The Hippopotamus Pool (2 page)

Well, only Heaven and Emerson knew where. It was one of his engaging little habits, to delay until the last possible moment before telling me where we would excavate that year. Irritating as this could be, it had a certain titillation, and I amused myself by considering the possibilities. Dahshur? We had never finished exploring the interior of the Bent Pyramid, and pyramids, I must confess, are a passion of mine. Amarna would be equally to my taste, however, since it was there that my first romantic experiences with Emerson took place. The Theban area, too, had its attractions: royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings, the majestic temple of Queen Hatshepsut...

My meditations were interrupted by Nefret and Ramses. Her rose-petal cheeks aglow, the girl dropped into the chair at my side and glowered at her foster brother, who stood with arms folded and face expressionless. Ramses had graduated to long trousers that year—the sudden elongation of his lower limbs having made that decision advisable on aesthetic if no other grounds—and with his curly hair brushed into a rampant crest, he resembled a critical stork.

"Ramses says I may not dance with Sir Edward," Nefret exclaimed. "Aunt Amelia, tell him—"

"Sir Edward," said Ramses, prominent nose quivering, "is not a suitable person for Nefret to know. Mother, tell her—"

"Be quiet, both of you," I said sharply. "I will be the judge of who constitutes a proper associate for Nefret."

"Hmph," said Ramses.

Nefret said something I did not understand. I supposed it to be one of the Nubian swearwords to which she resorted when in a temper. Temper, and the heat of the room, would have reduced any other female countenance to an ugly state of red-faced perspiration, but she could never appear other than beautiful; her cornflower-blue eyes sparkled wickedly and the sheen of perspiration that bedewed her skin made it glow as if lit from within.

"Ramses," I said, "please go and ask Miss Marmaduke to dance. You owe her that courtesy, since she is to be your tutor."

"But Mama—" Ramses's voice cracked. Ordinarily he was able to control the inevitable fluctuations, from soprano to baritone, that mark a lad's adolescence; on this occasion emotion had made him lose control, and his use of the childish form of address which he had recently abjured was further indication of perturbation.

"I believe your hearing is not deficient, Ramses," I remarked.

Ramses's countenance resumed its normal impassivity. "No, Mother, it is not, as I am sure you are aware. I will of course obey your command, for such I take it to be despite the manner in which it was couched, though I cannot but regard the use of the word 'please' in this context as a meaningless—"

"Ramses," I said loudly, for I knew perfectly well what he was up to; he was quite capable of continuing the sentence until it would be too late to lead the unfortunate Miss Marmaduke onto the floor.

"Yes, Mother." Ramses turned on his heel.

Her good humor restored, Nefret laughed and gave my hand a conspiratorial squeeze. "It serves him right for being so impertinent, Aunt Amelia. Miss Marmaduke is a perfect old maid!"

I had to admit the accuracy of the description. Miss Marmaduke was, by her own admission, still under the age of thirty, but she looked years older. Being taller than the average, she had acquired a habitual stoop; her mousy-brown hair stuck out in wisps from the pins and combs that attempted to confine it. However, the comment was rude and unkind, and I felt bound to point this out.

"The comment was rude and unkind, Nefret. She cannot help being plain, poor thing. We were fortunate to find her, since you and Ramses must not neglect your education this winter, and we were unable to hire a suitable tutor before we left England."

Nefret made a face. I went on, "I would not have said so in Ramses's presence, since he is already too inclined to think himself omniscient, but in this case I am forced to agree with him. Sir Edward has an unsavory reputation with regard to women—especially very young women. You are only fifteen and peculiarly vulnerable to such attentions."

"I beg your pardon, Aunt Amelia." She was out of temper with
me
now; her eyes snapped. "I believe I know more about the matters to which you refer than an English girl of fifteen."

"You
are
an English girl of fifteen," I replied. "And yet, in some ways, you are barely two years of age." I paused, considering this striking analysis. "How interesting! I had never thought of your situation in quite those terms, but they are correct. The customs of the strange society in which you spent the first thirteen years of your life were so unlike those of the modern world that you have had to begin all over again—and forget a good deal of what you had learned, especially about—er—certain dealings with persons of the opposite gender. I am only trying to protect you, child."

Her lovely face softened and again she took my hand. "I know that, Aunt Amelia. I am sorry if I was rude. I was angry with Ramses, not with you; he treats me as if I were a child and he a stern guardian. I will not be bullied by a little boy!"

"He is younger than you, to be sure," I said. "But he has only your best interests at heart. And you can no longer look down at him, can you?"

I was unable to repress a smile as I watched Ramses doggedly guiding Miss Marmaduke through the mazes of the dance. She was trying to minimize her height by drooping and bowing her head, so that her high pompadour kept brushing his face. The contortions of that face, as Ramses heroically controlled his need to sneeze, made me feel more kindly toward my son. He would not have behaved like a gentleman if I had not made him, but now that he had taken the bit between his teeth, he was performing gamely against considerable odds. Miss Marmaduke had no more sense of rhythm than a camel, and her long-sleeved, high-necked black gown was inappropriate for a ball.

My ball gowns are usually crimson, since that is Emerson's favorite color. The one I wore that evening was of quite a different shade. Nefret saw my expression alter; quietly she said, "You are thinking of the baby."

It had been Nefret I sought on that terrible June morning, after the call came from Walter. We had had the telephone installed only the month before; little did I imagine that it would be a source of such shocking news.

I left Rose, my invaluable and tenderhearted parlormaid, sobbing into her apron, while our butler Gargery, his own eyes moist, tried to comfort her. Nefret was not in the house. After I had searched the stables and the gardens, I knew where she must have gone.

