The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [15]
“Would it be so terrible, Emerson? Just the two of us, alone, as we used to be? Is my companionship so displeasing to you?”
The muscles of his arm relaxed. “Don’t talk nonsense, Peabody,” he muttered, and, as I had hoped he would, he took me into his embrace.
So it was arranged. Needless to say, Evelyn and Walter entered into the scheme with delight. I hastened to make the necessary arrangements for our departure before Emerson could change his mind.
He moped a bit, before and after we left, and I must confess I felt an unexpected sensation of loss when the steamer pulled away from the dock and I waved farewell to those who stood below. I had not realized Ramses had grown so much. He looked sturdy and dependable as he stood there—next to Nefret, of course. Evelyn was on Nefret’s other side, her arm around the girl; Walter held his wife’s arm and flapped his handkerchief vigorously. They made a pretty family group.
Since we had been able to get off early in the season, we had determined to take the boat from London to Port Sa’id instead of following the quicker but less convenient route by train to Marseille or Brindisi before boarding a steamer. I hoped the sea voyage would reconcile Emerson and put him in a proper frame of mind. The moon obliged me, spreading ripples of silvery light across the water as we strolled the deck hand in hand, gliding through the porthole of our cabin to inspire the tenderest demonstrations of connubial affection. And I must say it was a pleasant change to indulge in those demonstrations without wondering whether we had forgotten to lock Ramses in his cabin.
Emerson did not respond as quickly as I had hoped, being given to occasional fits of frowning abstraction, but I felt certain his gloomy mood would lift as soon as we set foot on the soil of Egypt. That moment was now only hours away; already I fancied I could see the dim outline of the coast, and I moved my hand closer to the strong brown hand that lay near it on the rail.
“We are almost there,” I said brightly.
“Hmph,” said Emerson, frowning.
He did not take my hand. “What the devil is the matter with you?” I inquired. “Are you still sulking about Ramses?”
“I never sulk,” Emerson grumbled. “What a word! Tact is not one of your strong points, Peabody, but I must confess I had expected you to demonstrate the emphathy of understanding you claim to feel for me and my thoughts. The truth is, I have a strange foreboding—”
“Oh, Emerson, how splendid!” I cried, unable to contain my delight. “I knew that one day you, too—”
“The word was ill-chosen,” Emerson said, glowering. “Your forebodings, Amelia, are solely the products of your rampageous imagination. My—er—uneasiness stems from rational causes.”
“As do all such hints of approaching disaster, including mine. I hope you do not suppose I am superstitious! I? No; premonitions and forebodings are the result of clues unnoticed by the waking mind, but recorded and interpreted by that unsleeping portion of the brain which—”
“Amelia.” I was thrilled to observe that Emerson’s blue eyes had taken on the sapphirine glitter indicative of rising temper. The dimple (which he prefers to call a “cleft”) in his well-shaped chin quivered ominously. “Amelia, are you interested in hearing my views or expressing your own?”
Ordinarily I would have enjoyed one of those animated discussions that so often enliven the course of our marital relationship, but I wanted nothing to mar the bliss of this moment.
“I beg your pardon, my dear Emerson. Pray express your forebodings without reserve.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. For a moment he was silent—testing my promise, or gathering his thoughts—and I occupied