The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [5]
‘Thank you, my dear Emerson.’
‘Oh,’ said Emerson. ‘You will?’
‘Yes, my dear.’
Emerson took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and seized me.
The first few moments were exceedingly painful, particularly to my feet and my ribs. I am proud to say that no cry escaped my lips and that no sign of anguish marred the serenity of my smile. After a while Emerson’s desperate grip relaxed. ‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘Not so bad, eh, Peabody?’
I took the first deep breath I had enjoyed since he took hold of me and realized that my martyrdom had been rewarded. For so large a man, Emerson can move with cat-like grace when he chooses; encouraged by my apparent enjoyment, he had begun to enjoy himself too, and he had fallen into the rhythm of the music.
‘Not bad at all,’ Emerson repeated, grinning. ‘They told me I would like it once I got the hang of it.’
‘They?’
‘Ramses and Nefret. They were taking lessons this past summer, you know; they taught me. I made them promise not to tell you. It was to be a surprise for you, my dear. I know how much you like this sort of thing. I must say it is a good deal more enjoyable than I had expected. I suppose it is you who . . . Peabody? Are you crying? Curse it, did I tread on your toes?’
‘No, my dear.’ In shocking defiance of custom I clung closer to him, blotting my tears on his shoulder. ‘I weep because I am so moved. To think that you would make such a sacrifice for me –’
‘A small enough return, my darling Peabody, for the sacrifices you have made and the dangers you have faced for me.’ The words were muffled, for his cheek rested on the top of my head and his lips were pressed to my temple.
A belated sense of decorum returned. I strove to remove myself a short distance. ‘People are staring, Emerson. You are holding me too close.’
‘No, I am not,’ said Emerson.
‘No,’ I said, yielding shamelessly to his embrace. ‘You aren’t.’
Emerson, having ‘got the hang of it,’ would allow no one else to waltz with me. I declined all other partners, not only because I knew it would please him but because I required the intervals between waltzes to catch my breath. Emerson waltzed as he did everything else, with enormous energy, and between the tightness of his grasp and the vigour of his movements, which had, on more than one occasion, literally lifted me off my feet, it took me some time to recover.
The intervals gave me the opportunity to observe the other guests. The study of human nature in all its manifestations is one no person of intelligence should ignore – and what better place to observe it than in a setting such as this?
The styles of that year were very pretty, I thought, without the exaggerated outlines that had in the past distorted (and would, alas, soon again distort) the female form. Skirts fell gracefully from the waist, sans hoops or bustles; bodices were modestly draped. Black was a popular shade with older ladies, but how rich was the shimmer of black satin, how cobweb-fine the sable lace at throat and elbow! The sparkle of gems and of jet, the pale glimmer of pearls adorned the fabric and the white throats of the wearers. What a pity, I thought, that men allowed themselves to be limited by the meaningless vagaries of fashion! In most cultures, from the ancient Egyptian until comparatively modern times, the male swanked as brilliantly as the female, and presumably took as much pleasure as she in the acquisition of jewels and embroidered and lace-trimmed garments.
The only exceptions to masculine drabness of attire were the brilliant uniforms of the Egyptian Army officers. In fact, none of these gentlemen were Egyptians. Like all other aspects of the government, the army was under British control and officered by Englishmen or Europeans. The uniforms denoting members of our own