The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [85]
We all gathered round Emerson, and a sizable audience we were: Selim and Daoud, Cyrus and Abu, Jumana, Nefret, Ramses, and of course the Great Cat of Re, who had climbed up onto Ramses’s shoulder and was staring at Emerson with round green eyes. I waited until Emerson had drawn a deep breath and opened his mouth before I spoke.
“The solution to our problem is obvious.”
Caught off-balance, figuratively speaking, Emerson forgot what he had been about to say. “I . . . Curse it, Peabody, what are you talking about? What problem? We have no problem. We—”
“Several problems, I should have said. First, the distinct possibility that your plan will enrage M. Daressy and result in our being forbidden to work in Egypt. Second, the fact that although Bertie has become a competent supervisor, he knows nothing of hieratic and cannot cope with the inscribed materials we have been finding. Third, Ramses’s desire to continue working here. Are you so indifferent to the feelings of your son, Emerson, that you will ride roughshod over them? I had not supposed you would be so unkind.”
I managed to get through this entire speech without interruption, since I had learned the trick of pausing for breath, not at the end of sentences, but at random intervals the listeners did not expect. Emerson would not have been reluctant to interrupt at any interval; but as he explained later, my tone of voice warned him he had better not. And by the time I had finished, the alteration of his expression assured me that the last point, at least, had made the desired impression.
He turned to his son, his handsome features sober. “Do you feel that strongly about it, Ramses? You know I would never . . . Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He did tell you,” I said in exasperation. “You didn’t listen.”
“It’s all right, Father,” Ramses said quickly. “Perhaps I didn’t express myself clearly enough.”
“Clearly enough for me to understand,” I said with a sniff. “Never mind. My solution is very simple. Cyrus and we are both shorthanded. I suggest we combine forces and focus on one site—this one—dividing the responsibility. Cyrus can have the tombs; we will take the village. M. Daressy can have no objection to our expanding our workforce.”
Cyrus, who had listened in gloomy silence to what he expected would be the failure of his hopes, immediately cheered up. “You mean it?” he exclaimed.
“Certainly,” I replied, returning his smile. “Naturally we will assist one another should anything of particular interest turn up which would demand additional manpower.”
Emerson had been thoroughly humbled. He loved his son dearly—though I do not believe he had ever actually said so—and was ready to accept any penance I proposed—until I added that last sentence. It livened him up considerably. He turned on me with a shout.
“Confound it, Amelia! I see through you. You are bored with sifting rubbish. You are after those tombs yourself.”
“I have just now proposed handing that part of our concession over to Cyrus, Emerson,” I reminded him. “Do you agree?”
“Oh.” Emerson rubbed his chin. “Well . . .”
“It’s a durned good idea,” Cyrus declared. “Just what I’d have expected you to come up with, Amelia. What do you say, old pal? Shake on it?”
Instead of taking Cyrus’s outstretched hand, Emerson turned to his son. “Is that acceptable to you, Ramses? Be honest.”
“I think it is an excellent plan, Father. Honestly,” he added.
“In that case . . .” Emerson seized Cyrus’s hand in a firm grip. “It is agreed.”
“Perhaps we should sign a written agreement,