The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [41]
We usually began work at an early hour, after only a cup of tea, and then paused for breakfast in mid-morning. It was while we were at this meal on the day after our return from the camp that I found an opportunity of speaking with Emerson about Mr. Forthright. He had mentioned Mr. Budge, remarking, in his bluff manner, “I caught a glimpse of a familiar fat form strutting around camp yesterday, in the company of some of the officers. Did you happen to run into him, Peabody?”
“Indeed I did,” said I. “He and I had the honor of lunching with General Rundle. You were invited, Emerson.”
“They couldn’t invite me because they couldn’t find me,” Emerson said smugly. “I had a notion some such thing would happen; that is why I kept out of the way. And you see, Peabody, how well it turned out. It’s difficult enough to be civil to a group of military blockheads; Budge would have been too much for me. Bragging and boasting as usual, I suppose?”
“To some extent. But it was not his bragging that would have been too much for you.”
“What, then?” Emerson’s countenance darkened. “Did he have the effrontery to admire you, Peabody? By heaven, if he so much as touched your sleeve—”
“Oh, come, Emerson. You must get over this notion (flattering though it may be) that every man I meet falls madly in love with me. Mr. Budge has never shown the slightest indication of doing so.”
“He has not the delicacy of taste to appreciate you,” Emerson agreed. “So what did he do, Peabody?”
“He was kind enough to inform me—and the officers— that Mr. Reginald Forthright is on his way here, having been invited by you to join an expedition in search of the Lost Oasis.”
Fortunately Emerson had finished his tea. Otherwise I am convinced he would have choked. I will spare the Reader a description of the broken, incoherent outcries that escaped his lips. With his accustomed quickness he had immediately grasped that the result of Budge’s statement must be to make him an object of ridicule, and this seemed to be the major theme of his complaints. Interspersed with the curses which have made Emerson famous along the length of the Nile Valley, his comments rose to a pitch that was audible at some distance. The men turned to stare, and Kemit, who was waiting for instructions, opened his eyes very wide—the first sign of emotion I had seen on his composed countenance.
I suggested that Emerson moderate his voice. He fell silent, and I went on, “When last heard of, Mr. Forthright had got as far as Wadi Haifa. I had not expected the young man would have such determination. He must have had strong encouragement to proceed, don’t you think?”
“I do not engage in idle speculation concerning the motives of individuals with whom I am barely acquainted,” Emerson replied.
“Then you did not invite—”
“Curse it, Amelia.…” Emerson caught himself. It creates a bad impression for leaders of an expedition to quarrel openly before the men—or for the parents of a child like Ramses to disagree. He went on in a more moderate voice. “I certainly did not encourage Mr. Forthright to come to Nubia. Quite the reverse.”
“Ah. So you did communicate with him before we left England.”
Emerson’s cheeks turned a handsome mahogany shade and the dimple in his chin quivered ominously. “And you, Peabody—weren’t you moved to send a sympathetic message to the bereaved old father?”
It was a shrewd hit. I believe my countenance remained relatively unmoved, but Emerson knows me too well to be deceived. His tight lips relaxed and a humorous gleam brightened the brilliant blue of his eyes. “Cards on the table, Peabody. If this young idiot is about to descend upon us, we must know precisely where we stand. I did write to Forthright. I assured him that we would make inquiries, and that if—I underlined the