The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [4]
And raised that son to his present age of twelve and a half years. (With Ramses one counted by months, if not days.) Though I have encountered mad dogs, Master Criminals, and murderers of both sexes, I consider the raising of Ramses my most remarkable achievement. When I recall the things Ramses has done, and the things other people have (often justifiably) tried to do to Ramses, I feel a trifle faint.
It was with Ramses and his adopted sister Nefret that Emerson stood chatting now. The girl’s golden-red hair and fair face were in striking contrast to my son’s Arabic colouring and saturnine features, but I was startled to note that he was now as tall as she. I had not realized how much he had grown over the past summer.
Ramses was talking. He usually is. I wondered what he could be saying to bring such a formidable scowl to Emerson’s face, and hoped he was not lecturing his father on Egyptology. Though tediously average in other ways, Ramses was something of a linguistic genius, and he had pursued the study of the Egyptian language since infancy. Emerson feels a natural paternal pride in his son’s abilities, but he does not like to have them shoved down his throat.
I was about to rise and go to them when the music began again and Emerson, scowling even more horribly, waved the two young people away. As soon as she turned, Nefret was approached by several young gentlemen, but Ramses took her arm and led – or, to be more accurate, dragged – her onto the floor. The frustrated suitors dispersed, looking sheepish, except for one – a tall, slightly built individual with fair hair, who remained motionless, following the girl’s movements with a cool appraising stare and a raised eyebrow.
Though Ramses’ manners left something to be desired, I could not but approve his action. The girl’s lovely face and form attracted men as a rose attracts bees, but she was too young for admirers – and far too young for the admiration of the fair-haired gentleman. I had not met him but I had heard of him. The good ladies of Cairo’s European society had had a great deal to say about Sir Edward Washington. He came of a respectable family from Northamptonshire, but he was a younger son, without prospects, and with a devastating effect on susceptible young women. (Not to mention susceptible older women.)
The seductive strains of a Strauss waltz filled the room and I looked up with a smile at Count Stradivarius, who was approaching me with the obvious intention of asking me to dance. He was a bald, portly little man, not much taller than I, but I love to waltz, and I was about to take the hand he had extended when the count was obliterated – removed, replaced – by another.
‘Will you do me the honour, Peabody?’ said Emerson.
It had to be Emerson – no one else employs my maiden name as a term of intimate affection – but for an instant I thought I must be asleep and dreaming. Emerson did not dance. Emerson had often expressed himself, with the emphasis that marks his conversation, on the absurdity of dancing.
How strange he looked! Under his tan lurked a corpselike pallor. The sapphire-blue eyes were dull, the well-cut lips tightly closed, the thick black hair wildly dishevelled, the broad shoulders braced as if against a blow. He looked . . . he looked terrified. Emerson, who fears nothing on earth, afraid?
I stared, mesmerized, into his eyes, and saw a spark illumine their depths. I knew that spark. It was inspired by temper – Emerson’s famous temper, which has won him the name of Father of Curses from his admiring Egyptian workmen. The colour rushed back into his face; the cleft in his prominent chin quivered ominously.
‘Speak up, Peabody,’ he snarled. ‘Don’t sit there gaping. Will you honour me, curse it?’
I believe I am not lacking in courage, but it required all the courage I possessed to accede. I did not suppose Emerson had the vaguest idea how to waltz. It would be quite like him to assume that if he took a notion to do a thing he could do it, without the need of instruction or practise. But the pallor of his manly countenance assured