“My mother was the daughter of the Earl of Radcliffe. Why she married my father, who was a simple country gentleman without title or wealth, I never knew. There was… one must suppose there was an attraction. It must have ended early in their marriage. My earliest memories are of contemptuous words and bitter reproaches from her to him, for failing to live up to her expectations. As I was to learn, that would have been impossible. Her demands were too great, her ambitions too high. He had, I believe, no desire to improve his position in the world. He was like Walter, gentle and easygoing, but with an inner core of firmness; while he lived, life was not entirely unpleasant. He died when I was fourteen, and then…
“She had already decided I was to be the man my father refused to be. When I resisted she tried various means to control me. The worst was what she did to Walter. We had been at the same school until then. You know what they were like, even the best of them; brutal discipline and legalized bullying were thought to make men out of boys. I was big for my age and ready to fight back, but Walter would have had a bad time if I had not been there to take his part.
“She separated us. He was becoming a mollycoddle and a coward, she said, and it was time he stood on his own feet. When I came home for the Christmas holidays the year after my father died, I had not seen Walter for months; he wasn’t even allowed to write me. That night it was snowing heavily, and it was in the snow I saw them—a woman and a boy, struggling through the drifts. I caught only a glimpse of his face, so distorted with strain and anger, it was unrecognizable. When I reached the house I told her—my mother—that we must find them and offer them shelter, and that was when I learned the woman had been my father’s mistress, that she had come to her former friend asking for help and had been turned away. You heard what happened. She kept me locked in my room till the following day.
“Well, to make a long story short, there was no way I could trace them; I had no money and no power. Matters went from bad to worse after that night. I was about to go up to Oxford when I discovered she was arranging a marriage for me, with the vapid daughter of a local aristocratic imbecile—and then, like an answer to prayer, I inherited a small amount of money from one of my father’s cousins. It provided enough income to enable me to pursue my studies and take Walter away from his hellish school. For years he had been torn between his fear and dislike of her and what he considered his filial duty; she made it clear to him that he would have to choose between us, that if he came to me she would never see him or speak to him again. So that settled that.
“Much later I did make an attempt to mend matters.” He smiled at me, his blue eyes softening. “It was because of you and Ramses, Peabody; caring as I did for you, I thought perhaps she regretted losing her sons and would be willing to let bygones be bygones. I was wrong. She would not see me. She did not send for me in her last illness, though she knew how to find me. I heard of her death from her lawyers. They told me she tried with her last breath to keep me from inheriting, but she had only the income from her father’s money while she lived; in accordance with the patriarchal tradition, the capital went to her eldest son. I haven’t touched it. It is yours, Ramses, as is the house that has been in my father’s family for two hundred years. So if you are thinking of—er—settling down and—er… Well, you are now in a position to support a family.”
He looked hopefully from Ramses to Nefret. When the true state of affairs had dawned on my dear Emerson I could not be certain, but he would have to have been blind, deaf, and feeble-witted if he misinterpreted the nature of their affection now. Of course he would claim, as he always did, that he had known all along. There was one aspect of that relationship of which he was certainly unaware. Ramses would never have mentioned it to his father, and Emerson had not been present when Nefret broke down and confessed—finding, I hoped, a greater understanding than she had dared expect.
It was not likely Emerson would be as sympathetic. I decided on the spot that it was none of his business.
Ramses had been as startled as the rest of us by these revelations, but he had sense enough not to refuse the offer. “Thank you, sir. But Uncle Walter’s children must have their fair share. And… another of my cousins.”
There was no need for him to explain. As soon as I knew Sethos and Hamilton were one and the same, I had realized who Molly might be.
“We cannot be certain,” I said thoughtfully. “Bertha was Sethos’s mistress, but the child she was carrying fourteen years ago might not have been his.”
“Fourteen years?” Emerson repeated. “Good Gad, has it been that long? Then it can’t be the same child. This girl is—what did you tell me—twelve years of age.”
“We had only her word for that. I did think she was remarkably mature for her age.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Emerson, staring.
I carefully avoided looking at Ramses, who was carefully not looking at me, and decided to spare him public embarrassment. He had been through quite enough in the past twenty-four hours.
“You were misled by her dreadful clothing on the occasion of our first encounter with her,” I explained in a kindly manner. “Even for a child of twelve they were old-fashioned and out of date—but then, so was Miss Nordstrom. I thought nothing of it at the time, but later she was dressed more suitably for her age, and I couldn’t help noticing… Women do notice such things. So do some men, and I am pleased to find that you are not one of them.”
“It’s all conjecture,” said Emerson stubbornly. “Sethos probably has a dozen… Oh, very well, Peabody , I apologize. Whoever her parents were, the child is not our responsibility. He made all the necessary arrangements for her several years ago, when he entered the service, and Maxwell assured me she would be well-provided for.”
“You asked about her?” It was Ramses who spoke. His face was even more unreadable than usual because of the bruises.
“Of course,” Emerson grumbled. “Well, I had to, didn’t I? Couldn’t leave the child alone in the world. I admit I was relieved when Maxwell told me Sethos was… told me the matter was taken care of. He does not know about the—er—the family relationship, and unless one of you can give me a reason why I should, I do not intend to tell him.”