Some might think it a strange sort of monument to find on the grounds of a quiet English country house. In point of fact, fake ruins and pyramids had been quite the mode, and many a wealthy traveler to Egypt had brought back stelae and sarcophagi with which to adorn his property. The small brick pyramid, located in a quiet woodland glade, was not a modish ornament, however. It stood over the remains of a prince of Cush. He had lost his life in a vain but heroic attempt to restore Nefret to her family, and at the request of his brother, who had carried the quest to its triumphant culmination, we had given the gallant youth honorable burial in the manner of his own people. A little chapel, its lintel carved with the sun disk and the name and titles of the dead boy, stood at the base of the monument. Nefret went there from time to time; she had known Tabirka well, for he had been her playfellow in her youth. I myself occasionally spent a quiet hour near the pyramid; it was a pleasant place, surrounded by trees and wildflowers.

I found Nefret seated on the stone bench near the chapel, weaving flowers into a garland. She looked up when she heard me approach; I suppose my face must have betrayed the shock I felt, for she at once rose and led me to the seat.

"I am going to Chalfont Castle," I said distractedly. "I have tried to reach Emerson and Ramses; they were not at the house in London or at the Museum, so I was forced to leave a message for them. I dare not delay, I must go to Evelyn at once. Will you come with me?"

"Of course, if you want me."

"It may comfort Evelyn," I said. "How is she to bear it? It was with Walter that I spoke ..."

I would have gone on sitting there, in a stupor of disbelief and grief, if Nefret had not raised me to my feet and led me toward the house.

"I will help you pack, Aunt Amelia. And accompany you, of course. How did it happen?"

"Suddenly and—thank God—peacefully," I said. "She was perfectly well last night when Evelyn tucked her into her cot. This morning the nurserymaid found her . .."

I began weeping, I believe. Nefret's slender arm went round my waist. "Don't grieve, Aunt Amelia. I have asked Tabirka to look after her. His courage is as high as his heart is gentle; he will protect her from the perils of the darkness and carry her safely to the arms of the god."

I had paid scant attention to Nefret's little speech at the time, hearing only the comfort it was meant to convey. When it came back to me some time later, it gave me a queer feeling. Had I told her of the baby's death? I could not remember having done so, and yet she had known—known before ever I spoke. Even more alarming was her reference to the ancient (and of course erroneous) religion she had supposedly abjured. Was that why she crept away to her foster brother's chapel—to whisper prayers and make offerings to the old gods she secretly worshiped?

(The little offerings I occasionally left on the altar were simply tokens of respect, as I am sure I need not explain. And I am sure the bottles of Bickle's Best Brown Stout I once found arranged in a neat row had been intended in the same way. They could not have come from Nefret, since the purchase of spirituous liquors was impossible for her. It was legally impossible for Ramses too, but Ramses had his methods—most probably Gargery, his devoted admirer.)

Evelyn and her husband Walter, Emerson's younger brother and a distinguished Egyptologist in his own right, were our dearest friends as well as our closest kin. They were devoted to their children, and I expected I would find Evelyn prostrate. But when Wilkins the butler, his own eyes red-rimmed, announced our arrival, she came quickly to meet us, and outwardly at least she appeared less distraught than he.

"We have been more fortunate than most families, dear sister," she said, with a set, rigid smile. "God has left us five healthy children. We must bow to His will."

It would have been difficult to criticize this admirable demonstration of Christian fortitude, but as the summer went on I thought she was overdoing it. Tears and hysteria would have been preferable to that terrible smile.

She would not wear mourning and became almost angry when I did so. And when, after anxious consultation with my husband and hers, I told her we had decided to remain in England that winter instead of going out to Egypt as we always did, she turned on me with the first bitter words I had ever heard from her. I should and must go. Did I have such a poor opinion of her that I believed she could not get on without my support? She did not need me. She did not need anyone.

Including her own husband. She and Walter now occupied separate sleeping chambers. Walter would not speak of it to me, he was too modest and too loyal to complain, but he was less reticent with Emerson—and Emerson is not reticent at all.

"Confound it, Peabody, what the devil is she up to? She will kill Walter; he loves her devotedly and would never think of—er—going with another woman. Men have their needs—"

"Oh, bah," I exclaimed. "Don't talk such pernicious nonsense to me! Insofar as that is concerned, women have needs too, as you of all people ought to be well aware ... Emerson, let go of me at once. I will not be distracted, not at this time."

"Curse it," said Emerson. "She is doing it to punish him. Like Lysistrata. Peabody, if you ever dared pull a trick like that on me—"

"But my dear, it is not a trick on Evelyn's part. I doubt she knows herself why she is acting as she is. / know, of course. She is angry— angry with heaven. She can't get back at God, so she is punishing the rest of us, and herself most of all. She blames herself for the child's death."

"Don't spout your psychological mumbo-jumbo at me," Emerson shouted. "The notion is absurd. How could she blame herself? The physician said—"

"The human spirit is not rational, Emerson," I said poetically. "I know whereof I speak; I myself have occasionally felt a pang of illogical guilt when Ramses got himself into some horrible scrape, even when it was entirely his own fault. Evelyn feels guilt and fear as well. She wants no more hostages to fate."

"Ah," said Emerson. He considered the idea. "But, Peabody, there are ways—"

"Yes, my dear, I know. Leaving aside the efficacy of those methods, and the impossibility of raising them with Evelyn at this time ... It's all beside the point, Emerson; we don't need practical solutions just now, we need a way of rousing her and I—I don't know how to do it." I turned away. This time, when Emerson took me in his arms, I did not protest.

"You'll think of something, Peabody," he said gently. "You always do."