Children of the Storm (32 page)

“You are inviting Miss Underhill to your house?” Justin’s clear treble rang with surprise. “Then I will come too.”

“I am sorry—” I began.

The old lady cut me off with a rusty chuckle. “No, Justin, you have not been invited.”

“But she is only a servant,” Justin protested. “Why can’t I go? I want to see the pretty Mrs. Emerson and the children and the cats.”

The door opened to admit one of the guards, a swarthy fellow in turban and striped robe. He seemed out of breath. “There is a gentleman—”

“Yes, yes,” said the gentleman, pushing him out of the way. “My apologies, madam. I came to fetch my wife.”

Ill-mannered and unexpected though it was, his appearance dispelled the uncanny atmosphere as a fresh breeze blows away fog. It would never have occurred to him to change into proper clothing; but Emerson never looks to better advantage than when he is attired in the casual garments he wears on the dig, his shirt open at the throat, his muscular arms bared to the elbow. Mrs. Fitzroyce inspected him with more interest than she had bestowed on me. Emerson has that effect on females, and in my experience a lady is never too old to appreciate a fine-looking man.

“Won’t you and Mrs. Emerson stay for tea, Professor?”

“No,” said Emerson. I coughed meaningfully, and he amended his reply. “Er—thank you, but we have not the time. Confounded rude of Mrs. Emerson to burst in on you, but the circumstances . . . Hmph. Amelia, shall we go? Where’s the girl? That is, I mean Miss—”

I poked him with my parasol before he could shove his foot farther into his mouth.

Maryam had slipped out of the room. I hoped she had only gone to get her hat, but I wasn’t taking any chances on her eluding me, so I rushed through my farewells and removed Emerson from the room. Somewhat to my surprise, Justin did not renew his demand to go with us. He had retreated and stood with his back against the wall like a cornered animal.

“He doesn’t like me,” said Emerson, who had also observed the boy’s reaction.

“You keep catching hold of him. It is just as well; he was determined to come along until you turned up. Now where is that girl? We will wait here at the head of the gangplank so she can’t get away.”

“You think she may bolt?”

“I do not know, Emerson, but I prefer not to take the chance. That is why I came here at once, before she learned of the arrival of a mysterious stranger in an aeroplane. Whatever possessed you to follow me?”

“I wanted to be sure you had gone where you said you were going, Peabody.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Not one whit,” said Emerson. His curious gaze moved round the deck, taking in the elegant fittings and the crewmen who watched him with equal curiosity. “The old lady must be filthy rich. She’s set herself up in style. I don’t recognize any of the crewmen. A sturdy lot, aren’t they?”

“They are Cairenes, I suppose. She probably hired them with the boat.”

When Maryam came she was wearing the flowery hat. She had washed the paint off her face and loosened her hair. She looked very young and frightened. Emerson immediately offered her his arm and told her not to worry.

Emerson left us at the Amelia; he dislikes emotional scenes and anticipated that this one would be particularly fraught. I led Maryam to the saloon, where we found young Nasir furiously dusting various articles of furniture. Fatima must have rousted him out of his house in the village and sent him to the boat to resume his former duties as steward. I had known I could leave everything to her; her standards were a good deal higher than mine.

“The beds are made, Sitt,” he announced proudly, waving the cloth, so that the dust immediately settled back onto the surfaces he had cleaned. “And the tea is made, and the food is here, and Mahmud is ready to cook, and—”

“Very good,” I said. “Where is the gentleman?”

“In his room, Sitt. There is hot water and towels and—”

I told Maryam to sit down and went to fetch Sethos. By accident or design, he had selected the same room he had once occupied when he was ill with malaria. He was standing at the window looking out across the rose and golden ripples of the river.

“She is here,” I said, though I knew he must have been aware of our arrival. “I will leave you two alone.”

“No.” He turned slowly to face me. “Please stay.”

“Come now, don’t be such a coward. You aren’t afraid of her, are you?”

“I am afraid of saying the wrong thing.” He passed a hand nervously over his hair. I decided it was not a wig, though the color was a peculiar shade of rust-streaked brown.

“Very well,” I agreed. Only courtesy had led me to make the offer. I was immensely curious to know what they would say to each other, and it was likely that a mediator—or referee!—might be wanted.

