The Curse of the Pharaohs (5 page)

"Precisely!" The lady turned the clasped hands, the lips, the bosom, et cetera, et cetera, on me. "How I do admire your logical, almost masculine, mind, Mrs. Emerson. That is just what I was trying to express, in my poor silly way."

"I thought you were," I said. "What is it you want my husband to do?"

Thus directed, Lady Baskerville had to get to the point. How long she would have taken if she had been allowed to ramble on, heaven only knows.

"Why, to take over the direction of the excavation," she said. "It must be carried on, and without delay. I honestly believe my darling Henry will not rest quietly in the tomb while this work, possibly the culmination of his splendid career, is in peril. It will be a fitting memorial to one of the finest—"

"Yes, you said that in your interview in the
Yell,"
I interrupted. "But why come to us? Is there no scholar in Egypt who could take on the task?"

"But I came first to you," she exclaimed. "I know Radcliffe would have been Henry's first choice, as he is mine."

She had not fallen into my trap. Nothing would have enraged Emerson so much as the admission mat she had approached him only as a last resort. And, of course, she was quite correct; Emerson
is
the best.

"Well, Emerson?" I said. I confess, my heart was beating fast as I awaited his answer. A variety of emotions struggled for mastery within my breast. My feelings about Lady Baskerville have, I trust, been made plain; the notion of my husband spending the remainder of the winter with the lady was not pleasing to me. Yet, having beheld his anguish that very evening, I could not stand in his way if he decided to go.

Emerson stood staring at Lady Baskerville, his own feelings writ plainly across his face. His expression was that of a prisoner who had suddenly been offered a pardon after years of confinement. Then his shoulders sagged.

"It is impossible," he said.

"But why?" Lady Baskerville asked. "My dear husband's will specifically provides for the completion of any project that might have been in progress at the time of his demise. The staff—with the exception of Alan—is in Luxor, ready to continue. I confess that the workers have shown a singular reluctance to return to the tomb; they are poor, superstitious things, as you know—"

"That would present no problem," Emerson said, with a sweeping gesture. "No, Lady Baskerville; the difficulty is not in Egypt. It is here. We have a young child. We could not risk taking him to Luxor."

There was a pause. Lady Baskerville's arched brows rose still higher; she turned to me with a look that expressed the question she was too well bred to voice aloud. For really, the objection was, on the face of it, utterly trivial. Most men, given an opportunity such as the one she had offered, would coolly have disposed of half a dozen children, and the same number of wives, in order to accept. It was because this idea had, obviously, not even passed through Emerson's mind that I was nerved to make the noblest gesture of my life.

"Do not consider that, Emerson," I said. I had to pause, to clear my throat; but I went on with a firmness that, if I may say so, did me infinite credit. "Ramses and I will do very well here. We will write every day—"

"Write!" Emerson spun around to face me, his blue eyes blazing, his brow deeply furrowed. An unwitting observer might have thought he was enraged. "What are you talking about? You know I won't go without you."

"But—" I began, my heart overflowing.

"Don't talk nonsense, Peabody. It is out of the question."

If I had not had other sources of deep satisfaction at that moment, the look on Lady Baskerville's face would have been sufficient cause for rejoicing. Emerson's response had taken her completely by surprise; and the astonishment with which she regarded me, as she tried to find some trace of the charms that made a man unwilling to be parted from me, was indeed delightful to behold.

Recovering, she said hesitantly, "If there is any question of a proper establishment for the child—"

"No, no," said Emerson. "That is not the question. I am sorry, Lady Baskerville. What about Petrie?"

"That dreadful man?" Lady Baskerville shuddered. "Henry could not abide him—so rude, so opinionated, so vulgar."

"Naville, then."

"Henry had such a poor opinion of his abilities. Besides, I believe he is under obligation to the Egypt Exploration Fund."

Emerson proposed a few more names. Each was unacceptable. Yet the lady continued to sit, and I wondered what new approach she was contemplating. I wished she would get on with it, or take her leave; I was very hungry, having had no appetite for tea.

