Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (91 page)

I had been undecided as to whether to invite the visitors to enter the house; the decision was taken out of my hands by Brother Ezekiel. He walked in. I followed, to find that he had seated himself in the most comfortable chair the room contained.

‘You’ve got quite a bit done,’ he said in obvious surprise. ‘Soon as you paint over that heathen image on the wall – ’

‘Heathen?’ I exclaimed. ‘It is a Christian image, sir; a pair of matched saints, if I am not mistaken.’

‘“Ye shall make unto yourselves no heathen images,”’ Ezekiel intoned. His sonorous voice echoed hollowly.

‘I am sorry I cannot offer you refreshment,’ I said. ‘As you see, we are not yet settled in.’

This was an act of rudeness worthy of Emerson himself, for the portable stove was alight and the kettle was coming to the boil. As I was to learn, rudeness was no defence against Brother Ezekiel. ‘As a rule I don’t hold with stimulants,’ he remarked coolly. ‘But I’ll take a cup of tea with you. When in Rome, eh? I know you Britishers can’t get on without it. You set down, ma’am. Charity’ll tend to the tea. Well, go on, girl, where are your manners? Take off your bonnet. It ain’t overly bright in here and I don’t want you spilling nothing.’

The room was bright enough for me to get a good look at the face displayed by the removal of the absurd bonnet. It was not a fashionable style of beauty. Her skin was extremely pale – not surprising, if she went about in that stovepipe of a bonnet – and the delicacy of her features, combined with her diminutive size, made her look like a child some years away from the bloom of womanhood. But when she glanced shyly at me, as if asking my permission to proceed, I was struck by the sweetness of her expression. Her eyes were her best feature, soft and dark, half veiled by extraordinarily long, curling lashes. Her abundant brown hair was strained back from her face into an ugly bun, but a few curls had escaped to caress her rounded cheeks.

I smiled at her before turning a less amiable look on her brother. ‘My servant will prepare the tea,’ I said. ‘John?’

I knew he had been listening. The new door into the courtyard had been hung, and it stood a trifle ajar. The door promptly opened, and I felt an almost maternal pride when he appeared. He was such a splendid specimen of young British manhood! The sleeves of his shirt were rolled high, displaying the muscular arms of a Hercules. He stood with stiff dignity, ready to receive my orders, and I felt sure that when he spoke his vowels would be in perfect order.

The response to my summons was never uttered. Vowels and consonants alike died in his throat. He had seen the girl.

A phrase of Mr Tennyson’s struck into my mind with the accuracy of an arrow thudding into the centre of the target. ‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried the Lady of Shalott (a poor specimen of womanhood) when she first beheld Sir Launcelot. So might John have cried, had he been poetically inclined, when his eyes first beheld Charity Jones.

The girl was not unaware of his interest. It could not have been more apparent if he had shouted aloud. A faint, wildrose flush warmed her cheeks and she lowered her eyes.

The lashes and the blush completed John’s demoralization. How he managed to make and serve the tea I am sure I do not know, since he never took his eyes off the girl. I expected Brother Ezekiel to resent John’s interest. Instead he watched the pair with a curious absence of expression, and spoke scarcely a word. Brother David’s gentlemanly manners had never shown to better advantage. He carried on an animated conversation, describing with considerable humour some of the problems he and his colleague had encountered with the villagers.

I thought I would have to take John by the shoulders and turn him out of the room when he was finished, but on the third repetition of my dismissal he stumbled out. The door remained slightly ajar, however.

Mr Jones finally rose. ‘We’ll be getting back,’ he announced. ‘I’ll come for Charity at sundown.’

‘No, you’ll take her with you,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your offer of assistance, but I do not need it. My people have matters well in hand.’ The reverend started to object. I raised my voice and continued, ‘If I require domestic help I will hire it. I certainly will not permit this young lady to act as my scullery maid.’

Ezekiel’s face turned puce. Before he could speak, David said, ‘My dear Mrs Emerson, your delicacy does you credit, but you do not understand our views. Honest labour is no disgrace. I myself would willingly roll up my sleeves and wield brush or broom. I know Charity feels the same.’

‘Oh, yes, gladly.’ It was the first time the girl had ventured to speak. Her voice was as soft as a breeze sighing through the leaves. And the look she gave young David spoke louder than words.