Nasir had served tea; I told him we would wait on ourselves, and sent him away. After a brief interval, during which time Maryam sat with bowed head and Sethos stood staring, for once bereft of speech, I took a chair and said briskly, “Maryam, will you pour, please? Milk only for me. Your father takes lemon, no sugar.”

The social amenities are considered meaningless by some, but in my experience they are useful in helping people over an awkward spot. Mechanically she followed my instructions. I gave Sethos a little nudge and gestured to him to take the cup from her. Not until then did she look up into his face.

“You’ve changed,” she whispered.

“For the worse.” He had regained his sangfroid. The practiced charm settled onto him like a garment. “The same cannot be said of you. You have become a beautiful woman.”

“Like my mother?”

He flinched, but replied calmly, “Not at all like your mother. I will answer your questions, Maryam, in due time, and make all the amends I can for my past mistakes. For now, can we not talk a little, get to know one another better?”

His humility gave her increased confidence. Her chin lifted, and she smiled faintly. “What shall we talk about?”

“You.” Remembering his manners, he brought me my cup and then seated himself next to her on the divan. “Mrs. Emerson has told me of your present situation. It cannot continue.”

“Has she told you the boy is dependent on me, and that I have given Mrs. Fitzroyce my word to remain as long as she needs me?”

“We’ll find someone to take your place.”

“And then what?” She responded as any woman of spirit would, with flashing eyes and heightened color in her cheeks. “Will you take me to live with you and your latest mistress?”

I feared that would arouse the sort of cutting response at which Sethos was so expert. Instead he replied quietly, “The lady to whom you refer is my dear companion, and will be my wife as soon as I can persuade her to accept my proposal of marriage.”

“She has refused you? Why?”

It might not have been intended as a compliment, but her tone of surprise made it sound like one.

“She doesn’t consider me reliable. I can’t imagine why.” His rueful smile would have been hard for any woman to resist—and, as I had realized from the start, she did not want to resist. Hardship and suffering had softened her; only stubborn pride had prevented her from yielding at once. Her lips trembled and her wide hazel eyes overflowed. She turned to him; slowly, almost timidly, he held out his arms and gathered her into his embrace.

It was a touching sight. Emerson would have been sniffing and clearing his throat. I put my cup on the table and rose. “I will leave you alone now,” I said. “You have everything you need, I believe.”

Over the tumbled brown curls that rested against his breast, Sethos looked up at me. “Everything,” he said. “Thank you, Amelia.”

They were all waiting for me on the veranda. I had to admire six or seven crayon scribbles before the children retired to make more, and I was able to satisfy the curiosity of the adults. I waved aside Evelyn’s offer of tea. Emerson immediately handed me a stiff whiskey and soda.

“All’s well,” I said. “When I left them she was sobbing in his fatherly embrace.”

The reactions were somewhat mixed. Evelyn’s sweet face glowed, Emerson gave a great sigh, and David and Lia murmured words of approval and congratulation. My son’s phlegmatic countenance did not change.

“I find it difficult to picture Sethos as a doting father,” he said. “Now what, Mother?”

“I have made all the arrangements,” I replied, holding out my empty glass to Emerson. I felt entitled to the indulgence, for really, it had been a tiring day. “They will dine together on the dahabeeyah, where Sethos is staying, and afterward he will escort her back to the Isis. She will give in her notice and then . . . Then I suppose she had better come to us until he makes permanent plans for her. I have a number of ideas about that, but I did not want to mar the warmth of their reunion with practical suggestions.”

The last of the sunlight vanished as the sun sank below the western mountains; in the dusky twilight the lights of distant Luxor twinkled like fallen stars. The genial beverage—I refer in this case to whiskey and soda—had its usual soothing effect; I was somewhat slow to realize that silence had followed my statement, instead of the eager questions (and commendations) I had expected.

“I trust there was no difficulty getting Lieutenant Wickins and the aeroplane away safely?” I inquired.

“He got off all right,” Ramses said. “Whether he makes it to Cairo is another matter. It will be a near thing—the range of that aircraft is between three and four hundred miles—but he seemed to regard it as a fine lark. He was carrying extra petrol. Nefret, shouldn’t the children go to bed?”

