The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [49]
“I am sorry I cannot offer you refreshment,” I said. “As you see, we are not yet settled in.”
This was an act of rudeness worthy of Emerson himself, for the portable stove was alight and the kettle was coming to the boil. As I was to learn, rudeness was no defense against Brother Ezekiel. “As a rule I don’t hold with stimulants,” he remarked coolly. “But I’ll take a cup of tea with you. When in Rome, eh? I know you Britishers can’t get on without it. You set down, ma’am. Charity’ll tend to the tea. Well, go on, girl, where are your manners? Take off your bonnet. It ain’t overly bright in here and I don’t want you spilling nothing.”
The room was bright enough for me to get a good look at the face displayed by the removal of the absurd bonnet. It was not a fashionable style of beauty. Her skin was extremely pale—not surprising, if she went about in that stovepipe of a bonnet—and the delicacy of her features, combined with her diminutive size, made her look like a child some years away from the bloom of womanhood. But when she glanced shyly at me, as if asking my permission to proceed, I was struck by the sweetness of her expression. Her eyes were her best feature, soft and dark, half veiled by extraordinarily long, curling lashes. Her abundant brown hair was strained back from her face into an ugly bun, but a few curls had escaped to caress her rounded cheeks.
I smiled at her before turning a less amiable look on her brother. “My servant will prepare the tea,” I said. “John?”
I knew he had been listening. The new door into the courtyard had been hung, and it stood a trifle ajar. The door promptly opened, and I felt an almost maternal pride when he appeared. He was such a splendid specimen of young British manhood! The sleeves of his shirt were rolled high, displaying the muscular arms of a Hercules. He stood with stiff dignity, ready to receive my orders, and I felt sure that when he spoke his vowels would be in perfect order.
The response to my summons was never uttered. Vowels and consonants alike died in his throat. He had seen the girl.
A phrase of Mr. Tennyson’s struck into my mind with the accuracy of an arrow thudding into the center of the target. “The curse is come upon me,” cried the Lady of Shalott (a poor specimen of womanhood) when she first beheld Sir Launcelot. So might John have cried, had he been poetically inclined, when his eyes first beheld Charity Jones.
The girl was not unaware of his interest. It could not have been more apparent if he had shouted aloud. A faint, wild-rose flush warmed her cheeks and she lowered her eyes.
The lashes and the blush completed John’s demoralization. How he managed to make and serve the tea I am sure I do not know, since he never took his eyes off the girl. I expected Brother Ezekiel to resent John’s interest. Instead he watched the pair with a curious absence of expression, and spoke scarcely a word. Brother David’s gentlemanly manners had never shown to better advantage. He carried on an animated conversation, describing with considerable humor some of the problems he and his colleague had encountered with the villagers.
I thought I would have to take John by the shoulders and turn him out of the room when he was finished, but on the third repetition of my dismissal he stumbled out. The door remained slightly ajar, however.
Mr. Jones finally rose. “We’ll be getting back,” he announced. “I’ll come for Charity at sundown.”
“No, you’ll take her with you,” I said. “I appreciate your offer of assistance, but I do not need it. My people have matters well in hand.” The reverend started to object. I raised my voice and continued, “If I require domestic help I will hire it. I certainly will not permit this young lady to act as my scullery maid.”
Ezekiel’s face turned puce. Before he could speak, David said, “My dear Mrs. Emerson, your delicacy does you credit, but you do not understand our views. Honest labor is no disgrace. I myself would willingly roll up my sleeves and wield brush or broom.