Once again my aggravating but useful child rescued me from an unwelcome guest. Our good-night visits to Ramses were an invariable custom. Emerson read to him, and I had my part as well. We were late in coming, and patience is not a conspicuous virtue of Ramses. Having waited, as he thought, long enough, he came in search of us. How he eluded his nurse and the other servants on that particular occasion I do not know, but he had raised evasion to a fine art. The drawing-room doors burst open with such emphasis that one looked for a Herculean form in the doorway. Yet the sight of Ramses in his little white nightgown, his hair curling damply around his beaming face, was not anticlimactic; he looked positively angelic, requiring only wings to resemble one of Raphael's swarthier cherubs.

He was carrying a large folder, clasping it to his infantile bosom with both arms. It was the manuscript of
The History of Egypt.
With his usual single-minded determination he gave the visitor only a glance before trotting over to his father.

"You pwomised to wead to me," he said.

"So I did, so I did." Emerson took the folder. "I will come soon, Ramses. Go back to Nurse."

"No," said Ramses calmly.

"What a little angel," exclaimed Lady Baskerville.

I was about to counter mis description with another, more accurate, when Ramses said sweetly, "And you are a pitty lady."

Little did the lady know, as she smiled and blushed, that the apparent compliment was no more than a simple statement of fact, implying nothing of Ramses' feelings of approval or disapproval. In fact, the slight curl of his juvenile lip as he looked at her, and the choice of the word "pretty" rather than "beautiful" (a distinction which Ramses understood perfectly well) made me suspect that, with that fine perception so surprising in a child of his age, which he has inherited from me, he held certain reservations about Lady Baskerville and would, if properly prompted, express them with his customary candor.

Unfortunately, before I could frame an appropriate cue, his father spoke, ordering him again to his nurse, and Ramses, with that chilling calculation that is such an integral part of his character, decided to make use of the visitor for his own purposes. Trotting quickly to her side, he put his finger in his mouth (a habit I broke him of early in his life) and stared at her.

"Vewy pitty lady. Wamses stay wif you."

"Dreadful hypocrite," I said. "Begone."

"He is adorable," murmured Lady Baskerville. "Dear little one, the pretty lady must go away. She would stay if she could. Give me a kiss before I go."

She made no attempt to lift him onto her lap, but bent over and offered a smooth white cheek. Ramses, visibly annoyed at his failure to win a reprieve from bed, planted a loud smacking kiss upon it, leaving a damp patch where once pearl powder had smoothly rested.

"I will go now," Ramses announced, radiating offended dignity. "You come soon, Papa. You too, Mama. Give me my book."

Meekly Emerson surrendered his manuscript and Ramses departed. Lady Baskerville rose.

"I too must go to my proper place," she said, with a smile. "My heartfelt apologies for disturbing you."

"Not at all, not at all," said Emerson. "I am only sorry I was unable to be of help."

"I too. But I understand now. Having seen your darling child and met your charming wife—" Here she grinned at me, and I grinned back—"I comprehend why a man with such affable domestic ties would not wish to leave them for the danger and discomfort of Egypt. My dear Radcliffe, how thoroughly domesticated you have become! It is delightful! You are quite the family man! I am happy to see you settled down at last after those adventurous bachelor years. I don't blame you in the least for refusing. Of course none of us believes in curses, or anything so foolish, but there is certainly something strange going on in Luxor, and only a reckless, bold, free spirit would face such dangers. Good-bye, Radcliffe—Mrs. Emerson—such a pleasure to have met you—no, don't see me out, I beg. I have troubled you enough."

The change in her manner during this speech was remarkable. The soft murmuring voice became brisk and emphatic. She did not pause for breath, but shot out the sharp sentences like bullets. Emerson's face reddened; he tried to speak, but was not given the opportunity. The lady glided from the room, her black veils billowing out like storm clouds.

"Damn!" said Emerson. He stamped his foot.

"She was very impertinent," I agreed.

"Impertinent? On the contrary, she tried to state the unpalatable facts as nicely as possible. 'Quite the family man! Settled down at last!' Good Gad!"

"Now you are talking just like a man," I began angrily.

