The Deeds of the Disturber (7 page)

"It was not his fault," the young lady cried, brandishing her umbrella. "He did his best to prevent me."

"Well, well," Emerson said, with surprising good humor. "I believe I understand. I presume the lunatic made good his escape?"

The young lady scowled. Her companion said timidly, "I saw no such person, Professor. It is very foggy."

"Emerson," I murmured, "that large man coming toward the house appears to be a constable."

The argument would have had no effect on Emerson, but young Mr. Wilson caught sight of the advancing form, its oilcloth coat glistening wetly in the lamplight, and with a muffled exclamation, he drew the young lady away. Emerson waved cheerfully at the constable, who had paused at the gate to examine us curiously, and we went into the house.

The entire household had gathered in the hall. Evelyn rushed to me. "Amelia, you are soaked to the skin. Had you not better change your wet clothing at once?"

"Certainly," I replied, handing my parasol and my wrap to the butler. "I hope I am not too late for tea. A cup of the genial beverage would be just the thing."

"Wouldn't you prefer a whiskey and soda?" asked my brother-in-law, his eyes twinkling. Walter is the most amiable man; he seems always to be on the verge of laughter. I was about to refuse when I realized that there might be a lingering aroma about my person, from the last whiskey I had drunk; and that Emerson, in the course of our customary pre-dinner rituals, would be sure to detect its aroma, which would lead to questions I preferred to avoid.

"What a splendid idea," I said. "I will just take a glass upstairs with me; it is a sovereign remedy for warding off a cold."

Once we had reached the privacy of our rooms, I managed to take a sip of the whiskey before Emerson proceeded to do what I had expected
he would. "At least wait until I remove my wet gown," I suggested. "You will have to change too; your shirt is already quite—"

"Mmmmm," said Emerson, more precise articulation being at that moment beyond his powers. With the agility I had come to expect and admire, he assisted me to accomplish the suggested change without interrupting what he was doing for more than a few moments.

Much as I would have liked to continue, the sound of the dressing bell compelled me to remind Emerson we would be expected downstairs, and that prolonged delay might lead to speculation.

"Humbug," Emerson replied lazily. "Walter and Evelyn never speculate, they are too well bred, and if they did, they could only approve. We are lawfully wedded, Peabody; in case that fact has slipped your mind, let me refresh your memory. Thus. And thus ..."

"Oh, Emerson. Now, Emerson . . . Oh, my dear Emerson!"

Unfortunately at that moment we heard a scratching at the door, and with a vehement comment Emerson bolted for the dressing room. Fortunately it was Rose, not one of the servants who were unfamiliar with our habits; she had learned, through painful experience (painful particularly to poor Emerson), never to enter a room without making her presence known.

"The dressing bell has rung, ma'am," she murmured, through a tactfully narrow crack in the door.

"I heard it. Come back in ten minutes, Rose."

The door closed. Emerson emerged from the dressing room. He had assumed his trousers, but not his shirt, and the sight of his tanned and muscular body aroused the most remarkable of sensations and made me yearn to be home again in Kent, where cook was quite accustomed to putting dinner back an extra half hour on short notice.

However, the interruption had made him remember his grievances, and he was not slow to mention them.

"How dare you leave this house without telling anyone?" he demanded. "How dare you wander the streets of this city alone, unprotected—"

"I had an errand," I replied calmly. "Your evening shirt is there, Emerson, on the chair."

"I hate dressing for dinner," Emerson grumbled. "Why must I? Walter and Evelyn—"

"It is the custom. Never mind, my dear, we will soon be home and then you can be as uncouth as you like."

"It can't be too soon for me," Emerson assured me. "We haven't been in town a day and already you are being followed by lunatics
dressed up in their nightshirts. How the devil did he find us? Did you send him a telegram?"

"I presume you are joking, Emerson. The newspapers have reported our activities in considerable detail. Besides, our names were on the passenger list; anyone who wanted to know the time of our arrival could have found out at the offices of the steamship company."

"That would explain the young lady," Emerson admitted. "What an extraordinary thing, Peabody."

"That a woman should be a journalist? Unusual, certainly; commendable, undoubtedly. Much as I dislike the profession, it warms my heart to see my sisters venture—"

"You don't take my meaning. What was so extraordinary was the resemblance."

"To whom, Emerson?"

"To you, Peabody. Didn't you observe it?"

"Nonsense," I replied, taking the pins from my hair. "There was not the slightest resemblance."

"Are you sure you haven't a sister?"

"Quite sure. Don't be absurd, Emerson."

Rose's reappearance ended the discussion. Emerson once again retreated to his dressing room while Rose buttoned me into my frock and tried to do something with my untidy hair. Emerson had not closed the door and I could hear him mumbling to himself. When he came out he was fully dressed except for his studs and links, which he can never locate. Still muttering under his breath, he began tumbling my toilet articles about in his search for the missing articles.

Rose found them in the top drawer of the bureau, where they belonged, and advanced on Emerson. "If I may, sir—"

"Oh. Thank you, Rose. Did you happen to notice the young lady who was at the gate earlier?"