‘No,’ I said.

‘No?’ Ezekiel repeated.

‘No.’

When I employ a certain tone and accompany it with a certain look, it is a brave man who dares contradict me. Brother Ezekiel was not a brave man. If he had been, his companion’s sense of fitness would have intervened.

‘We will take our leave then,’ he said with a graceful bow. ‘I hope our offer has not been misinterpreted.’

‘Not at all. It has only been declined. With thanks, of course.’

‘Humph,’ said Brother Ezekiel. ‘All right, then, if that’s how you want it. Good-bye. I will see you in church on Sunday.’

It was a statement, not a question, so I did not reply. ‘And your servant too,’ Ezekiel continued, glancing in a meaningful way at the partially open door. ‘We make nothing of the social distinctions you Britishers believe in. To us all men are brothers in the eyes of the Lord. The young man will be heartily welcome.’

I took Brother Ezekiel by the arm and escorted him out of the house.

As I watched them ride away, the girl a modest distance behind the two men, such indignation flooded my being that I stamped my foot – a frustrating gesture in that region, since the sand muffled the sound. The wretched pastor was not only a religious bigot and a crude boor, he was no better than a panderer for his god. Seeing John’s interest in Charity, he meant to make use of it in winning a convert. I almost wished Emerson had been there, to take the wretch by the collar and throw him out the door.

I described the encounter later to my husband as we sat before the door enjoying the magnificent display of sunset colours across the amber desert sands. Ramses was some distance away, still digging. He had amassed quite a sizable heap of potsherds and bones. The cat Bastet lay beside him. From time to time her whiskers quivered as the scent of roasting chicken from the kitchen reached her nostrils.

To my annoyance Emerson gave me scant sympathy. ‘It serves you right, Amelia. I told you you were too polite to that fellow.’

‘Nonsense. If you had met the Reverend Ezekiel Jones, you would realize that neither courtesy nor rudeness affects him in the slightest.’

‘Then,’ said Emerson coolly, ‘you should have drawn your pistol and ordered him to leave.’

I adjusted the weapon in question. ‘You don’t understand the situation, Emerson. I foresee trouble ahead. The girl is infatuated with young David, and John – our John – has taken a fancy to her. It is a classic triangle, Emerson.’

‘Hardly a triangle,’ said Emerson, with one of those coarse masculine snickers. ‘Unless the pretty young man takes a fancy to – ’

‘Emerson!’

‘To someone else,’ Emerson concluded, with a guilty look at Ramses. ‘Amelia, as usual you are letting your rampageous imagination run away with you. Now that your detectival instincts have been frustrated, by my removing you from the scene of Abd el Atti’s death, you are inventing romantic intrigues. Why can’t you confine your energies to the work that awaits us here? Forgo your fantasies, I beg. They are all in your own head.’

Ramses glanced up from his digging. ‘John,’ he remarked, ‘is in de house reading de Bible.’

Alas, Ramses was correct. John
was
reading the Bible, and he continued to spend a great deal of his spare time in this depressing pursuit. The rest of his spare time was employed in mooning around the village (the expression is Emerson’s) in hopes of catching a glimpse of his love. When he came back with a light step and an idiotic smile on his face I knew he had seen Charity; when he tramped heavily, looking as if his dog had died, I knew his vigil had been unrewarded.

The morning after the visit of the missionaries we completed our preliminary survey of the site. Its total length was about four miles, from the village of Bernasht to a line approximately half a mile south of the Bent Pyramid of Dahshoor. We found traces of many small cemeteries, from the Old Kingdom to Roman times. Almost all had been thoroughly ransacked. Two sunken areas, one approximately three miles south of the Bent Pyramid, the other a quarter of a mile north of the first, were thickly covered with limestone chips. These, Emerson announced, were the remains of the pyramids of Mazghunah.

I repeated the word in a hollow voice. ‘Pyramids?’

‘Pyramids,’ Emerson said firmly. Clear on the horizon the monuments of Dahshoor rose in ironic commentary.

After luncheon Emerson declared his intention of paying a call on M. de Morgan. ‘We cannot begin work for another day or two,’ he explained glibly. ‘And Ramses ought to see Dahshoor. I had intended to take him to Giza and Sakkara but we left Cairo in such haste the poor lad was not even allowed to visit the Museum.’

