The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [25]
ii
I had neglected to forbid Ramses to climb the palm trees in the courtyard. He explained in an injured tone that he had only wanted to get a better look at the dates, of which he had heard; but he had not eaten a single one. In proof of this he presented me with a handful, removing them with some difficulty from the pocket of his little shirt.
I sent him off to be bathed by John and began laying out Emerson’s evening clothes. He studied them with loathing.
“I told you, Amelia, I have no intention of wearing those garments. What torture have you planned now?”
“I have invited guests to dine with us tonight,” I said, removing my wrapper. “Help me with my dress, will you please?”
Emerson is so easily distracted. He moved with alacrity to drop the gown over my head, and then bent his attention upon the buttons. “Who is it? Not Petrie; he never accepts invitations to dine. Sensible man…. Naville? Carter? Not…” The hands fumbling along my spine stopped, and Emerson’s face loomed up over my shoulder, glaring like a gargoyle. “Not de Morgan! Peabody, if you have some underhanded scheme in mind—”
“Would I do such a thing?” De Morgan had refused the invitation, with polite regrets; he was engaged elsewhere. “No,” I continued, as Emerson returned to the buttons—the frock had dozens of them, each about the size of a pea. “I was happy to learn the Istar and the Seven Hathors are in port.”
“Oh. Sayce and Wilberforce.” Emerson breathed heavily on the back of my neck. “I cannot imagine what you see in those two. A dilettante clergyman and a renegade politician—”
“They are excellent scholars. The Reverend Sayce has just been appointed to the new chair of Assyriology at Oxford.”
“Dilettantes,” Emerson repeated. “Sailing up and down the Nile on their dahabeeyahs instead of working like honest men.”
A wistful sigh escaped me and Emerson, the most sensitive of men, again interrupted his labors to look inquiringly over my shoulder. “Do you miss your dahabeeyah, Peabody? If it would please you—”
“No, no, my dear Emerson. I confess that season of sailing was utter bliss; but I would not exchange it for the pleasure of our work together.”
This admission resulted in a longer interruption of the buttoning, but I finally persuaded Emerson to complete the task. Turning, I demanded his comment.
“I like that dress, Peabody. Crimson becomes you. It reminds me of the gown you wore the night you proposed marriage to me.”
“You will have your little joke, Emerson.” I inspected myself in the mirror. “Not too bright a shade for a matron and the mother of a growing boy? No? Well, I accept your judgment as always, my dear Emerson.”
I too had fond memories of the gown to which he referred. I had worn it on the night he proposed to me, and I took care always to have in my wardrobe a frock of similar cut and color. One abomination of the past was gone, however—the bustle. I could have wished that some fashion arbiter would also do away with corsets. Mine were never as tight as fashion decreed, for I had grave suspicions about the effect of tight lacing on the internal organs. I did not wear them at all under my working clothes, but some concession was necessary with evening dress in order to attain the smooth flowing line then in style.
I clasped about my neck a gold chain bearing a scarab of Thutmose III—my husband’s gift—and, my toilette completed, went to assist Emerson with his. John and Ramses returned in time to contribute their assistance, which was not unwelcome, for Emerson carried on in his usual fashion, losing collar buttons, studs and links because of the vehemence with which he attacked these accessories. Ramses had become particularly good at locating collar buttons; he was small enough to crawl under beds and other furniture.
Emerson looked so handsome in evening dress that the effort was all worthwhile. His heightened color and the brilliant blue of his eyes, flaming with rage, only added to his splendid appearance. Unlike most of the men of my acquaintance, he remained clean-shaven. I preferred him without hirsute