The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [76]
“Good,” I exclaimed. “That is—I am glad she is recovered enough to continue her journey.”
“I thought you might feel that way,” said de Morgan with a smile. “You know that her little pet escaped after all?”
“Did it?”
For the past several minutes a muffled undercurrent of thumps and growls had issued from the house. De Morgan’s smile broadened. “Yes, it did. Possibly the thieves opened the cage by mistake. Ah, well; it is a small matter.”
“Quite,” I said, as a howl of feline frustration arose and claws attacked the inside of the door.
After de Morgan had left, grinning like a Gallic idiot, I went in search of Emerson. I found him methodically kicking the foundations of the house, and led him back to the dig.
The rest of the day went quietly, and Emerson’s temper gradually subsided under the soothing influence of professional activity. After dinner he sat down to write up his journal of the day’s work, assisted by Ramses, while John and I went to the darkroom and developed the plates we had taken that day. Some had turned out quite well. Others were very blurred. John tried to take the credit for the good ones, but I soon set him straight on that, and pointed out where he had gone astray in focusing the camera.
We returned to the sitting room. The cat Bastet was sitting on top of Emerson’s papers. Emerson absently lifted her up whenever he added a finished sheet to the pile. The lion cub was chewing on Emerson’s bootlace. As I entered, the front door opened and Ramses appeared. He had got into the habit of spending the evening with Abdullah and the other men from Aziyeh, in order to practice his Arabic, as he claimed. I had reservations about this, but felt sure Abdullah would prevent the men from adding too extensively to Ramses’ collection of colloquialisms. I was pleased that he got on well with them. Abdullah said they enjoyed his company. I suppose he could hardly say anything else.
“Time for bed, Ramses,” I said.
“Yes, Mama.” He unwound the cub’s leash from the legs of the table and those of his father. “I will walk de lion and den retire.”
“You don’t believe you can train that creature as you would a dog, do you?” I asked, in mingled amusement and exasperation.
“De experiment has never been tried, to my knowledge, Mama. I consider it wort’ a try.”
“Oh, very well. Put the lion in its cage before you get into bed. Make sure the shutter is tightly fastened—”
“Yes, Mama. Mama?”
“What is it, Ramses?”
He stood holding the leash, his grave dark eyes fixed on my face. “I would like to say, Mama, dat I am fully cognizant of your support and forbearance regarding de lion. I will endeavor to discover some way of proving my gratitude.”
“Please don’t,” I exclaimed. “I appreciate your remarks, Ramses, but you can best express your gratitude by being a good little boy and obeying your mama’s orders.”
“Yes, Mama. Good night, Mama. Good night, John. Good night, de cat Bastet. Good night, Papa.”
“Good night, my dearest boy,” Emerson replied. “Sleep well.”
After Ramses had gone and John had carried the tray of pottery shards to the storeroom, Emerson put down his pen and looked reproachfully at me. “Amelia, that was a very manly and loving apology you received from Ramses.”
“It did not sound like an apology to me,” I replied. “And when Ramses offers to do something for me, my blood runs cold in anticipation.”
Emerson threw down his pen. “Curse it, Amelia, I don’t understand you. Heaven knows you are an excellent mother—”
“I try to be, Emerson.”
“You are, my dear, you are. Ramses does you credit. But can’t you be more—more—”
“More what, Emerson?”
“More affectionate? You are always snapping at the boy.”
“I am not a demonstrative person, Emerson.”
“I have reason to know better,” said Emerson, giving me a meaningful look.
“That is a different matter altogether. Naturally I am fond of Ramses, but I will never be one of those doting mamas who allow maternal affection to blind them to the flaws of character and behavior