The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [6]
With a sigh and a murmured prayer (all a mere woman can offer in a world where men determine the fate of the young and helpless) I returned to my study of human nature. Those who were not dancing sat or stood around the room watching the intricacies of the cotillion, or chatting with one another. A good many were acquaintances of mine; I was interested to observe that Mrs Arbuthnot had gained another several stone and that Mr Arbuthnot had got a young lady whom I did not recognize backed into a corner. I could not see what he was doing, but the young lady’s expression suggested he was up to his old tricks. Miss Marmaduke (of whom more hereafter) had no partner. Perched on the edge of her chair, her face set in an anxious smile, she looked like a bedraggled black crow. Next to her, ignoring her with cool discourtesy, was Mrs Everly, wife of the Interior Minister. From the animation that wreathed her face as she carried on a conversation across Miss Marmaduke with the latter’s neighbour, I deduced that the lady, swathed in black veiling, was a Person of Importance. Was she a recent widow? No lesser loss could dictate such heavy mourning; but if that were the case, what was she doing at a social function such as this? Perhaps, I mused, her loss was not recent. Perhaps, like a certain regal widow, she had determined never to leave off the visible signs of bereavement.
(I reproduce the preceding paragraphs in order to demonstrate to the Reader how much can be offered to the serious student of human nature even in so frivolous a social setting as that one.)
It would be my last social event for some time. In a few more days we would leave the comforts of Cairo’s finest hotel for . . .
Well, only Heaven and Emerson knew where. It was one of his engaging little habits, to delay until the last possible moment before telling me where we would excavate that year. Irritating as this could be, it had a certain titillation, and I amused myself by considering the possibilities. Dahshûr? We had never finished exploring the interior of the Bent Pyramid, and pyramids, I must confess, are a passion of mine. Amarna would be equally to my taste, however, since it was there that my first romantic experiences with Emerson took place. The Theban area, too, had its attractions: royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings, the majestic temple of Queen Hatshepsut . . .
My meditations were interrupted by Nefret and Ramses. Her rose-petal cheeks aglow, the girl dropped into the chair at my side and glowered at her foster brother, who stood with arms folded and face expressionless. Ramses had graduated to long trousers that year – the sudden elongation of his lower limbs having made that decision advisable on aesthetic if no other grounds – and with his curly hair brushed into a rampant crest, he resembled a critical stork.
‘Ramses says I may not dance with Sir Edward,’ Nefret exclaimed. ‘Aunt Amelia, tell him –’
‘Sir Edward,’ said Ramses, prominent nose quivering, ‘is not a suitable person for Nefret to know. Mother, tell her –’
‘Be quiet, both of you,’ I said sharply. ‘I will be the judge of who constitutes a proper associate for Nefret.’
‘Hmph,’ said Ramses.
Nefret said something I did not understand. I supposed it to be one of the Nubian swearwords to which she resorted when in a temper. Temper, and the heat of the room, would have reduced any other female countenance to an ugly state of red-faced perspiration, but she could never appear other than beautiful; her cornflower-blue eyes sparkled wickedly and the sheen of perspiration that bedewed her skin made it glow as if lit from within.
‘Ramses,’ I said, ‘please go and ask Miss Marmaduke to dance. You owe her that courtesy, since she is to be your tutor.’
‘But Mama –’ Ramses’ voice