The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [2]
As I crawled under the dressing table in pursuit of the elusive earring, I remembered something Emerson had said about my side of the family, to the effect that not one of them had any redeeming qualities whatever. This was rude, but undeniably correct. One of my nephews had been—I am happy to employ the past tense—a thoroughly repellent human being. Sennia, his little daughter by a Cairo prostitute, who had been callously abandoned by her father, was now part of our family.
The boat bounced again and the top of my head came into painful contact with the underside of the dressing table. Since I was alone, with no one to overhear, I permitted myself a few expletives. I do not approve of bad language, but everybody else in the family employs it freely. It is Emerson’s fault. He cannot or will not restrain himself and of course the children emulate him. There are times when Nefret’s language . . .
The cursed earring continued to elude me, but I endeavored, as is my habit, to look on the bright side. Emerson’s kin were exemplary human beings: his brother Walter, a true scholar and gentle man; Walter’s wife, my close friend Evelyn; and their fine brood of children, in which category I must include the husband of their daughter Lia. David, a talented artist and trained Egyptologist, and Ramses’s best friend, was the grandson of our dear departed reis Abdullah. We had missed him terribly the year before, in both his professional and personal capacities.
However, there was Emerson’s other brother.
The door burst open and Emerson staggered in. Observing my position, he let out a bellow of alarm, seized me round the waist, and lifted me to my feet—and off them. “Did you fall, sweetheart? The cursed boat is bouncing like a rubber ball. Speak to me, Peabody.”
I was touched by his use of my maiden name, which he employs as a term of approbation and endearment, and by his tender concern, but discomfort compelled me to utter a mild complaint. “I cannot breathe, Emerson, you are squeezing me too tightly.”
“Oh.” Emerson removed one arm and caught hold of the doorframe.
“I dropped an earring,” I explained, after drawing a long breath. “Pray put me down, my dear. I don’t want to lose it, it was one of the pair you gave me last Christmas.”
“I will find it.” Emerson deposited me on the bed and began crawling round the floor. “Stay still or you will brain yourself. Ah—here you are, my love.”
The gem winked and sparkled in his big brown hand. As a general rule I do not care for diamonds—an antique scarab or a string of mummy beads is much more to my taste—but Emerson had selected the stones and designed the settings. Having observed that other women seemed to like diamonds—it had only taken him thirty years to notice this—he had decided I should have some, too.
“Why have you got yourself up so formally?” he demanded. “No one will dress for dinner tonight, the sea is too rough.”
“It is necessary to keep up appearances, especially in times such as these. Have you forgotten the date?”
“Yes,” said Emerson, in—I could only suppose—a desperate attempt to forestall my suggestion that he assume evening dress. Emerson dislikes the confinement of tightly fitting garments, and I would be the first to admit that his impressive form never shows to better advantage than when he is attired in the wrinkled flannels and open-necked shirts he wears on the dig. I felt obliged to persevere, however.
“It is December the thirty-first, Emerson. We must toast the New Year and pray that 1917 will bring better hopes.”
“Bah,” said Emerson. “It is an artificial distinction with no meaning. The only significance of January the first is that we will be one day closer to Alexandria. You are fine enough for both of us. That gown becomes you, my love. Is it new?”
It was not, and he knew it—at least I think he did—it is difficult to be certain with Emerson, since he remains happily oblivious to things one expects him to notice, and sees things one hopes he will not.
A glance in the mirror gave me little in the way of confirmation of his compliment,