"How surprising! I am not a man, I am a domesticated old fogy, without the courage or the daring—"

"You are responding precisely as she hoped you would," I exclaimed. "Can't you see that she chose every word with malicious deliberation? The only one she did not employ was—"

"Henpecked. True, very true. She was too courteous to say it."

"Oh, so you think you are henpecked, do you?"

"Certainly not," said Emerson, with the complete lack of consistency the male sex usually exhibits during an argument. "Not that you don't try—"

"And you try to bully me. If I were not such a strong character—"

The drawing-room doors opened. "Dinner is served," said Wilkins.

"Tell Cook to put it back a quarter of an hour," I said. "We had better tuck Ramses in first, Emerson."

"Yes, yes. I will read to him while you change that abominable frock. I refuse to dine with a woman who looks like an English matron and smells like a compost heap. How dare you say that I bully you?"

"I said you tried. Neither you nor any other man will ever succeed."

Wilkins stepped back as we approached the door.

"Thank you, Wilkins," I said.

"Certainly, madam."

"As for the charge of henpecking—"

"I beg your pardon, madam?"

"I was speaking to Professor Emerson."

"Yes, madam."

"Henpecking was the word I used," snarled Emerson, allowed me to precede him up the stairs. "And henpecking was the word I meant."

"Then why don't you accept the lady's offer? I could see you were panting to do so. What a charming time you two could have, night after night, under the soft Egyptian moon—"

"Oh, don't talk like a fool, Amelia. The poor woman won't go back to Luxor; her memories would be too much to bear."

"Ha!" I laughed sharply. "The naivety of men constantly astonishes me. Of course she will be back. Especially if you are there."

"I have no intention of going."

"No one is preventing you."

We reached the top of the stairs. Emerson turned to the right, to continue up to the nursery. I wheeled left, toward our rooms.

"You will be up shortly, men?" he inquired.

'Ten minutes."

"Very well, my dear."

It required even less than ten minutes to rip the gray gown off and replace it with another. When I reached the night nursery the room was dark except for one lamp, by whose light Emerson sat reading. Ramses, in his crib, contemplated the ceiling with rapt attention. It made a pretty little family scene, until one heard what was being said.

"... the anatomical details of the wounds, which included a large gash in the frontal bone, a broken malar bone and orbit, and a spear thrust which smashed off the mastoid process and struck the atlas vertebra, allow us to reconstruct the death scene of the king."

"Ah, the mummy of Seqenenre," I said. "Have you got as far as that?"

From the small figure on the cot came a reflective voice. "It appeaws to me that he was muwduwed."

"What?" said Emerson, baffled by the last word.

"Murdered," I interpreted. "I would have to agree, Ramses; a man whose skull has been smashed by repeated blows did not die a natural death."

Sarcasm is wasted on Ramses. "I mean," he insisted, "that it was a domestic cwime."

"Out of the question," Emerson exclaimed. "Petrie has also put forth that absurd idea; it is impossible because—"

"Enough," I said. "It is late and Ramses should be asleep. Cook will be furious if we do not go down at once."

"Oh, very well." Emerson bent over the cot. "Good night, my boy."

"Good night, Papa. One of the ladies of the hawem did it, I think."

I seized Emerson by the arm and pushed him toward the door, before he could pursue this interesting suggestion. After carrying out my part of the nightly ritual (a description of which would serve no useful purpose in the present narrative), I followed Emerson out.

"Really," I said, as we went arm in arm along the corridor, "I wonder if Ramses is not too precocious. Does he know what a harem is, I wonder? And some people might feel that reading such a catalog of horrors to a child at bedtime will not be good for his nerves."

"Ramses has nerves of steel. Rest assured he will sleep the sleep of the just and by breakfast time he will have his theory fully developed."

"Evelyn would be delighted to take him for the winter."

"Oh, so we are back to that, are we? What sort of unnatural mother are you, that you can contemplate abandoning your child?"

"I must choose, it appears, between abandoning my child or my husband."

"False, utterly false. No one is going to abandon anyone."

We took our places at the table. The footman, watched critically by Wilkins, brought on the first course.

"Excellent soup," Emerson said, in a pleased voice. "Tell Cook, will you please, Wilkins?"