I saw a reason, but I did not speak of it. Perhaps one day, when Emerson was in a softer mood, I could persuade him to bring his courageous and unfortunate brother back to the home of their ancestors, to lie with them in the family plot. In what unknown spot would he now be laid to rest? What would be his monument and what his epitaph? I had already thought of a suitable inscription for the monument I felt certain Emerson would wish to erect someday. It was a quotation from an Egyptian text: “Then Re-Harakhte said, Let Set be given unto me, to dwell with me and be my son. He shall thunder in the sky and be feared.” Like his ancient namesake, Sethos had redeemed himself and become one with the Divine Ruler of the cosmos.
This did not seem a propitious time for such a suggestion.
“You could not have prevented it, Emerson,” I said.
“Prevented what? Oh!” Emerson gave up the attempt to light his pipe. “No. Russell had his men ready, but I had the devil of a time convincing him we must act without delay. I could hardly tell him, could I, that my urgency was based on—er—”
“Woman’s intuition,” said Nefret, turning her head to smile at him. “I can imagine how Mr. Russell would have responded to that! Especially when I was the woman in question. How did you persuade him, then?”
“I rang through to the house as I had promised,” Emerson explained. “When Fatima told me about David, that settled the matter. I was, to put it mildly, somewhat distressed to hear that you two had gone haring off by yourselves, but there was nothing I could do but wait for Russell to get his caravan together and notify Maxwell of our plans. When we got there, the place was dead quiet, not a sign of life except a lighted window. We found Risha and the other horses, and I didn’t know where the devil you were or what you were doing, and I was afraid to risk an open a
ttack. When we heard gunfire we had no choice but to move in, and I fully expected to find you—both of you—all of you—dead or hideously wounded, or—”
“Calm yourself, Emerson,” I said soothingly. “It has all come out right in the end.”
“No thanks to you,” snarled Emerson.
“I beg to differ, Father,” Ramses said. “Events got a bit out of hand, but then they always do, don’t they, when we’re all involved? We may not go about it in the most efficient manner, but we get the job done.”
Nefret turned to look at him. “You will keep that in mind, I hope? If you ever do this to me again—”
“Or you to me. What in God’s name were you thinking of, letting him take you to that place, letting him—”
“I didn’t let him do very much.”
“How much?”
Nefret’s cheeks were crimson. “Stop talking like some damned ancient Roman! Are you suggesting that my so-called virtue is worth more than your life? I’d have done anything—anything!—to trap him.”
“Did you?”
“What would you do if I said yes?”
“Ah.” Ramses let his breath out. “You didn’t. I don’t know that I could have accepted that. I’d have had to spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. Groveling gets to be hard on the knees after a year or two.”
How good it was to hear them arguing again! However, there was a good deal more I wanted to know.
“How did you know it was Percy?”
“It?” Nefret gave me a quizzical look and laughed. “I didn’t know what he was or what he was trying to do; but when he began praising Ramses to all and sundry I knew he was up to no good, and when he had the infernal gall to come round smirking and fawning at me—as if I would be naive enough ever to trust him again!—I got really angry. And frightened. I was aware that Ramses was playing Wardani and that David was backing him up, that Mr. Russell was party to the scheme and that it was horribly dangerous; but I didn’t realize how dangerous until that night after the opera…” She broke off, biting her lip. She was still holding Ramses’s hand. He raised the other hand and brushed her cheek lightly with his fingertips. That was all; but it was enough to assure me that they had come to terms with that misunderstanding and others.
“I had to pretend I didn’t know how badly he was hurt,” she went on unsteadily. “I did, though. I always do. You arranged it very cleverly, all of you, but when the Professor came up with that ingenuous lie about sending Ramses to Zawaiet, I understood what you were doing, and of course I recognized David that evening, even with Aunt Amelia doing her damnedest to distract me by wriggling and squirming. I tried to keep out of the way to make it easier for you.”
“My dear girl,” I said, much moved as I recalled several small incidents that had meant nothing to me at the time. “Your deliberate and, if I may say so, uncharacteristic obtuseness did make it easier for us, but it must have been horribly difficult for you.”
“Yes,” Nefret said simply. She gave her lover—for so I must call him—a tender look, and he smiled at her. Even the distortion of his classic features could not spoil the sweetness of that smile. “I didn’t understand fully why it was so important that no one else should know,” Nefret continued. “But what else could I do but play along, since that was what you wanted?”
“I am filled with admiration for your forbearance and fortitude,” I exclaimed.
“It was high time, don’t you think? I had to prove to you, and to myself, that I had learned my lesson. Underneath I was wild with worry. I encouraged Percy, since that was the only thing I could think of to do, but it wasn’t until after our encounter with Farouk that it dawned on me that Percy might be the traitor Farouk had proposed to betray. From whom else could Farouk have learned about the house in Maadi? I had no proof, though.”
“So you set out to get it,” I said. “Good gracious, my dear, it was very courageous of you, if somewhat foolhardly.”