This process ordinarily took quite some time. It began to dawn on me, as the young parents hurried their offspring through good-night kisses and embraces, that something had happened, something they did not want to discuss in front of the children. My affectionate concern pictured one disaster after another: Selim mangled by the propeller of the aeroplane, Cyrus suffering a heart attack, Bertie pale and dead of poison, a suicide note clutched in his stiffening hand . . . No, that was too absurd. He had better sense, even if I did suspect him of writing poetry on the sly.

Sennia was the last to leave—she considered that her right, since she was the eldest. Horus followed her out, and the Great Cat of Re emerged from under the settee, his tail waving like a plume of dark smoke.

“Well?” I cried. “Do not keep me in suspense, Emerson. Something terrible has happened, I know it. Is it Cyrus, or—”

“Nothing like that, Peabody. Good Gad, you must learn to control your rampageous imagination. There’s been a body found. The remains of one, rather.”

“Ah,” I said, relieved. “No one we know, then.”

“That seems to be the question,” said Emerson. “The police think the fellow was not an Egyptian. They’ve asked Nefret to come to the zabtiyeh and examine him. Them. Bones.”

“Where were they found?”

“In the desert east of Luxor.”

“In that case,” I said, rising, “I will tell Fatima to serve dinner immediately. I had hoped I would not have to ride that horse again today.”

“Can’t wait to get at a corpse, can you?” Emerson inquired, baring his large white teeth. “Dismiss the idea, Peabody. It can wait until tomorrow. He isn’t going anywhere.”

As Ramses explained during dinner, the determination of sex and race had been arrived at because of the scraps of clothing found with the bones. I expressed my surprise at the deductive powers of the police official, and at his request for Nefret’s services. He could have spared himself considerable trouble by disposing of the remains without bothering to mention them to the British authorities.

“He’s a new broom,” Ramses replied. “The old chief tottered off into retirement a few months ago. Ibrahim Ayyad is young, ambitious, energetic, and canny enough to avoid stirring up trouble until he’s certain of his conclusions.”

I had reached certain conclusions of my own, but like the admirable Mr. Ayyad, I was canny enough not to commit myself. If the others shared my suspicions they did not say so.

I had intended to pay a quick visit to the dahabeeyah before accompanying Nefret to Luxor, but it did not prove necessary. Sethos arrived at break of day. Informed of his presence by Gargery, I hastily finished dressing and went to the veranda, where I found that Fatima had brought him coffee. He looked reasonably respectable in flannels and tweed coat, which Nasir must have pressed for him. The bruises had faded to a greenish yellow, and the beard was now well developed.

“Breakfast will be served shortly,” I informed him.

“So Fatima told me, with apologies for the delay. Sit down, Amelia, and let us watch the sunrise together. You will no doubt appreciate the symbolism.”

Pale clouds of rose and amber washed the cerulean blue of the heavens. It was the same sight I had watched so often with Abdullah, from a greater height. The symbolism did not elude me.

“You have made your peace with Maryam, then?”

“We had quite an emotional few hours,” said Sethos, at his ease. “She’s a moist young woman, isn’t she? I don’t recall her weeping so much.”

“She has had cause for tears.”

The tone rather than the words themselves conveyed the reprimand I intended. His eyes avoided mine. “My remark was in poor taste. You have reason to believe me a poor parent, but I did spend time with the child whenever I could. I don’t . . . The truth is . . . Confound it, Amelia, I felt as if I were speaking with a stranger—a pretty, mannerly young woman so unlike the rebellious child I once knew that I found it difficult to believe she was the same person.”

“The change is for the better, isn’t it?”

He nodded without speaking, his face still averted. “Children change a great deal as they become adults,” I said. “One might say that they do become different people. Just look at Ramses!”

He looked up, his strangely colored eyes brightening from pale hazel to paler gray as the light caught them. “A most encouraging example, it is true. Oh, we got on quite well, avoiding by mutual consent such delicate subjects as her mother’s career as a murderess.”

“You will have to face that subject sooner or later.” I spoke rather sharply. Cynicism was his defense against emotion, but it was high time—in my opinion—he dropped those defenses against his daughter. “Get it out into the open and set her straight. I doubt she has heard the true story.”