Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [89]
“Cousin,” said Ramses. Unable to repress a smile, he added, “She was barefoot.”
“A petty-enough revenge,” I muttered. “Go on. She refused your invitation to return with you? I suppose that is not surprising.”
“Not considering the way the ‘invitation’ was couched.” Ramses drew his chair closer to mine. “They had a flaming row,” he said in a low voice. “He ordered her to change clothes and come with him, and she refused, flat-out, and a loud exchange followed, in which they accused each other of callousness, selfishness, and so on. She implied he was about to strike her.”
“What nonsense,” I said. “Margaret would have hit him back and sued for divorce next day. What else did they say?”
Nefret had also pulled her chair closer. Seeing our absorbed faces, Ramses looked a trifle self-conscious. “I shouldn’t have told you. It’s no more than meaningless and impertinent gossip.”
“Not at all,” I assured him. “One never knows what seemingly meaningless bit of gossip may prove relevant. Did he express concern for her safety?”
“I suppose one could say that,” Ramses said, a self-conscious smile replacing his self-conscious frown. “She knows how to get past his defenses, all right. If a furious quarrel is an indication of caring…”
Nefret laughed softly and took his hand.
“Hmmm,” said Emerson.
I was painfully reminded of Margaret’s perfidy when I brushed my hair. According to Ramses, she hadn’t even had the decency to apologize. I was tempted to go to the hotel next morning and have it out with her, but reason (and Emerson) prevailed. “Let her take her chances, if she is determined to play the fool,” he said, removing the brush from my hand. “Come to bed, my love. And—er—leave your hair loose, eh?”
I allowed him to persuade me.
I had a number of other matters to deal with. Our dear ones were due to arrive in Cairo on the Thursday. Fatima was in a frenzy of cleaning, preparing Sennia’s little suite of rooms for her and Gargery. David would occupy his old room, from which I intended to evict Sethos. He could stay with Cyrus, or in the servants’ quarters, or find his own accommodations. The Amelia was at Qena, with Reis Hassan. Emerson had recently proposed we sell her, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it; there were too many memories attached to the dear old boat, and one never knew when we might want to go sailing again.
So that was settled. The only question was whether one or more of us should go to Cairo to meet them. I announced my decision at breakfast the following morning.
“David must be warned to stay away from the revolutionaries,” I said.
“If you are referring to the Wafdists, they are a legitimate political party,” Ramses said mildly.
“I don’t care what they call themselves. He is too innocent to become involved in politics.”
The word might have struck some people as unapplicable to a man of David’s age and experience. Heaven knew he had seen enough of the world to make a cynic of him—war, prejudice, betrayal, cruelty—but somehow he had come through it all with his shining idealism intact. Idealists are admirable persons, but their trust in the goodwill of others may put them and those around them in peril.
Fatima had taken away the toast rack and refilled it. “He must come straight on to Luxor,” she said firmly. “And the Little Bird too.”
“We all agree on that,” I said, reaching for the marmalade. “Well, Emerson?”
“You mean to go, don’t you?”
“I believe I ought.”
“Then I am going with you.”
He had his own reasons for wishing to go, of course. Howard Carter was in Cairo. I had my reasons too. We had received no communication from Mr. Smith. I found his lack of curiosity highly suspicious.
“Back to work,” said Emerson, emptying his cup of coffee.
“If you don’t need me today, Father, I would like to get on with my translations,” Ramses said.
“What? Oh. Er—well, yes, that’s all right. God knows we haven’t found anything in the West Valley that requires your expertise,” he added gloomily.
“I will join you later,” I said, indicating to Fatima that