Part 26 (1/2)
”I figured it was time the old Valley was retired,” Cyrus said negligently, after I had expressed my admiration ”Hope the decor meets with your approval, my dear, I had one suite fixed up to suit a lady's taste, in the hope that one day you might do me the honor of sailing with me.”
I concealed a smile, for I doubted I was the only lady Cyrus had hoped to entertain. He was, as he had once said, ”a connoisseur, in the most respectable sense, of female loveliness” Certainly no female could have been other than delighted at the facilities this rough-hewn but gallant American had provided, from the lace-trimmed curtains at the wide windows to the daintily appointed dressing room adjoining the bath, everything was of the finest quality and most exquisite taste.
The other guest rooms- for the boat had eight- were equally splendid. After a silent, contemptuous survey of the accommodations, Emerson selected the smallest of the chambers.
He had not accepted this means of transport without a considerable fuss. The arguments of Dr. Wallingford, who insisted that a few more days' recuperation would be advisable, had their effect, so did the arguments of Cyrus, who had presented himself to Emerson as the financier of that season's work.
It was in matters such as these that my afflicted husband's loss of memory served to our advantage. He knew there were gaps in his memory, the (to him) overnight whitening of Abdullah's grizzled beard would have been proof enough had there been no other evidence. He dealt with this difficulty, as I might have expected Emerson to do, by coolly ignoring it. However, he was thus forced to accept certain statements as true because he could not a.s.sert they were false. It was quite the usual thing for wealthy individuals to finance archaeological expeditions. Emerson disapproved of the practice- and said so, rather emphatically- but being unaware of his own financial situation, he was forced in this case to agree.
Did I hope that the tranquil voyage, the moonlight rippling along the water, would bring back fond memories of our first such journey together- the journey that had culminated in that romantic moment when Emerson had asked me to be his? No, I did not. And it is just as well I didn't, for my dream would have been doomed to disappointment. In vain did I flaunt my crimson flounces and my low-cut gowns (for I thought it would not hurt to try). Emerson fled from them like a man pursued by pariah dogs. The only time he condescended to notice my existence was when I wore trousers and talked of archaeology.
I wore my new working costume at luncheon the day after we left Luxor (the crimson gown having had the aforesaid result the previous night). I was late joining the others, for I had, I admit, gone through my entire wardrobe before deciding what to wear. Cyrus got to his feet when I entered. Emerson was slow to follow his example, and he gave me a long look, from boots to neatly netted hair, before doing so
”This is just the sort of inconsistency I object to,” he remarked to Cyrus. ”If she dresses like a man and insists on doing a man's work, why the devil should she expect me to jump to my feet when she enters a room? And,” he added, antic.i.p.ating the reproof that was hovering on Cyrus's lips, ”why the devil can't I speak as I would to another fellow?”
”You can say anything you like,” I replied, thanking Cyrus with a smile as he helped me into my chair. ”And I will say what I like, so if my language offends you, you will have to put up with it. Times have changed, Professor Emerson.”
Emerson grinned. ”Professor, eh? Never mind the academic t.i.tles, they aren't worth- er- considering. Times certainly have changed, if, as Vandergelt here tells me, I have employed a female for the past several years. An artist, are you?”
Women had occasionally served in that capacity on archaeological digs, they were generally considered unfit for more intellectually tax ing activities. I decided not to remind Emerson of the two ladies who had excavated the temple of Mut at Karnak a few years earlier, for even at the time he had been critical of their methods. But to do him and them justice, he was equally critical of the efforts of most male archaeologists.
Calmly I replied, ”I am an excavator, like yourself. I am a fair draftsman, I am acquainted with the use of surveying instruments, and I can read the hieroglyphs. I speak Arabic. I am familiar with the principles of scientific excavation and I can tell a pre-dynastic pot from a piece of Meidum ware. In short, I can do anything you ... or any other excavator . . . can do.”
Emerson's eyes narrowed. ”That,” he said, ”remains to be seen.” To my affectionate eyes he was still painfully thin, and his face had not regained its healthy tan. Not much of it was visible, he had irritably refused to trim his beard, and it had spread up his cheeks and formed a jetty bush around jaws and chin. It looked even worse than it had when I first met him. But his eyes had regained their old sapphirine fire, they shot a challenging look at me before he applied himself to his soup and relapsed into ominous silence.
No one broke it. Emerson might not be entirely himself again, but there was enough of him to dominate any group of which he made a part, and the two young men who were at the table with us shrank into near invisibility in his presence.
