He Shall Thunder in the Sky (14 page)

     The appearance of Seshat anticipated by less than a minute the arrival of Ramses; either she had seen him coming, from some vantage point atop the house, or the uncanny instincts of a feline had warned her of his approach. Anna was with him.

     Katherine’s daughter by her first, unhappy marriage, was now in her early twenties. She was, truth compels me to admit, a rather plain young woman. She did not at all resemble her mother, who was pleasantly rounded where Anna was not, and whose green eyes and gray-streaked dark hair gave her the look of a cynical tabby cat. Anna’s eyes were a faded brown, her cheeks thin and sallow; she scorned the use of cosmetics and preferred severe, tailored garments that did nothing to flatter her figure. She had never appeared interested in a member of the opposite sex, except for one extremely embarrassing period during which she had taken a fancy to Ramses. He had not taken a fancy to her, so it was a relief when she got over it.

     It seemed to me that there was a certain coolness in her manner toward him that day. After greeting us she sat down on the settee next to Nefret and began questioning her about the hospital.

     “I have decided I want to train for a nurse,” she explained.

     “You are welcome to visit anytime,” Nefret said slowly. “But we do not have the facilities for such training. If you are serious —”

     “I am. One must do whatever one can, mustn’t one?”

     “You could receive better training in England,” Nefret said. “I can give you several references.”

     “There must be something I can do here!”

     “Some of the ladies have formed committees,” I remarked. “They meet to drink tea and wind bandages.”

     “That is better than doing nothing,” Anna declared. She directed a glance at Ramses, who appeared not to notice. Ah, I thought; so that is the trouble. Her brother, to whom she was devoted, was in France. I did hope she was not going to add to Ramses’s collection of feathers. Open contempt would be even more awkward than expressions of unwelcome affection.

     We had been able to obtain a box for the opera season that year, since many of the former patrons had left the country — voluntarily, or after they had been expelled as enemy aliens. The performance that night was
Aida
, one of Emerson’s particular favorites, since the music is very loud and the renditions of Egyptian costume and scenery give him an opportunity to criticize them.

     There was not room for all of us in a single vehicle, so Nefret went with us and Ramses accompanied the Vandergelts. I had, much against his will, persuaded Emerson to let Selim drive us that evening. The Reader can have no idea of how I looked forward to NOT being driven by Emerson. He was looking particularly handsome in white tie, which was de rigeur for box holders.

     “I do wish Ramses would have the courtesy to tell us of his plans in advance,” I said, taking Emerson’s hat from him so he would not sit on it or let it fly out the window. “I was under the impression he was going with us until he turned up in ordinary evening kit instead of white tie.”

     “What difference does it make?” Emerson demanded.

     “Where is he going?”

     “I did not have the impertinence to inquire, my dear. He is a grown man and is not obliged to give us an account of his activities.”

     “Hmph,” I said. “Nefret, I don’t suppose you —”

     “No,” said Nefret. “Perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier that I won’t be coming home with you.”

     “Have you and Ramses something planned?”

     “As I told you, I have no idea what his plans are, except that they do not include me.”

     “Where are you — ouch!”

     Emerson removed his elbow from my ribs and began talking very loudly about Wagner.

     When the Vandergelts joined us in our box, Katherine said — in answer to my question — that they had left Ramses off at the Savoy. That was not one of his usual haunts; he must have planned to meet someone, or call for someone who was staying there.

     Speculation could get me no further, so I abandoned the question for the time being.

     The Opera House had been built by the Khedive Ismail as part of his modernization of Cairo in preparation for the visit of the Empress Eugénie to open the Suez Canal in 1869. Rumor had it that Ismail was madly in love with the French empress; he had built for her not only an elaborate palace but a bridge by which she could reach it, and a road to Giza so that she could visit the pyramids in comfort. The Opera House was lavish with gilt and crimson velvet hangings and gold brocade. Ismail had commissioned
Aida
for the grand opening, but Verdi didn’t get around to finishing it for another two years, so the Khedive and the Empress had to settle for
Rigoletto
. Several boxes had been designed for the ladies of Ismail’s harem; screened off from the view of the audience, they were now reserved for Moslem ladies.

