Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (84 page)

‘Hurry,’ I implored John. ‘Don’t let him out of your sight.’

‘You may count on me, madam,’ said John, squaring his shoulders. ‘I am ready and equal to the task. I – ’

‘Hurry!’ I pushed him out of the door. Then I turned to Emerson. ‘Did I cover all the contingencies?’

‘Probably not,’ said my husband. He drew me into the room and closed the door.

‘There is no way of locking it,’ I said, after an interval.

‘Mmmm,’ said Emerson agreeably.

‘They will not be gone long…’

‘Then we must make the best use of the time at our disposal,’ said Emerson.

I had neglected to forbid Ramses to climb the palm trees in the courtyard. He explained in an injured tone that he had only wanted to get a better look at the dates, of which he had heard; but he had not eaten a single one. In proof of this he presented me with a handful, removing them with some difficulty from the pocket of his little shirt.

I sent him off to be bathed by John and began laying out Emerson’s evening clothes. He studied them with loathing.

‘I told you, Amelia, I have no intention of wearing those garments. What torture have you planned now?’

‘I have invited guests to dine with us tonight,’ I said, removing my wrapper. ‘Help me with my dress, will you please?’

Emerson is so easily distracted. He moved with alacrity to drop the gown over my head, and then bent his attention upon the buttons. ‘Who is it? Not Petrie; he never accepts invitations to dine. Sensible man…Naville? Carter? Not . ..’ The hands fumbling along my spine stopped, and Emerson’s face loomed up over my shoulder, glaring like a gargoyle. ‘Not de Morgan! Peabody, if you have some underhanded scheme in mind – ’

‘Would I do such a thing?’ De Morgan had refused the invitation, with polite regrets; he was engaged elsewhere. ‘No,’ I continued, as Emerson returned to the buttons – the frock had dozens of them, each about the size of a pea. ‘I was happy to learn the
Istar
and the
Seven Hathors
are in port.’

‘Oh. Sayce and Wilberforce.’ Emerson breathed heavily on the back of my neck. ‘I cannot imagine what you see in those two. A dilettante clergyman and a renegade politician – ’

‘They are excellent scholars. The Reverend Sayce has just been appointed to the new chair of Assyriology at Oxford.’

‘Dilettantes,’ Emerson repeated. ‘Sailing up and down the Nile on their dahabeeyahs instead of working like honest men.’

A wistful sigh escaped me and Emerson, the most sensitive of men, again interrupted his labours to look inquiringly over my shoulder. ‘Do you miss your dahabeeyah, Peabody? If it would please you – ’

‘No, no, my dear Emerson. I confess that season of sailing was utter bliss; but I would not exchange it for the pleasure of our work together.’

This admission resulted in a longer interruption of the buttoning, but I finally persuaded Emerson to complete the task. Turning, I demanded his comment.

‘I like that dress, Peabody. Crimson becomes you. It reminds me of the gown you wore the night you proposed marriage to me.’

‘You will have your little joke, Emerson.’ I inspected myself in the mirror. ‘Not too bright a shade for a matron and the mother of a growing boy? No? Well, I accept your judgment as always, my dear Emerson.’

I too had fond memories of the gown to which he referred. I had worn it on the night
he
proposed to
me,
and I took care always to have in my wardrobe a frock of similar cut and colour. One abomination of the past was gone, however – the bustle. I could have wished that some fashion arbiter would also do away with corsets. Mine were never as tight as fashion decreed, for I had grave suspicions about the effect of tight lacing on the internal organs. I did not wear them at all under my working clothes, but some concession was necessary with evening dress in order to attain the smooth flowing line then in style.

I clasped about my neck a gold chain bearing a scarab of Thutmose III – my husband’s gift – and, my toilette completed, went to assist Emerson with his. John and Ramses returned in time to contribute their assistance, which was not unwelcome, for Emerson carried on in his usual fashion, losing collar buttons, studs and links because of the vehemence with which he attacked these accessories. Ramses had become particularly good at locating collar buttons; he was small enough to crawl under beds and other furniture.

Emerson looked so handsome in evening dress that the effort was all worthwhile. His heightened colour and the brilliant blue of his eyes, flaming with rage, only added to his splendid appearance. Unlike most of the men of my acquaintance, he remained clean-shaven. I preferred him without hirsute adornment, but I suspected it was only another example of Emersonian perversity. If beards had gone out of style, Emerson would have grown one.

