The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [21]
Nefret certainly looked like a little lady that morning, in a pale-green gingham frock and a charming bonnet of blue and green straw woven to resemble feathers. Broad-brimmed hats or boaters were in vogue for young ladies that year, but this hat had taken her fancy and I saw no reason to discourage a moderate degree of individuality in matters of dress.
Ramses was fairly presentable too, though I knew that condition would not endure. We had left Anubis at the hotel, but the cat Bastet, on the carriage seat between Ramses and Nefret, stared interestedly around her, like any tourist. I emulated the cat. Not that I would have spoiled Emerson’s innocent pleasure by claiming I had anticipated his surprise, but I was curious to know whether I could do so.
I began to get a glimmer of an idea when we crossed the Kasr en-Nil Bridge and saw, on the farther bank, the pennants and flags and funnels of various vessels. That vista had changed since my early days in Egypt; tourist steamers and tugs had largely replaced the graceful sailing vessels called dahabeeyahs. From what I had heard, the Cook’s steamers were comfortable enough, providing everything from a proper English breakfast of eggs and bacon, oatmeal and marmalade, to an army of servants in red tarbooshes.
The steamers made the run from Cairo to Luxor in five and a half days.
Only imagine, I thought, when I heard someone boast of that speed. Five days and a half for the wonders of Egypt; five and a half days in the society of shallow-minded, frivolous individuals, who ‘did’ Egypt at top speed and in determined isolation from the country and its ‘dirty natives.’ I was in full accord with Emerson; if we wanted to get somewhere in a hurry (which he usually did), better the railroad, which made no pretence at instilling culture.
Yet, as the carriage proceeded along the bank fond memories overcame me, and though I knew it to be folly my eyes sought a vanished shape – that of my dear dahabeeyah the Philae, on which I had travelled during my first, never-to-be forgotten visit to Egypt. A few of the graceful vessels were still to be seen. Some of our friends clung to the good old customs, and I was pleased to see the Istar, which belonged to the Reverend Mr Sayce, and just beyond it, Cyrus Vandergelt’s boat, the Valley of the Kings.
‘Is Cyrus arrived, then?’ I asked, for I fancied I had solved Emerson’s little mystery and wondered why he had made such a fuss about lunching with an old friend. ‘Is that the reason . . . Oh! Oh, Emerson!’
For a vision had appeared to me; a dream had taken on reality. I knew her with the knowledge of the heart, as some poet has said (probably in quite another context), though she was singularly changed, shining with fresh paint and bright new awnings, and though the name on the bow was not the one that had been hers. The name . . . The name was . . . My own.
I burst into tears.
‘Good Gad, Peabody, don’t do that!’ Emerson gathered me into his arms. ‘You never used to do that. This makes twice in two days! What has come over you?’
‘I am so happy,’ I said between sobs.
‘Hmph,’ said Emerson. ‘I don’t recall that you reacted in that manner to my proposal of marriage, or to – er – certain other incidents that I remember with an intensity of emotion corresponding to the one you claim to feel.’
‘It is not the same thing at all, Emerson.’
‘Indeed? Well, we can discuss that at another time. Sit up and straighten your hat and blow your nose and tell me that you are pleased.’
Ramses offered me a handkerchief. It was very nasty, like all Ramses’ handkerchiefs, so I declined with thanks and found my own.
‘Speechless with delight would be nearer the mark, Emerson. Is it really the dear old Philae?’
‘Not any longer. She is now the Amelia Peabody Emerson – yours in name and in fact.’
With an effort I conquered