The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [201]
“Here,” I called.
Emerson stumbled to the window and looked out. “Is that . . . Oh, good Gad!”
Only the upper half of his body was visible, but Emerson is a modest man; he retreated, cursing, and began looking for his clothes. I knew it would take him a while, so I pushed Jumana toward her window.
“Go in. You are to remain in your room. If you leave the house without my permission, you need never come back.”
She obeyed without resistance, verbal or physical. I thought I heard a little sob. It did not soften my heart.
When I climbed back in my own window, Emerson was still searching for his trousers. “Never mind that, Emerson,” I said. “You may as well bathe and dress properly, it is almost morning. We have a serious problem on our hands. Jumana has been creeping out at night—possibly for several nights—and she was with a man. I am afraid it was Sebastian Albion.”
“Damnation,” Emerson murmured. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, pushing it back from his face. “Are you sure?”
“Who else would it be? Unless,” I added bitterly, “she has a whole string of them. How could I have been so deceived in her character? I am sadly disappointed, Emerson.”
“Now, Peabody, don’t jump to conclusions.” He sat on the side of the bed and pulled me down next to him. “There may be an innocent explanation. Have you given her a chance to explain?”
“She refused to answer my questions. She said she had given her word. Her word! To a vile deceiver like that!”
“Give her another chance.” A horrible idea struck him. In quavering tones he asked, “You don’t want me to question her, do you?”
“No, Emerson, you are hopeless about such matters. I will give her another chance to confess, naturally. I will leave her locked in her room today and speak to her again this evening, after she has had time to repent.”
“And you have had time to cool off,” said Emerson, putting an arm round my shoulders. “My dear, I don’t blame you for being hurt and disappointed, but—er—you aren’t going to starve her, I hope?”
“Certainly not. I will take her breakfast to her myself. Later.”
I felt calmer after a nice long bath, but I was not ready to face Jumana. I would be the first to admit that my maternal instincts are not well developed—they had been stunted, I believe, by the raising of Ramses—but I had become rather attached to Jumana. I had had such high hopes for her. To find that she was a sneak and a liar and—and worse, perhaps—had left me not only disappointed, but hurt. Yes, Emerson was right about that. I had believed she had become equally attached to us.
When I went to breakfast, the Great Cat of Re was sitting on my chair, its chin on the table, its large green eyes fixed on the platter of bacon. “This is beginning to be like the house of the Three Bears,” I said. “It sits on our chairs, it sleeps on our beds, and now it is about to eat my porridge.”
Sennia found this very witty, but nobody else did, including the cat. Ramses’s keen black eyes detected the perturbation behind my attempt at normalcy; brow furrowing, he started to speak, glanced at Sennia, and remained silent. It was Sennia who asked about Jumana. I explained that she was not feeling well and would spend the day in bed. “You are not to go in her room,” I added. “She needs to rest. Do you understand?”
“Shall I take her a tray?” Fatima asked.
“I will see to that,” I replied. “Later. Thank you, Fatima. Where is Gargery? It is time Sennia left for her lessons.”
Gargery entered at that moment to announce we had guests. “Mr. Bertie and Mr. Cyrus. You didn’t tell us they were expected for breakfast, madam.”
“Stop trying to put me in the wrong, Gargery,” I said somewhat snappishly. “They were not expected.”
“But we are always glad to see them,” Fatima said, adding plates and cups and silverware to the table, and bustling out for more food.
“Sorry to disturb