The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [156]
“Then we will meet you elsewhere,” I said firmly. “Later this evening. Where and when?”
“For God’s sake, Amelia, be reasonable! There’s a noose round my neck and it’s getting tighter by the minute. If my absence is discovered . . . Oh, very well. I’ll try to meet you tomorrow night. Midnight—romantic, isn’t it?—at the ruined house in Dir el Balah. Ramses knows it.”
“What?” Ramses tore his horrified gaze from the “gift.” “Yes, I know it. What the devil—”
“Later. You shouldn’t have any trouble for another day or two. Oh—I almost forgot. You owe me four hundred and twenty piastres. That’s four and a half Turkish pounds,” he added helpfully. “Quite a bargain.”
After he had bowed himself out, I was at leisure to turn my attention to the young woman. Nefret had led her to the divan and was helping her smooth the tangled strands of her long hair.
“Would you like to freshen up a bit before we chat?” I inquired.
“For God’s sake, Mother, this isn’t a social encounter!” Ramses burst out. “You let him get away without answering any questions, let’s hear what she has to say.”
She raised reproachful black eyes to his face. “Are you angry? I thought you would be happy to see me.”
“He is,” said Nefret. A dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. “He just has an odd way of showing it. Mother, get her something to drink.”
“Thank you, I would like that. And something to clean my face and hands.”
She had the instincts of a lady, at any rate. The requested objects having been supplied, she wiped her face, and drank deeply of the cold tea. I had to keep telling Ramses to be quiet; he was fairly hopping with annoyance, but we owed the girl a little time to recover from her unusual and uncomfortable trip.
“Now,” I said, after she had refreshed herself, “perhaps you can tell us, Miss . . . What is your name? Ramses didn’t mention it.”
“We were never properly introduced,” Ramses said through his teeth.
“Esin.”
“How do you do.”
“How do you do,” she repeated. “Are you his mother?”
Another one, I thought. Ramses has that effect on susceptible young women. I had suspected as much, even from Ramses’s expurgated version of their encounter; the way she pronounced the masculine pronoun was a dead giveaway.
“Yes,” I said. “And this is his father, Professor Emerson. And his wife.”
“How do you do,” the girl said, with only the barest nod for Emerson. She examined Nefret carefully, and her dirty face fell.
“Anyhow, I am glad to be here,” she said with a sigh. “My father has been very angry since you escaped.”
“Did he blame you?” Ramses asked.
“No, he thinks I am too stupid and too afraid of him.” She took another sip of tea. “He wanted to blame Ismail Pasha, but he could not, since they were together all that evening, and when Ismail Pasha went to his rooms, my father put guards at the door. To protect him from assassins, he said.”
“Then how did he—”
Nefret motioned Ramses to be silent. “How well do you know Ismail Pasha?” she asked.
“I talked often with him. He is an Englishman, you know. I liked talking to him; he treated me like a person, not a woman, and let me practice my English and told me I was a clever girl.” She finished her tea and leaned back against the cushions.
“I’m surprised your father let you talk freely with other men,” Nefret prodded.
“He could not stop me.” Her dark eyes flashed. “In Constantinople many women are working now because of the war. I helped with the Red Crescent, rolling bandages. It was wonderful! We talked about sensible things, books and what was in the newspapers, and many new ideas. And we wore corsets and short skirts!”
“I heard about that,” Nefret said. “Didn’t the government issue an order demanding that Moslem women lengthen their skirts, discard corsets, and wear thicker veils?”
“They had to take back the order,” said this young advocate of women’s rights complacently. “We made them do it. The girls at the telephone company and the post office threatened to strike, and the ladies said they