‘There will be ample time for sightseeing after the season,’ I replied, neatly folding my napkin.

‘It is only courteous to call on our neighbour, Peabody.’

‘No doubt; but this is the first time I have ever seen you so conscious of propriety. Oh, very well,’ I added quickly. ‘If you insist, Emerson, we will go.’

We took Selim with us, leaving John to superintend the renovation of our living quarters and Abdullah to conclude the survey. He knew Emerson’s methods and was competent to carry them out; but it was a departure for Emerson to leave anyone else in charge. I knew it testified to the anguish of his spirit.

Despite the equanimity of temper for which I am well known, the closer we approached the noble monuments of Dahshoor, the more bitter was the emotion that choked me. With what indescribable yearning did I view the objects with which I had hoped to become intimately acquainted!

The two large pyramids of Dahshoor date from the same period of time as the Giza pyramids, and they are almost as large. They are built of white limestone, and this snowy covering exhibits bewitching changes of tint, according to the quality of the light – a mazy gold at sunset, a ghostly translucent pallor under the glow of the moon. Now, at a little past noon, the towering structures shone dazzlingly white against the deep blue of the sky.

There are three smaller pyramids at the site, built at a later period, when building skills had deteriorated. Constructed not of solid stone but of mud brick faced with stone, they lost their original pyramidal shape when the casing blocks were removed by their successors or by local peasants desirous of obtaining pre-cut building materials. Despite its ruined state, one of these brick pyramids – the southernmost – dominates the terrain, and from some aspects it appears to loom even larger than its stone neighbours. Stark and almost menacing it rose up as we approached, as dark as the great pyramids were pale. My eyes were increasingly drawn to it and finally I exclaimed, ‘What a strange and indeed sinister appearance that structure has, Emerson. Can it be a pyramid?’

Emerson had become increasingly morose as we neared Dahshoor. Now he replied grumpily, ‘You know perfectly well that it is, Peabody. I beg you will not humour me by pretending ignorance.’

He was correct; I knew the monuments of Dahshoor as well as I knew the rooms of my own house. I felt I could have traversed the area blindfolded. Emerson’s bad humour was due in no small part to the fact that he was aware of my poignant yearning and felt guilty – as well he might.

The Arabs called the dark structure the ‘Black Pyramid,’ and it merited the name, even though it more resembled a massive truncated tower. As we approached, signs of activity could be seen near the eastern side, where M. de Morgan was excavating. There was no sign of de Morgan, however, until Emerson’s hail brought him out of the tent where he had been napping.

M. de Morgan was in his thirties. He had been a mining engineer before being appointed to head the Department of Antiquities, a position traditionally held by a citizen of France. He was a good-looking man, with regular features and a pair of luxuriant moustaches. Even though he had been roused suddenly from sleep his trousers were neatly creased, his Norfolk jacket buttoned, and his pith helmet in place – though of course he removed this latter object of dress when he saw me. Emerson’s lip curled at the sight of this ‘foppishness’; he refused to wear a hat and usually went about with his sleeves rolled to the elbows and his shirt collar open.

I apologized for disturbing de Morgan. ‘Not at all, madame,’ he replied, yawning. ‘I was about to arise.’

‘High time, too,’ said my husband. ‘You will never get on if you follow this eastern custom of sleeping in the afternoon. Nor will you locate the burial chamber in that amateurish way – digging tunnels at random, instead of searching for the original opening to the substructure – ’

With a forced laugh, de Morgan broke in.
‘Mon vieux,
I refuse to discuss professional matters until I have greeted your charming lady. And this must be young Master Emerson – how do you do, my lad?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ said Ramses. ‘May I go and look at de pyramid?’

‘A true archaeologist already,’ said the Frenchman.
‘Mais certainement, mon petit.’

I gestured at Selim, who had maintained a respectful distance, and he followed Ramses. De Morgan offered us chairs and something to drink. We were sipping wine when one of the tent flaps opened and another man appeared, yawning and stretching.

‘By the Almighty,’ said Emerson in surprise. ‘It is that rascal Kalenischeff. What the devil is he doing here?’

De Morgan’s eyebrows rose, but he said only, ‘He offered his services. One can always use an extra pair of hands, you know.’