addressee was also out of the question; if we had rushed off, Sennia would have been alarmed by our urgency. As Emerson later confessed, the telegram felt as if it were burning a hole in the pocket where he had placed it. Fortunately for his nerves and mine, the children came early in order to say good night to Sennia before she went to bed.
“Whiskey and soda, my boy?” Emerson asked, his manly voice gruff with the effort it cost him to keep from shouting and/or swearing.
“Thank you, sir.” Emerson’s perturbation would have been obvious even to an individual less perceptive than his son. “I see you and Mother are already one ahead of me.”
“Two,” I said. “Yes, yes, Sennia, you have already kissed everybody; now run along.”
Darkness had fallen; the night breeze rustled the leaves. The lamps, enclosed in glass, burned with a steady flame. “What’s wrong, Mother?” Nefret asked. “Has something happened to Katherine or Cyrus or—”
“No, my dear; and your question is a salutary reminder of one of my favorite aphorisms—”
“Don’t say it, Peabody!” Emerson exclaimed.
“If you insist, Emerson. This is such a minor difficulty, compared with others, that we ought to be humbly grateful for—”
“And don’t paraphrase, either. Here.” Emerson handed the telegram to his son.
“Hmmm,” said Ramses, inspecting the envelope.
“Open it this instant!” I exclaimed.
He put the glass down before he did so, remarking in his usual cool voice, “Have you two been hoarding this all afternoon? I am surprised you should get yourself worked up over . . . ” His voice checked briefly, and then he read the message aloud. “ ‘Your assistance required in important matter. Please report soonest.’ Good of him to say ‘please.’ ”
“Smith,” Emerson said through his teeth.
“No. It is signed by Cartright. You remember he—”
“That visit was a reconnaissance,” I said. “Though I cannot explain what he