The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [8]
Gargery, our excellent butler, had been watching for the carriage; as he assisted me to remove my wet outer garments he said solicitously, “May I venture to suggest, madam, that you take something to ward off a cold? I will send one of the footmen upstairs with it at once, if you like.”
“What a splendid idea, Gargery,” I replied. “I am grateful to you for suggesting it.”
I had almost reached my room before I realized that the house was uncommonly quiet. No voices raised in genial debate from my husband’s study, no childish laughter, no…
“Rose,” I cried, flinging open my door. “Rose, where… Oh, there you are.”
“Your bath is ready, madam,” said Rose, from the open door of the bathroom, where she stood wreathed in steam like a kindly genie. She seemed a trifle flushed. It might have been the warmth of the bathwater that had brought the pretty color to her cheeks, but I suspected another reason.
“Thank you, Rose. But I was about to ask—”
“Will you wear the crimson tea gown, madam?” She hastened to me and began wrenching at the buttons on my dress.
“Yes. But where… My dear Rose, you are shaking me like a terrier with a rat. A little less enthusiasm, if you please.”
“Yes, madam. But the bath water will be cold.” Having divested me of my gown, she began attacking my petticoats.
“Very well, Rose. What has Ramses done now?”
It took me a while to get the truth out of her. Rose is childless; no doubt that fact explains her peculiar attachment to Ramses, whom she has known since he was an infant. It is true that he showers her with gifts—bouquets of my prize roses, bunches of prickly wildflowers, small furry animals, hideous gloves, scarves, and handbags, selected by himself and paid for out of his pocket money. But even if the gifts were appropriate, which most are not, they hardly compensate for the hours Rose has spent cleaning up after him. I long ago gave up trying to comprehend this streak of irrationality in an otherwise sensible woman.
After Rose had stripped me of my garments and popped me into the tub, she deemed that the soothing effect of hot water would soften me enough to hear the truth. In fact, it was not as bad as I had feared. It seems I had neglected to forbid Ramses to take a bath.
Rose assured me that the ceiling of Professor Emerson’s study was not much damaged, and she thought the carpet would be all the better for a good washing. Ramses had fully intended to turn off the water and no doubt he would have remembered to do so, only the cat Bastet had caught a mouse, and if he had delayed in rushing to the rodent’s rescue, Bastet would have dispatched it. As a result of his prompt action the mouse was now resting quietly, its wounds dressed, in Ramses’s closet.
Rose hates mice. “Never mind,” I said wearily. “I don’t want to hear any more. I don’t want to know what forced Ramses to the dire expedient of bathing. I don’t want to know what Professor Emerson said when his ceiling began spouting water. Just hand me that glass, Rose, and then go quietly away.”
The whiskey and soda had been delivered. An application of that beverage internally and of hot water externally eventually restored me to my usual spirits, and when I went to the drawing room, trailing my crimson flounces and looking, I fancy, as well as I have ever looked, the smiling faces of my beloved family assured me that all was well.
Evelyn wore a gown of the soft azure that intensified the blue of her eyes and set off her golden hair. The gown was already sadly crushed, for children are drawn to my dear friend as bees are drawn to a flower. She had the baby on her lap and little Amelia beside her, in the maternal clasp of her arm. The twins sat at her feet, mashing her skirts. Raddie, my eldest nephew, leaned over the arm of the sofa where his mother sat, and Ramses leaned against Raddie, getting as