The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [20]
‘A Stanley Steamer,’ Emerson breathed. ‘Peabody, what would you think of –’
Leaning forwards, I jabbed the coachman with my parasol. ‘Drive on, if you please.’
However, he was unable to do so since the motorcar was blocking the way. Instead of objecting to the delay, as would have been his normal custom, Emerson leaned forwards, studying the vehicle with greedy eyes. Thus far I had managed to resist his suggestion that we purchase one of the horrid things, but I feared I was losing ground.
Other guests were less tolerant than Emerson. The occupants of the carriage behind us raised their voices in loud complaint, and several ladies waiting for their carriages put handkerchiefs to their faces and backed away as the vehicle emitted an explosive popping sound and a burst of evil-smelling smoke.
The owner of the motorcar, identified as such by his long coat and visored cap, had emerged from the hotel. All eyes turned towards him, some in angry reproach, some (female) in interested appraisal. Smiling, he offered his arm (and, one may assume, his apologies) to a lady who had stumbled over her long black skirts as she retreated. After handing her over to her attendant, he sauntered slowly down the steps and took his place behind the wheel.
‘Who is that young jackanapes?’ Emerson demanded, jealousy (of the machine) making him neglect to finish the sentence my instruction to the driver had interrupted. ‘He looks familiar.’
Nefret had slumped down in the seat and turned her face away. It was Ramses who replied, with a suspicious glance at his sister. ‘That is Sir Edward Washington, Father, and he is not so very young. Thirty years of age if he is a day.’
‘Quite elderly, upon my word,’ said Emerson. ‘As I was saying, Peabody, what would you think –’
‘Where are we going, Emerson?’ I asked.
‘Confound it, Peabody, I wish you would leave off –’
‘The coachman is awaiting instructions, my dear.’
The motorcar having driven off, Emerson consented to give those instructions, standing upright on the seat and mumbling into the fellow’s ear in order to prevent me from hearing. I said with a smile, ‘So this is part of the secret, is it? Would I guess the truth if I knew our destination?’
‘Not likely,’ Emerson declared. ‘But you are devilish keen in such matters, my dear, and you always claim afterwards that you knew all along. Perhaps if I blindfolded you –’
‘Not likely,’ I assured him, taking a firm grip on my parasol.
Emerson laughed. He was in high good humour, the motorcar forgotten, and I realized that the children must be in on the secret too. Ramses’ narrow countenance looked almost affable, and Nefret’s silvery laughter blended with Emerson’s deep chuckle. I will say for the girl that she had not a sulky disposition. She had got over her annoyance with me; though, if truth were told, I was not altogether over my annoyance with her.
She had been with Sir Edward – and in the Moorish Hall!
‘But he was a perfect gentleman, Aunt Amelia. He did not even try to kiss me, though he wanted to.’
‘Good Gad! How do you know that? Did he have the audacity to –’
‘No, certainly not. But I could tell. I did my best to encourage him – in a ladylike manner, of course – but perhaps I have not yet learned how –’
‘Nefret!’
‘You always tell me I must be receptive to broadening experiences. That would have been a broadening experience. And, from what I have observed, a very enjoyable one.’
I did not doubt where, and under what circumstances, the little minx