“Not as foolhardy as you might think,” Nefret insisted. “I knew he was completely unscrupulous and vicious, but so long as he believed I was attracted to him, I was in no danger. It didn’t take much to make him believe it! My money was the chief attraction, of course, and the only way he could get at that was through marriage, so I didn’t think he would—”
“Think,” Ramses repeated. His voice was glacial. Nefret looked from him to Emerson, and got no help there; his chin was jutting out and his face was turning red. “You understand, Aunt Amelia,” she cried. “You would have done the same.”
Emerson could contain himself no longer. “Would? She did do the same! Straight into the lion’s den, armed with a parasol and that damnable self-assurance of hers—I suppose you thought he wouldn’t take advantage, Peabody ?”
“It wasn’t the same at all,” I exclaimed.
“No,” said Ramses, in an oddly muffled voice. “He didn’t want to marry you.”
“Are you laughing at your mother, Ramses?” I demanded.
“I’m trying not to. It hurts when I laugh.”
He did, though. I gave Emerson an approving nod. His little outburst had cleared the air wonderfully.
“So,” I said, after Ramses had stopped laughing, and Nefret had tenderly wiped the blood from his cut lip. “How did you find out about the old palace?”
She sat back on her heels. “From Sylvia Gorst. That, Aunt Amelia, dear, was another of my penances—making it up with Sylvia! You’d have been proud of me if you had seen how I apologized and fawned on her. She’s the worst gossip in Cairo , and I felt certain that if she knew anything to Percy’s discredit, I could get it out of her.
“He’d never taken her to his little love nest. He only took married women. He assumed they wouldn’t talk about it for fear of blemishing their reputations, but of course they did—in strictest confidence to their closest friends. Sylvia pretended to be shocked, but it was such a juicy bit of scandal she couldn’t keep it to herself.
“So I confronted Percy with the information. First he denied the whole thing. I’d expected that and was prepared for it; eventually I convinced him that I understood about men having special needs and… Ramses, stop gritting your teeth, your lip is bleeding again!”
“Perhaps you had better—er—edit your narrative, Nefret,” I suggested. “I understand how you went about persuading him to take you there. That was the afternoon you came home late for dinner? I could see you had had an—er—unpleasant experience.”
“I turned bright-red like some silly schoolgirl,” Nefret muttered. “I could feel my face burning. It had its unpleasant moments, but I didn’t let him—”
“It’s all right,’ Ramses said softly. “I’m sorry.”
Unself-consciously she bent her bright head and kissed the hand she clasped. “I never was in real danger. I know how to defend myself, and I had my knife. It was a wasted afternoon, though. He never left me alone for a moment. I didn’t even see the rest of the house, only the bedroom.”
“Nefret,” I said quickly, “it is not necessary to say more. Your sacrifice—for it was nothing less, my dear, whatever happened or did not happen—was not in vain. I doubt we could have got directions from poor David, he was in no condition to converse at length. Yes; as Ramses wisely remarked, we work well as a family. Perhaps we have all learned a valuable lesson from this experience.”
Emerson’s expression indicated that he doubted such was the case. Before he could mar the felicity of the occasion by expressing that doubt, I went on, “Ramses should rest now. Good night, my dear boy; in case I neglected to mention it earlier, I love you and I am very proud of you.” Leaning over him, I found an unmarked spot on his face and kissed him.
“Quite,” said Emerson emphatically.
“Thank you,” said Ramses, wide-eyed and red-faced.
Nefret rose in a single graceful movement. She came to me and put her hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. Turning to Emerson, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him too, as she had do
ne when she was a girl. “Good night, Mother,” she said softly. “Good night, Father.”
My dear Emerson was so overcome I had to lead him from the room. The door closed behind us, and I heard the key turn in the lock.
Emerson must have heard it too, but he was in such a state of emotion we had almost reached our room before he reacted.
“Here!” he exclaimed, coming to a dead stop. “What did she… What are they…”
“You heard her. I would think you would be pleased.”
“Pleased? I have waited half my life to hear her call me Father. I suppose she felt she could not until she had earned the right by… Good Gad, Peabody —she locked the door! He isn’t fit—”
“Really, my dear, I don’t think you are in a position to determine that.” I tugged at him and he let me draw him into our room and push him into a chair. After considering the matter for a moment, I went back to the door and locked it.
“They are going to be married, aren’t they?” Emerson inquired anxiously. “When we get back to England ?”
“Oh, Emerson, don’t be absurd. They will be married as soon as I can make the arrangements. I don’t suppose she will want a conventional wedding dress.” I began unfastening my gown. “One of those lovely robes of hers, perhaps,” I continued thoughtfully. “ Fatima will insist on making the cake. Flowers from our garden—if the camel left any—a small reception here afterwards, for our closest friends. We will hold the ceremony in David’s room if he is not able to be out of bed. They will both want him to be present. Neither of them cares much about the formalities.”
It was clear from Emerson’s expression that he cared more than I would have supposed. He started up from his chair. “They aren’t married yet,” he exclaimed. “Good heavens, Amelia, how can you allow your daughter—”
“Oh, Emerson!” I put my arms round him and hid my face against his breast. “They love one another so much and they have been so unhappy.”
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