I beg leave to introduce to the Reader Mr. Charles H. Holly and M. Rene D'Arcy, two of Cyrus's a.s.sistants. If I have not presented them before, it is because I had never met either of them, they were of the new generation of archaeologists, and this was Charlie's first season in Egypt. A mining engineer by profession, he was a ruddy-cheeked cheerful young man with hair the color of Egyptian sand. At least he had been cheerful until Emerson got at him.
Rene, as pale and soulful-looking as a poet, was a graduate of the Sorbonne and a skilled draftsman. The ebon locks that fell gracefully over his brow matched the mustache that drooped with corresponding grace over his upper lip He had a very pleasant smile. I had not seen the smile since Emerson got at him.
Emerson had quizzed them like students at a viva-voce examination, criticizing their translations of hieroglyphic texts, correcting their Arabic, and deriding their stumbling descriptions of excavation technique. One could hardly blame them for not coming off well under that blistering interrogation, I had heard distinguished scholars stutter like schoolboys when Emerson challenged their theories. The poor lads could not know that, and they took pains to avoid my husband thereafter. Neither of them knew the SECRET, as Ramses would have called it, but they were aware of the fact that the peril from which Emerson had escaped might still pursue us. Cyrus a.s.sured me they were devoted to him, and good men in a fight, as he put it.
Not until he had finished eating- with good appet.i.te, I was happy to see- did Emerson speak again. Throwing down his napkin, he rose and fixed a stern look on me. ”Come along, Miss- er- Peabody.
It is time we had a a little chat.”
I followed him, smiling to myself. If Emerson thought to catch me out or intimidate me as he had the poor young men, he was in for a salutary shock.
The Reader may be surprised at my calm acceptance of a situation that should have induced the strongest feelings of anguish and distress. Fort.i.tude in the face of adversity has always been my way, tears and hysteria are foreign to my nature. Could I ever forget that supreme accolade I had once received from Emerson himself? ”One of the reasons I love you is that you are more inclined to whack people over the head with your parasol than fling yourself weeping onto your bed, like other women.”
I had had my night of weeping- not on a comfortable bed, but on the hard floor of the bathroom at the Castle, huddled in a corner like a beaten dog. Never doubt that there were other moments of pain and despair. But what purpose would a description of them serve? None were as severe as that first uncontrolled outburst of anguish, I had purged myself of useless emotions that terrible night, now every nerve, every sinew, every thought, was bent on a single purpose. It was as if I had forced myself to lose those same years Emerson had lost- to return in my mind to the past. In this I was following the dictates of Dr. Schadenfreude. ”You,” he had informed me, on the eve of our departure, ”you, Frau Emerson, are the crux. My initial impression has been confirmed by all that I have seen since. It is from the bonds of matrimony that his memory retreats. In all else he is receptive, he accepts with relative equanimity what he is told. On that subject alone he remains obdurate. Follow him into the past. Recapture the indifference with which you once regarded him. Act upon it. And then . . . act upon what follows.”
Cyrus had become sadly disenchanted with Dr. Schadenfreude since that distinguished gentleman expressed his views on marriage and the reprehensible habits of the male s.e.x. Like most men, Cyrus was a secret romantic, and hopelessly naive about people. Women are more realistic - and I, I believe I may say without fear of contradiction, am a supreme realist. The doctor's advice appealed to certain elements of my character. I enjoy a challenge, the more difficult the task, the more eager I am to roll up my sleeves and pitch in. I had won Emerson's heart before, against considerable odds, for he had been a confirmed misogynist and I am not and have never been beautiful. If the spiritual bond between us, a bond transcending the limits of time and the flesh, was as strong as I believed, then I could win him again. If that bond existed only in my imagination ... I would not, could not, concede it was so.
So with limbs atingle and brain alert I followed him to the saloon, which also served as a library and Cyrus's study. It was a symphony in crimson and cream, with touches of gold. Even the grand piano had been gilded - one of Cyrus's few descents into execrable trans-Atlantic taste. Emerson flung himself into an armchair and took out his pipe. While he was messing with it, I took up a ma.n.u.script from the table. It was the little fairy tale I had been reading in Cairo, I had taken it up again in order to distract my mind.
”It is my turn to be tested, I presume,” I said composedly. ”Shall I translate? This is The Doomed Prince,' a tale with which you are no doubt familiar.”
Emerson glanced up from poking at his pipe. ”You read hieratic?”