     Katherine and I at once took out our opera glasses and looked to see who was there, with whom they had come, and what they were wearing. I do not apologize for this activity, which Emerson took pleasure in deriding. At worst it is harmless; at best, it is informative. The grandiose khedival box was occupied that evening by none other than General Maxwell. Since the declaration of war and the institution of martial law, he was the supreme power in Egypt, and his box was full of officers and officials who had come to pay their compliments (i.e., flatter the great man in the hope of gaining favor). I was not surprised to see Percy among them.

     Even as we scrutinized we were being scrutinized. The General was not immune to this form of polite social intercouse; seeing my eyes fixed on his box, he acknowledged me with a gracious salutation. I nodded and smiled — full into the teeth of Percy, who had the audacity to pretend the greeting was meant for him. Displaying the said teeth in a complacent smile, he bowed. I cut him as ostentatiously as was possible, and was annoyed to see Anna respond with a wave of her hand. She had met him, I recollected, on an earlier occasion, while our relations with Percy were still relatively civil.

     I interposed my person between her and Percy and scanned the audience below. Mrs. Fortescue was present, her escort that evening a staff officer with whom I was not acquainted. I asked Katherine to point out Major Hamilton.

     “I don’t see him,” was the reply. “Why are you curious about the gentleman?”

     “I told you about his niece’s little adventure on the pyramid,” I replied.

     “Oh, yes. He hasn’t called on you to express his thanks?”

     “Quite the contrary. He has written informing me he will not allow the child to associate with us.”

     “Good gracious! Why would he do that?”

     “Don’t be tactful, Katherine, not with me. I can only suppose that he has heard some of the vicious gossip about Ramses.”

     Anna had been an interested listener. In her gruff boyish voice she remarked, “Are you referring to his pacifist sentiments or his reputation with women, Mrs. Emerson?”

     “I see no reason why we should discuss either slander,” Katherine said sharply.

     Anna’s sallow cheeks reddened. “He is a pacifist. It is not slanderous to call him that.”

     This exchange caught Nefret’s attention. “I wouldn’t call Ramses a pacifist,” she said judiciously. “He is perfectly willing to fight if he believes it to be necessary. He’s damned good at it too.”

     “Nefret,” I murmured.

     “I beg your pardon,” said Nefret. “Just trying to set the record straight. Have you joined one of the bandage-rolling committees, Anna?”

     Her disdainful tone made Anna stiffen angrily. “I want to do something more . . . more difficult, more useful.”

     “Do you?” Nefret propped her chin on her hand and smiled sweetly at the other young woman. “Come round to the hospital tomorrow, then. We can use another pair of hands.”

     “But I wouldn’t be nursing soldiers.”

     “No. Only women who have been abused in another sort of war — the longest-lasting war in history. A war that won’t be won quickly or easily.”

     “I’m sorry for them, of course,” Anna muttered. “But —”

     “But you see yourself gently wiping the perspiration from the brows of handsome young officers who have suffered genteel wounds in the arm or shoulder. I think,” Nefret said, “it would do you good to meet some of the women who come to us, and hear their stories, and see their injuries. It will give you a taste of what war is really like. Are you game?”

     Anna bit her lip, but no young woman of spirit could have resisted that challenge. “Yes,” she said defiantly. “I’ll show you I’m not as frivolous as you think me. I will come tomorrow and do any job you ask me to do, and I’ll stick it out until you dismiss me.”

     “Agreed.”

     I caught Katherine’s eye. I expected her to object, but she only smiled slightly and picked up her opera glasses. “Ah — there is Major Hamilton, Amelia. Third row center, reddish-gray hair, green velvet coat.”

     “Dear me, how picturesque,” I said, identifying the individual in question without difficulty because of the unusual color of his hair. “Is he wearing a kilt, do you think?”

     “Presumably. It goes with the coat.”

     Since my readers are of course familiar with the opera, I will not describe the performance in detail. When the curtain fell, accompanied by the thunderous crash that sealed the doomed lovers forever in their living tomb, we all joined in the applause except for Emerson, who began fidgeting. If he had his way, he would bolt for the exit the moment the last note of music died. I consider this discourteous and unpatriotic, so I always make him sit through the curtain calls and “God Save the King.”

