The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [12]
His mother was looking particularly bright-eyed and alert, her hair the same unrelieved, improbable jet black, her chin protruding. Ramses deduced that they had interrupted a parental argument. These disagreements were not uncommon; his mother and father both enjoyed them, and they were seldom deterred by the presence of their children. As soon as Fatima had served them and returned their greetings, his mother went back on the attack.
“Your proposal to go to Cairo in search of Sethos is perfectly ridiculous, Emerson. He could be anywhere in the Middle East, or in the world. I don’t know why you have got this particular bee in your bonnet. Not only must we cope with Mrs. Petherick and her eccentric children, but you cannot abandon your work.”
“Who said anything about abandoning Deir el Medina?” Emerson demanded. “I will only be away for two days. The rest of you can carry on quite well without me for that length of time. Which reminds me—where the devil is Jumana?”
Ramses had finished his eggs and toast. Fatima, who thought he was too thin, immediately replenished his plate. He looked up with a smile of thanks. Her round, friendly face, framed by the neat folds of her headcloth, bore an uncharacteristic frown.
His mother had got the bit in her teeth and was going full steam ahead. “You know perfectly well, Emerson, that Jumana goes to the site with the Vandergelts, since she is living with them for the time being. Which reminds me that you never settled her precise duties with Cyrus. He needs her even more than you, since he has only Bertie to supervise his men. I have been meaning to talk with you about this for some time. The fact is that we are shorthanded and—”
“Excuse me, Mother,” Ramses said, knowing she could go on like that indefinitely. “Fatima, you look worried. Is something bothering you?”
“Thank you, Ramses, for asking me,” said Fatima. “I want to know whether those two will come here again, or others like them. I could not keep them out, they pushed me away. I have told Jamad he must guard the door.”
Her outbursts of sarcasm and complaint were so rare that they all quailed before her, even Emerson. “Er,” he said. “Sorry, Fatima. But there is no need—”
“There is need, Father of Curses.” She folded her arms and gave him a stern look. “In Cairo we had a proper doorkeeper to announce visitors or send them away. On the dahabeeyah we had always a guard at the gangplank. Here it is all open. It is not fitting that strangers can come as they please.”
“She’s right, you know,” Nefret said. “The Pethericks aren’t the only ones who have invaded our privacy. Remember that awful woman last week who offered Father ten pounds to show her round the sights of Luxor? Tourism is flourishing and some of these people have no manners.”
“There have always been people without manners,” said her mother-in-law, frowning. “But what can we do? I refuse to give up the veranda, it is too pleasant, and if we build a wall it will spoil our view.”
“We might build a guardhouse or lodge, some distance down the road from the house,” Nefret suggested. “And get one of the older men to sit there during the day. Jamad has enough to do.”
“Do as you like,” said Emerson impatiently. “Thanks to your mother’s fussing I have missed the morning train. Just as well, perhaps; Ramses, I want you to come to the Valley with me.”
“The Valley of the Kings?” Ramses asked in surprise.
“There is only one Valley in Luxor,” said Emerson, emphatically if inaccurately.
“Yes, sir. May I ask why?”
“I promised Carter I would keep an eye on the place.” Emerson pushed his plate away, took out his pipe, and made a great business of filling it. “He and Carnarvon are dillydallying about in England and won’t be out for several more weeks.”
His wife fixed him with a steely stare.