The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [31]
He had stood back for her to precede him through the door. Once inside, she put her back against the wall and watched them, wide-eyed and unsmiling, like a wary animal. Emerson, always the gentleman with women, took her small hand in his and gave it a hearty squeeze.
“Jumana! Good of you to come, my dear. Er—how you’ve grown the past few months!”
Not so you could notice, Ramses thought. She was a tiny creature, barely five feet tall, with the exotic coloring and wide dark eyes of a lady in a Persian miniature, but her clothing was defiantly English—neat little boots and a divided skirt, under a mannish shirt and tweed jacket. After spending the spring and summer with them in England, being tutored in various subjects and absorbing information as a dry sponge soaks up water, she had returned to Egypt in November with the Vandergelts.
What was wrong with her? Usually her small face was alive with excitement and she could outtalk everyone in the family—which was no small feat. Now she replied to Emerson’s greeting with a wordless murmur and her dark eyes moved uneasily around the room.
“Where is Nefret?” she asked.
“She and Mrs. Emerson have gone off to look at the new house,” Emerson said.
“I will go too. Please? Excuse me?”
She hurried out of the room without waiting for a reply. She’s got something on her mind, all right, Ramses thought. Well, whatever it was, it was not his problem. His mother thought she could solve everything; let her deal with it.
She came bustling in a few minutes later and went straight to Cyrus, holding out her hands. “Jumana told me you were here. Didn’t Katherine and Bertie come with you?”
“Bertie wanted to, but Katherine had some chore or other for him,” Cyrus answered.
Ramses wasn’t surprised to hear it. Katherine disapproved of her son’s fascination with the pretty Egyptian girl.
“She was hoping you’d come to us for dinner tonight,” Cyrus went on.
“Bah,” said Emerson. Cyrus burst out laughing and stroked his goatee.
“I know, old pal, you don’t have time for social engagements. This’ll just be us, nothing formal, come as you are.”
Emerson’s jaws parted, but his wife got in first. “Certainly, Cyrus, we accept with pleasure. Ramses, Nefret wants you to join her. She is at the new house.”
“Oh? Oh, right.”
A sensation his mother would have described as a “hideous premonition” came over him. Why hadn’t he realized? Of course—she had built the house for Nefret and him. It was just like her to do it without consulting them. And there was no way on earth they could refuse without sounding churlish and ungrateful and selfish. Nefret was too fond of his mother to tell her no to her face. She would want him to do it!
He expected to find his wife on the doorstep, vibrating with indignation. She wasn’t there. He had to track her down, looking into room after room as he searched. The place was quite attractive, really—large, low-ceilinged rooms, with the carved mashrabiya screens he liked so much covering the windows, tiled floors, bookshelves on many of the walls. Otherwise the house was almost empty except for a few tables and chairs and couches. She’d had sense enough to leave the choice of furnishings and decorations to them. Not at all bad, on the whole. If it had been up to him . . .
If it had been up to him, he would rather live in a hole in the rock than tell his mother he didn’t like it.
He found Nefret sitting on the shady porch that looked out on a small courtyard. Jumana was with her, their heads close together.
“I’m sorry, Nefret,” he began.
“You apologize too often.” It was an old joke between them, but when she looked up he saw that her face was grave.
“It’s not so bad, is it?” he asked. “She meant well, and it is some distance from the main house, and—”
“It’s fine,” Nefret said impatiently. “Never mind the house, Ramses. Jumana has something to tell you.”
There were wicker chairs and a table or two. He sat down. “Well?”
She had obviously been talking freely with Nefret, but the sight of him froze her tongue. She twisted her hands