Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [135]
We all had a little rest, which some of us needed after the hilarity and Fatima’s bountiful late breakfast. Then it was time to dress for Cyrus’s soiree. Unfortunately Emerson and Selim had succeeded (or so they claimed) in getting the motorcar in running order. Fortunately there were too many of us to fit into it in comfort. Nefret and I and Fatima got into Cyrus’s carriage. I did not want the motorcar preceding us, because of the dust, or following us, because of the possibility that Emerson and Selim had been overly optimistic about the steering apparatus, so I finally managed to persuade them to ride horseback. Selim rode magnificently and knew it, and Emerson was persuaded when I allowed him to wear riding kit instead of evening clothes, which he detests. They followed us, and I must say that they made an imposing escort.
We were among the last to arrive (thanks to the discussion regarding the motorcar). Cyrus’s grand drawing room was filled with guests, all dressed in their best. The severe black and white of the gentlemen’s evening suits was brightened by the ladies’ gowns, in every shade from nile green to scarlet, and by the elegant robes of the Egyptian guests. Sir William stood by the buffet table, champagne glass in hand, chatting (and, I did not doubt, chuckling) with a gentleman who was a stranger to me. Probably a tourist; Cyrus always included a number of them in his invitations.
“I owe you an apology, Amelia,” said Cyrus, observing the direction of my gaze. “Didn’t get a chance to express myself adequately last night.”
“Why should you apologize, Cyrus? It was not your fault.”
“You didn’t bring Sennia.”
“I thought it better that she should not come.”
“I’ll make it up to her,” Cyrus said fervently. “A late Christmas present, maybe. What would she like?”
“Only your goodwill, Cyrus dear. And she knows she has that.”
We were joined at that point by Emerson. He was one of the few gentlemen not in evening kit, but honesty compels me to admit that he looks his best in less formal garments. He cut quite a handsome figure in boots and riding breeches and a well-tailored tweed coat; the eyes of many of the ladies dwelled admiringly upon him.
“I refuse to be polite to that bastard Portmanteau,” he announced. “How much longer must we put up with him?”
“You needn’t shout,” I said, giving Emerson a little poke. “He is leaving tomorrow, I understand.”
“No such luck,” Cyrus said. “He’s decided to stay on a few more days. But we won’t see much of him; he’s taking Suzanne to Abydos and Dendera. I think he’s trying to persuade her to return to England with him.”
“She can’t do that,” I said firmly. “Not without consulting me. I—we, that is—engaged her for the season.”
“It would sure leave me in a pretty pickle,” Cyrus said. “She never finished the drawings of Ay’s reliefs. Not that they were much good. I don’t suppose David—”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Katherine is gesturing at me. I must circulate.”
Cyrus had always been an excellent host, and Katherine added those little touches of elegance that only a wife can provide. Candles blazed in the elegant crystal chandeliers and sconces, potted plants provided quiet corners, and there were fresh flowers on each of the little tables scattered about. Several archaeological friends had come, though none of those from Metropolitan House. I deduced that they had refused Cyrus’s invitation, as they had mine. The visiting tourists compensated, in numbers at least, for their absence. All of them wanted to hear about Tutankhamon, and as I made my way from group to group, I offered little tidbits of description—and tactfully avoided requests that I get them admitted to the tomb. The gentleman with whom Sir William had been conversing was particularly persistent. He was head of the board of some company or other, which, he seemed to feel, entitled him to special privileges.
After several glasses of champagne I decided I had better have something