Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [136]
“Allow me,” he said, taking the plate from my hand. “What will it be? Foie gras, turkey, pickled oysters…Oh, of course. Cucumber sandwiches?”
Having indicated my selections, I allowed him to lead me to a table. “I have been chatting with Nadji,” he said. “He seems a trifle low-spirited.”
“You are becoming quite a kindly soul,” I said.
“It’s a dull crowd.” Sethos leaned back. “Too many millionaires and their overdressed wives.”
I did not reply, since my mouth was full. Surveying the glittering assemblage, I conceded his point. I was pleased to see that Ramses and Nefret had taken charge of Emerson, who was inclined, when unsupervised, to start arguments. Nefret looked absolutely stunning that night, her face aglow and her hair a crown of gold.
“I haven’t seen Margaret,” I said.
“Perhaps she had enough of us last night.”
“But one would expect a dedicated journalist to attend, in the hope of picking up some bit of gossip.” Kevin’s carroty head moved through the crowd like a comet, and I identified several other guests as journalists. I can always spot them by the bulges in their coat pockets which indicate the presence of notebooks, and by their predatory looks. Messieurs Bradstreet of the New York Times and Bancroft of the Daily Mail were known to me personally (through no fault of mine).
A little before midnight Emerson came up to me. “Can we go now?” he demanded.
“If you like, my dear.”
“I do like. There are too many damned journalists and not enough Egyptologists, and if I don’t leave soon I will be impelled to tell Sir William what I think of him. Did you see the way he stared at Fatima, as if she were a servant who did not know her place?”
Emerson’s threat could not be taken lightly. I slipped my arm through his. “Come and say good night to Cyrus and Katherine, then. I will see if the others are ready to go.”
Fatima was more than ready. She was rather shy in company, and had come only because she did not want to offend Cyrus. She had been well looked after that evening, though, by Sethos and by Nefret and Ramses. The latter pair decided to come with us, and so did David, but Sethos declared he would stay on for a bit. Selim was having a splendid time, rolling his eyes at dazzled ladies and addressing them in an exaggerated accent, so I left him to it. The ladies appeared to be enjoying the performance.
As soon as we were seated in the carriage, Fatima fell asleep, leaning against Nefret’s shoulder. “She works too hard,” Nefret said softly. “We ought to get more help for her.”
“I have offered, Nefret, to no avail. She likes to be in charge.”
“We might at least keep the twins from bothering her so much. I know she adores them, but they can be very tiring.”
“You could do with more help yourself,” I said. “It is high time the children began their formal education.”
There was no response from Nefret. Her eyes were closed and her head drooped.
We spent Boxing Day recovering from the ones that had preceded it. There was a general, though unexpressed, consensus that much as we had enjoyed the holiday season, we were relieved it was over, and with no worse disasters than a scorched tree.
“No worse thus far,” I said. “I cannot conceive, Emerson, what mad urge prompted you to give Charla a bow and arrows.”
Emerson had retreated to his study, whither I had followed. “Cannot a man have a little peace and quiet to get on with his neglected work?” he demanded. “I gave up several days—willingly and without complaint, Peabody—to your nefarious schemes. Now leave me be.”
He picked up a pen and began writing at great speed. I sat down on the corner of his desk.
“You have misspelled artifact and stratification,” I said.
“Curse it!” Emerson looked round for some object at which to throw his pen. I took it from him, to prevent further ink stains on the furniture.
“Since it was you who gave the deadly object to Charla, it is your responsibility to see it is not misused.”
Emerson’s shoulders sagged and his keen blue eyes took on a haunted