     Cyrus suggested we stop somewhere for a bite of supper, but the hour was late and I knew Emerson would be up before dawn, so we said good night to the Vandergelts and got into our motorcar.

     “You can let me off at the Semiramis, Selim,” said Nefret.

     I said, “With whom are you having supper, Nefret?”

     I expected a poke in the ribs from Emerson. Instead he cleared his throat noisily and muttered, “You need not answer that, Nefret. Er — unless you choose.”

     “It is not a secret,” Nefret said. “Lord Edward Cecil and Mrs. Fitz, and some of their set. You know Mrs. Canley Tupper, I believe?”

     I did. Like the others in that “set,” including Lord Edward, she was frivolous and silly, but not vicious.

     “And,” said Nefret, “Major Ewan Hamilton may join us.”

I found it impossible to sleep that night, though Emerson slumbered sweetly and sonorously at my side. Nefret had not returned by the time we retired, nor had Ramses. Where were they and what were they doing — and with whom? I turned from one unsatisfactory position to another, but it was worry, not physical discomfort, that affected me. In some ways the children had been less trouble when they were young. At least I had had the right to control their actions and question them about their plans. Not that they always obeyed my orders or answered truthfully. . . .

     The intruder’s noiseless entrance gave me no warning. It was on the bed, advancing slowly and inexorably toward my head, before I was aware of its presence. A heavy weight settled onto my chest and something cold and wet touched my cheek.

     “What is it?” I whispered. “How did you get in here?”

     There was no audible response, only a harder pressure against my face. When I moved, the weight lifted from me and the shadowy form disappeared. I got out of bed without, as I believed, waking Emerson. Delaying only long enough to assume dressing gown and slippers, I went to the door. The cat was already there. As soon as I opened the door, she slipped out.

     A lamp had been left burning on a table in the hall. I snatched it up. Seshat led me along the hall, looking back now and then to make sure I was following.

     The only way she could have entered our room was through the window. One of her favorite promenades was along the balconies that ran under the first-floor windows. As I had expected, she stopped in front of Ramses’s door and stared up at me.

     I knocked softly on the door. There was no response. I tried the door.

     It was locked.

     Well, I had expected that. Ramses had always been insistent on maintaining his privacy, and of course he had every right to it.

     I had taken the precaution, some days earlier, of finding a key that fitted Ramses’s door. I had one for Nefret’s door too. I had not felt it necessary to mention this expedient to the persons concerned, because they would almost certainly have found other security measures which would not have been so easy to circumvent. Naturally I would never have dreamed of using the keys except in cases of dire emergency. Clearly this was such a case.

     I unlocked the door and flung it open. This is my customary procedure when I anticipate discovering an unauthorized intruder, but I admit the bang of the door against the wall does often startle people other than the intruder. It produced a muffled oath from Emerson, of whose approach I had not been aware. Hastening to my side, he put his hand on my arm.

     “Peabody, what the devil are you —”

     The sentence ended in a catch of breath.

     There was enough light from the windows giving onto the balcony to show the motionless shape in the bed, covered to the chin by sheet and blanket, and the dark head on the pillow. Another form lay facedown on the floor between the bed and the window. It appeared to be that of a peasant, for the feet were bare and the dark blue gibbeh was threadbare and torn.

     I gave Emerson the lamp and ran to kneel beside the fallen man.

     “Ramses! What has happened? Are you hurt?”

     There was no answer, which more or less settled the matter. As I tugged at my son’s limp body, Emerson put the lamp on a nearby table. “I’ll fetch a doctor.”

     “No,” I said sharply. I had managed to turn Ramses onto his back. My peremptory grasp had pulled the robe apart, baring his chest and the bloodstained cloth wound clumsily round his upper arm and shoulder. It must have been cut or torn from his shirt, since that garment was in fragmentary condition. His only other article of clothing, aside from the belt that held his knife, was a pair of knee-length cotton drawers, completing the costume of an Egyptian of the poorer classes.