The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [2]
Despite his devotion to the child, Emerson pined in the dreary climate of England. I refer not only to its meteorological climate, but to the sterile monotony of academic life to which my husband had been doomed by his decision to forgo his Egyptian excavations. He would not go to Egypt without Ramses, and he would not risk the boy’s health in that germ-infested part of the world. Only an appeal from a lady in distress (who turned out to be, as I suspected from the first, a thoroughgoing villainess) drew him from Ramses’ side; and, seeing him glow and expand among his beloved antiquities, I determined that never again would I allow him to sacrifice himself for family commitments.
We decided to take Ramses with us the following year, but a series of distressing events allowed me to postpone that pleasure. My dear friend and sister-in-law, Evelyn, who had produced four healthy children without apparent effort, suffered two successive disappointments (as she called them). The second miscarriage threw her into a state of deep depression. For some reason (possibly related to her confused mental condition) she found Ramses’ company comforting and burst into tears when we proposed to take him away. Walter added his appeals, claiming that the boy’s merry little tricks kept Evelyn from brooding. I could well believe that, because it required the concentrated attention of every adult in the household to restrain Ramses from self-immolation and a widespread destruction of property. We therefore yielded to the pleas of Ramses’ aunt and uncle, I with gracious forbearance, Emerson with grudging reluctance.
When we returned from Egypt the following spring, Ramses seemed nicely settled at Chalfont, and I saw no reason to alter the arrangement. I knew, however, that this excellent situation (excellent for Evelyn, I mean, of course) could not endure forever. But I decided not to worry about it. “Sufficient unto the day,” as the Scripture says.
The day duly arrived. It was during the third week in June. I was at work in the library trying to get Emerson’s notes in order before he returned from London with the next installment. Some dark premonition undoubtedly brushed my mind; for though I am not easily distracted, particularly from a subject that enthralls me as much as Eighteenth Dynasty rock-cut tombs, I found myself sitting with idle hands, staring out at the garden. It was at its best that lovely summer afternoon; the roses were in bloom and my perennial borders were looking their loveliest. None of the plants had been trampled or dug up; the blossoms had been culled with tender deliberation by the expert in that trade, not torn out, roots and all, to make bouquets for the servants and the dogs; the smooth green turf was unmarked by small booted feet or the holes of amateur excavation. Never before had I seen it in that pristine condition. Ramses had begun walking a month after we moved into the house. A gentle nostalgia suffused me and I brooded in quietude until my meditation was interrupted by a knock on the door.
Our servants are trained to knock before entering. This custom confirms the suspicions of our county neighbors that we are uncouth eccentrics, but I see no reason why the well-to-do should lack the privacy poor people enjoy. When Emerson and I are working or when we are alone in our bedchamber we do not appreciate being interrupted. One knock is allowed. If there is no response, the servant goes quietly away.
“Come in,” I called.
“It is a telegram, madam,” said Wilkins, tottering toward me with a tray. Wilkins is perfectly hale and hearty, but he makes a point of tottering, in order not to be asked to do anything he doesn’t want to do. I took the telegram, and again the wings of shadowy foreboding