Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [131]
At six o’clock everything was ready, and I inspected the house with a degree of complacency for which I believe I may be excused. I had managed to keep Fatima and Gargery from each other’s throats, and bullied Emerson into his best suit. The table in the dining room was laid with my best crystal and my Limoges, the parlor was hung with greenery and paper chains, and the tree sparkled with candles.
“Let the festivities begin!” I cried.
“Hmph,” said Emerson.
Sethos blew his nose.
We were to dine at eight, but some of our closer friends had been asked to come earlier, in order to watch the children open presents and stuff themselves with sweets. They (the children) would probably be sick later, but as I always say, occcasional excess is worth the consequences. Selim and Daoud were there, but Kadija had begged to be excused, since she did not enjoy large groups of strangers. At a quarter past six the Vandergelts arrived, and I was introduced to Sir William Portmanteau, Suzanne’s grandfather.
Cyrus’s description had been accurate. He might have sat for a portrait of Father Christmas, with his snowy beard and twinkling eyes. The benevolence of his expression as he watched the children beggars description.
“No pleasure equals that of having grandchildren gathered round one’s knee,” he declared. “Is that not so, Professor Emerson?”
“Quite,” said Emerson, over Charla’s shriek of delight. An arrow wobbled feebly in his direction and fell at his feet.
“Who…” I began. I thought I knew, though.
Ramses removed the bow from his daughter, explaining that it was only to be employed out of doors, and Charla fell on another package.
Their gifts for the adults had to be opened too; to do the twins credit, they took pleasure in giving as well as receiving, though perhaps not as much. Charla’s little books were an enormous success. Daoud was quite taken by the engravings of Stonehenge and Buckingham Palace. Sir William chuckled over his collection of fashionable ladies, and admired David John’s drawing of a pharaoh driving a chariot.
Before the children were carried off to bed, we sang a few carols, accompanied by Sennia at the pianoforte. Nefret had declared that she herself was out of practice, but she had done it, I felt sure, to give Sennia a chance to exhibit her talent. The dear girl managed the simple tunes quite nicely; the pride with which she played was pleasant to see. The children’s sweet sopranos blended with the deeper voices, and Emerson’s enthusiastic, off-key basso did not detract (much) from the general effect. Selim and Daoud and Nadji listened with smiling faces, and Sethos sneezed his way through “Good King Wenceslas.” Sir William did not join in; he beat time with his fingers and chuckled. I began to understand why Cyrus’s praise of the old gentleman had held a sour note. After a while the chuckles began to sound mechanical.
Charla insisted on kissing everyone good night. Sir William’s benevolent smile cracked briefly when her cheek, smeared with the peppermint she had been sucking, stuck to his beard. But one could hardly blame him for that. He had behaved like a perfect gentleman thus far, acknowledging his introductions to Selim and Daoud correctly if without warmth. One could hardly blame him for that…
Once the children were out of the way, Fatima began clearing away the torn paper and scattered ribbons, and Emerson poured the whiskey.
“That went well,” he declared, with the complacency of an individual who had had very little to do with its going well. “Who else is coming, Peabody?”
“Not as many as in other years.”
“Hmmm, yes,” said Emerson. “You didn’t invite—”
“I asked only those who were not engaged elsewhere,” I said, for I saw no reason to mention the names of “Carter’s cronies,” as Emerson called them.
“What about that bas—that fellow Montague? I trust you didn’t—”
“No, Emerson, I did not.”
Sir William looked up from his glass, which he seemed to be enjoying very much. “Is it Page Henley de Montague to whom you refer?