The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [88]
“I trust we won’t see you digging in the Valley,” Ramses said. “The Service des Antiquités is not the only one who would come down hard on you.”
The only response was a shrug.
“Goodness, Ramses, but you were brusque with young Mr. Albion,” I remarked, after we had seen the party on its way back to their hotel and had mounted our noble steeds.
“Was he? Good,” said Emerson. “Don’t want people of that sort bothering us.”
Ramses glanced back at Jumana, who was talking to Nefret. “I haven’t told you what he said about Jumana the other evening.”
He repeated the offensive remark. Cyrus turned red with indignation and Emerson growled, “Damn the young swine! Why didn’t you tell me? I would have—”
“So would I, if Nefret hadn’t stopped me,” Ramses said. “I took pains to make the position clear. There’s been no harm done.”
“And there won’t be any,” Cyrus declared.
“Quite right,” I said. “What did you think of his absurd proposal of excavating in the Valley of the Kings?”
“I was surprised,” Ramses admitted. “Visitors sometime fall into the error of supposing they can dig wherever they like, but he ought to have known better. Was he trying to provoke us?”
“You’re almost as suspicious-minded as your mother,” said Cyrus.
“My ma,” Ramses corrected. “That’s how Mr. Albion referred to her the other evening. Father, how would you like being addressed as Pa?”
“Not very much,” Emerson grunted.
“You are taking them too seriously,” I insisted. “They are rather silly and somewhat annoying, and we will have as little to do with them as possible. Have you decided what needs to be done here, Emerson?”
“What needs to be done,” said Emerson grumpily, “is lock the whole place up and shoot any damned tourist who tries to get in. Yes, yes, Peabody, I know, it is an impractical suggestion. You made plans of the brickwork you found west of the chapel, Vandergelt? The men had better cover it up again, otherwise the bloody tourists will climb all over it and destroy what little is left.”
“What about repairing the floor?” Cyrus asked. He was not anxious to waste time on that chore, but he was a conscientious individual.
“Leave it,” Emerson said. “One of the damned tourists may fall in.”
We started back toward the donkey park, where we had left the horses. Still chuckling over Emerson’s humorous remark—I think it was supposed to be humorous—Cyrus remarked, “Bertie was in a pretty glum state of mind this morning. Hates being laid up. Is there any reason why he can’t come out with us tomorrow?”
“Why not?” Emerson replied. “We can use another pair of hands, if only for keeping field notes.”
“I suppose we could arrange a chair and footstool,” I mused. “But in my opinion, Bertie ought to stay at home for a few more days.”
“He won’t stand for it,” Ramses said. “I know Katherine; she’ll drive him wild, and then he’ll run off and do something foolish.”
“You are speaking from personal experience, are you?” I inquired, smiling to indicate that it was just one of my little jokes.
I got an answering smile, and a quick kiss on the cheek. “Not at all, Mother. Will you excuse Nefret and me if we go on ahead?”
Risha was aching to run, and so was Moonlight; the slow pace of Cyrus’s amiable mare was irksome for steeds of such mettle. So I nodded, and the two young people went off at a brisk trot.
“They sure are a fine-looking young pair,” Cyrus said admiringly. Nefret had taken the remaining pins from her hair; it streamed out like a bright banner as Risha broke into a run and Moonlight, not to be outdone, stretched out to match his pace. “I’m not as jealous as I used to be, though,” he went on. “Bertie is like a son to me. I’m gonna make him my heir, Amelia. After Cat, of course.”
“Excellent, Cyrus,” I said approvingly. “He has earned your approbation. I wouldn’t mention it to anyone else, though, or the lad will be courted by every female fortune-hunter in Egypt. And if he knows of it, he will suspect the motives of every young lady who indicates interest.”
“That’s good advice, I reckon,