Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (42 page)

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 this 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 candour.

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, then?’ he enquired.

‘Ten minutes.’

‘Very well, my dear.’

It required even less than ten minutes to rip the grey 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 catalogue 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?’

Wilkins inclined his head.

‘We are going to settle this once and for all,’ Emerson went on. ‘I refuse to have you nagging me for days to come.’

‘I never nag.’

‘No, because I don’t permit it. Get this straight, Amelia: I am not going to Egypt. I have refused Lady Baskerville’s offer, and do not mean to reconsider. Is that plain enough?’

‘You are making a grave mistake,’ I said. ‘I think you should go.’

‘I am well aware of your opinion. You express it often enough. Why can’t you allow me to make up my own mind?’

‘Because you are wrong.’

There is no need to repeat the remainder of the discussion. It continued throughout the meal, with Emerson appealing from time to time to Wilkins, or to John, the footman, to support a point he was trying to make. This made John, who had been with us only a few weeks, very nervous at first. Gradually, however, he became interested in the discussion and added comments of his own, ignoring the winks and frowns of Wilkins, who had long since learned how to deal with Emerson’s unconventional manners. To spare the butler’s feelings I said we would have coffee in the drawing room, and John was dismissed, though not before he had said earnestly, ‘You had better stay here, sir; them natives is strange people, and I’m sure, sir, we would all miss you if you was to go.’

Dismissing John did not dismiss the subject, for I stuck to it with my usual determination, despite Emerson’s efforts to introduce other topics of conversation. He finally flung his coffee cup into the fireplace with a shout of rage and stormed out of the drawing room. I followed.

When I reached our bedchamber, Emerson was undressing. Coat, tie, and collar were draped inappropriately over various articles of furniture, and buttons flew around the room like projectiles as he removed his shirt.

‘You had better purchase another dozen shirts the next time you are in Regent Street,’ I said, ducking as a button whizzed past my face. ‘You will need them if you are going abroad.’

Emerson whirled. For so burly and broad-chested a man he is surprisingly quick in his movements. In one stride he bridged the space between us. Taking me by the shoulders, he …

But here I must pause for a brief comment. Not an apologia – no, indeed! I have always felt that the present-day sanctimonious primness concerning the affection between the sexes, even between husband and wife – an affection sanctified by the Church and legalised by the Nation – is totally absurd. Why should a respectable, interesting activity be passed over by novelists who pretend to portray ‘real life’? Even more despicable, to my mind, are the circumlocutions practised by writers on this subject. Not for me the slippery suavity of French or the multi-syllabled pretentiousness of Latin. The good old Anglo-Saxon tongue, the speech of our ancestors, is good enough for me. Let the hypocrites among you, readers, skip the following paragraphs. Despite my reticence on the subject the more discerning will have realised that my feelings for my husband, and his for me, are of the warmest nature. I see no reason to be ashamed of this.

To return to the main stream of the argument, then:

Taking me by the shoulders, Emerson gave me a hearty shake.

‘By Gad,’ he shouted. ‘I will be master in my own house! Must I teach you again who makes decisions here?’

‘I thought we made them together, after discussing problems calmly and courteously.’

Emerson’s shaking had loosened my hair, which is thick and coarse and does not yield easily to restraint. Still holding me by one shoulder, he passed the fingers of his other hand into the heavy knot at the back of my neck. Combs and hairpins went flying. The hair tumbled down over my shoulders.

I do not recall precisely what he said next. The comment was brief. He kissed me. I was determined not to kiss him back; but Emerson kisses very well. It was some time before I was able to speak. My suggestion that I call my maid to help me out of my frock was not well received. Emerson offered his services. I pointed out that his method of removing a garment often rendered that garment unserviceable thereafter. This comment was greeted with a wordless snort of derision and a vigorous attack upon the hooks and eyes.