‘You are very handsome, Papa,’ said Ramses admiringly. ‘But I would not like a suit like dat. It is too hard to keep clean.’

Emerson brushed absently at the cat hairs adhering to his sleeve, and I sent Ramses off for another bath. It was apparent that no one ever dusted under the bed. We ordered supper to be sent up for John and Ramses and went downstairs to meet our guests.

Dinner was not wholly a success. But then dinner never was when Emerson was in a surly mood, and he was almost always in a surly mood when he was forced to dine out in public and in formal attire. I have seen him behave worse. He had a grudging respect for Mr Wilberforce, but the Reverend Sayce brought out all his baser instincts. There could not have been a greater contrast between two men – Emerson, tall, broad-shouldered and hearty, Sayce small and spare, with sunken eyes behind his steel-rimmed spectacles. He wore clerical garb even when on an excavation, and looked like a magnified beetle in his long-tailed black coat and reversed collar.

Wilberforce, whom the Arabs called ‘Father of a Beard,’ was a more phlegmatic character, and Emerson had given up teasing him, since he only responded by smiling and stroking his magnificent white beard. They greeted us with their customary affability and expressed regret that they would not have the pleasure of meeting Ramses that evening.

‘As usual you are au courant with all the news,’ I said in a spritely manner. ‘We only arrived yesterday, yet you are aware that our son is with us this season.’

‘The community of scholars and Egyptologists is small,’ said Wilberforce with a smile. ‘It is only natural we should take an interest in one another’s activities.’

‘I don’t see why,’ said Emerson, with the air of a man who has determined to be disagreeable. ‘The personal activities of others, scholars or not, are exceedingly dull. And the professional activities of most of the archaeologists of my acquaintance are not worth talking about.’

I tried to turn the conversation by a courteous inquiry after Mrs Wilberforce. I had, of course, included that lady in my invitation, but she had been forced to decline. She was always forced to decline. She appears to have been a rather sickly person.

My tactful efforts were unavailing, however. The Reverend Sayce, who had been needled by Emerson on only too many occasions, was not Christian enough to forgo a chance at revenge. ‘Speaking of professional activities,’ he said, ‘I understand our friend de Morgan has great hopes for his excavations at Dahshoor. Where is it that you will be working this season, Professor?’

Seeing by Emerson’s expression that he was about to launch into a diatribe against de Morgan, I kicked him under the table. His expression changed to one of extreme anguish and he let out a cry of pain. ‘Mazghunah,’ I said, before Emerson could collect himself. ‘We are excavating at Mazghunah this season. The pyramids, you know.’

‘Pyramids?’ Wilberforce was too courteous to contradict a lady, but he looked doubtful. ‘I confess I don’t know the site, but I did think I was familiar with all the known pyramids.’

‘These,’ I said, ‘are unknown pyramids.’

Conversation then became general. It was not until we had retired to the lounge for brandy and cigars (in the case of the gentlemen) that I produced my scrap of papyrus and handed it to the reverend.

‘I procured this today from one of the antiquities dealers. Since you are the biblical authority among us, I thought you might make more of it than I have been able to do.’

The reverend’s deep-set eyes lit with the flame of inquiry. Adjusting his spectacles, he examined the writing, saying as he did so, ‘I am no authority on Coptic, Mrs Emerson. I expect this is probably …’ His voice trailed off as he bent his full attention to the text, and Wilberforce remarked, smiling, ‘I am surprised at you, Mrs Amelia. I thought you and your husband refused to buy from dealers.’

‘I do refuse,’ said Emerson, his nose in the air. ‘Unfortunately, my wife’s principles are more elastic than mine.’

‘We are looking for papyri for Walter,’ I explained.

‘Ah, yes – Professor Emerson the younger. One of the finest students of the language. But I’m afraid you will find the competition keen, Mrs Amelia. With so many of the younger men studying Egyptian, everyone wants new texts.’

‘Including yourself?’ I asked, with a keen look at Mr Wilberforce.

‘To be sure. But,’ the American said, his eyes twinkling, ‘I’ll play fair and square, ma’am. If you find something worthwhile, I won’t try to steal it.’

‘Which is more than can be said for some of our associates,’ grumbled Emerson. ‘If you happen to meet Wallis Budge, tell him I carry a stout stick and will use it on anyone who tries to make off with my property.’

I did not hear Mr Wilberforce’s reply. My attention was caught by two people who had just entered the lounge.

The young man had turned his head to address his companion. The profile thus displayed was pure Greek, with the spare and exquisite modelling of a fifth-century Apollo or Hermes. His hair, brushed back from his high, classical brow, shone like electrum, the blend of silver and gold used by the Egyptians in their most priceless ornaments. The extreme pallor of his skin – which led me to deduce that he had not been long in the sunny clime of Egypt – added to the impression of a carving in alabaster. Then he smiled, in response to some comment of his companion, and a remarkable transformation took place. Benevolence beamed from every aspect of his countenance. The marble statue came alive.

The lady with him … was no lady. Her gown of deep-purple satin in the latest and most extravagant style suggested not the world of fashion but the demi-monde. It was trimmed with sable and beads, ruffles and lace, bows, puffs and plumes, yet it managed to bare an improper amount of plump white bosom. Gems blazed from every part of her portly person, and cosmetics covered every square centimetre of her face. If the gentleman was a classic marble carving, his companion was a blowsy, painted carnival statue.

Emerson jogged my elbow. ‘What are you gaping at, Amelia? Mr Wilberforce asked you a question.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘I confess I was staring at that extremely handsome young man.’

‘You and every other lady in the room,’ said Mr Wilberforce. ‘It is a remarkable face, is it not? I was reminded when I first met him of the young horsemen on the Parthenon frieze.’

The pair came towards us, the female clinging to her companion’s arm, and I saw with a shock that the Greek hero wore a clerical collar. ‘A clergyman,’ I exclaimed.

‘That accounts for the fascination of the ladies,’ said Emerson with a curling lip. ‘All weak-minded females dote on weedy curates. One of your colleagues, Sayce?’

The reverend looked up. A frown wrinkled his brow. ‘No,’ he said, rather curtly.

‘He is an American,’ Wilberforce explained. ‘A member of one of those curious sects that proliferate in my great country. I believe they call themselves the Brethren of the Holy Jerusalem.’

‘And the – er – lady?’ I inquired.

‘I cannot imagine why you are interested in these persons,’ Emerson grumbled. ‘If there is anything more tedious than a pious hypocrite of a preacher, it is an empty-headed fashionable woman. I am thankful I have nothing to do with such people.’

It was Mr Wilberforce to whom I had addressed my inquiry, and as I expected he was able to satisfy my curiosity. ‘She is the Baroness von Hohensteinbauergrunewald. A Bavarian family, related to the Wittelsbachs, and almost as wealthy as that royal house.’

‘Ha,’ Emerson cried. ‘The young man is a fortune hunter. I knew it. A weedy, sanctimonious fortune hunter.’

‘Oh, do be quiet, Emerson,’ I said. ‘Are they engaged? She seems very friendly with the young man.’

‘I hardly think so,’ said Wilberforce, smothering a smile. ‘The baroness is a widow, but the disparity of their ages, to mention only one incongruity … And to call the young man a fortune hunter is unjust. All who know him speak of him with the greatest respect.’

‘I don’t want to know him, or talk about him,’ said Emerson. ‘Well, Sayce, what do you make of Mrs Emerson’s fragment?’

‘It is a difficult text,’ Sayce said slowly. ‘I can read the proper names – they are Greek – ’

‘Didymus Thomas,’ I said.

‘I congratulate you on your understanding, Mrs Emerson. I am sure you also noted this ligature, which is the abbreviation for the name of Jesus.’

I smiled modestly. Emerson snorted. ‘A biblical text? That’s all the Copts ever wrote, curse them – copies of Scripture and boring lies about the saints. Who was Didymus Thomas?’

‘The apostle, one presumes,’ said the reverend.

‘Doubting Thomas?’ Emerson grinned. ‘The only apostle with an ounce of sense. I always liked old Thomas.’

Sayce frowned. ‘“Blessed are they who have not seen and who have believed,”’ he quoted.

‘Well, what else could the man say?’ Emerson demanded. ‘I admit he knew how to turn a phrase – if he ever existed, which is questionable.’

Sayce’s wispy goatee quivered with outrage. ‘If that is your view, Professor, this scrap can be of little interest to you.’

‘Not at all.’ Emerson plucked it from the reverend’s hand. ‘I shall keep it as a memento of my favourite apostle. Really, Sayce, you are no better than the other bandits in my profession, trying to steal my discoveries.’