"No, sir. I don't waste time looking out the windows when I have me duties to perform."

"Amazing resemblance to Mrs. Emerson," said my husband, lifting his chin in response to a rather sharp poke from Rose.

"Indeed, sir?"

Her brief, cool answers were out of character, for Rose was normally on the best of terms with both of us and often condescended to exchange a bit of local gossip or a friendly jest while helping me dress. Turning to look at her, I observed that she was subjecting Emerson to a kind of small torture, prodding and jabbing at him as she inserted the studs.

"Where is Ramses?" I inquired. "He wasn't in the hall and he is usually the first one on the scene when something is going on."

A loud, rather damp sniff from Rose was the only answer I got from that quarter. Emerson scowled. "Ramses is in disgrace. He is to stay in his room until I give him leave to come out. You had better get back to him, Rose; I don't trust him to ... Ow!"

The exclamation was prompted by Rose's giving his wrist a shrewd twist as she inserted the link. "Yes, sir," she snapped. Wheeling, like a military person on parade, she marched out of the room.

"You have offended Rose," I said.

"She always takes his part," Emerson grumbled. "Did you see what she did, Peabody? She dug her nails into my hand—"

"I assure you it was an accident, Emerson. Rose would not be so childish. Why is Ramses in disgrace?"

"Look there," Emerson said, indicating the heap of papers on the table.

It was the manuscript of
The History of Ancient Egypt;
I had observed it earlier and had been pleased to see evidence of industry, but succeeding events had distracted me and prevented me from looking closely. Now I advanced to the desk and took up the top page. It was covered with closely written emendations, corrections, and revisions; I was about to congratulate Emerson on his industry when I realized the handwriting was not his. I knew whose handwriting it was.

"Oh no," I murmured. "Surely he would not . . . Well, on this point at least he is correct; the date of the beginning of the Fourth Dynasty—"

Emerson clapped his hand to his brow. "Et
tu,
Peabody? Bad enough that I have nourished a viper in my house, but another in my very bosom ..."

"Oh, Emerson, don't be so theatrical. If Ramses has had the audacity to revise your manuscript—"

"Revise? The little scamp has practically rewritten it! He has corrected my dates, my analyses of historical events, my discussion of the origin of mummification!"

"And your syntax," I said, unable to repress a smile. "Really, Ramses' notions of English grammar are rather eccentric." Seeing that Emerson had turned red as a turkey cock, I obliterated the smile and said seriously, "It is too bad of Ramses, my dear. I will speak sharply to him."

"That seems inadequate punishment for the crime."

"You—you didn't strike him, Emerson?"

Emerson gave me a look of freezing reproof. "You know my views
on corporal punishment, Amelia. I have never struck a child or a woman—and I never will. Though I came as close, this evening, as I ever hope to come."

I agreed with Emerson in opposing corporal punishment, though not for the same reasons; his were ethical and idealistic, mine were purely practical. A spanking would have hurt me more than it hurt Ramses, for he had extremely sharp, hard bones, and a high tolerance for pain.

I sympathized with my poor Emerson. He had had a bad day altogether, and the sight of my brother James, even more appallingly rotund in full evening kit, did not improve his temper. James seemed anxious to please; he laughed immoderately at Emerson's remarks, even those that were not meant to be humorous, and paid me extravagant compliments on my gown, my general appearance, and my qualities as a mother. As the dinner progressed, I began to get some inkling of his real purpose, but the idea seemed so incredible I could hardly credit it.

Not until after the meal did he get to the point. He kept waiting for the ladies to retire, and finally Evelyn felt obliged to explain. "Amelia believes, dear Mr. Peabody, that the custom is outmoded and insulting to the female sex."

"Insulting?" James stared at me.

"Ordinarily the gentlemen save the intelligent conversation—if they are capable of it at all—until the time for port and cigars," I said. "I like a drop of port myself, I am agreeable to intelligent conversation, and I have no objection to the aroma of a good cigar."

"Oh," said James, looking dazed.

"We generally discuss Egyptological matters," I continued. "If you find the subject tedious, James,
you
may retire to the drawing room."

Evelyn looked as if she thought I had gone a bit too far, but James decided to take it as a joke—which it was not. With a loud guffaw, he leaned across the table and patted my hand. "Dear Amelia. You haven't changed since you were a little girl. Do you remember the time ..."

There he stuck, probably because he could not recall any fond memories of our childhood. I certainly had none that included him. Abandoning this approach, he tried another. "Papa always said you had the best head of the lot," he said. "And he was correct. (Pass the port, please, Walter my boy.) How very well you have done for yourself, eh?"

"I have an excellent solicitor to advise me on my investments," I replied sedately.

Emerson had been studying him with the faint distaste of an anatomist confronting a new and unsavory organ; now he shrugged and, turning to Walter, continued a discussion on the Berlin Dictionary that had
begun earlier. This suited James; he addressed me in a confidential tone, as he continued to help himself to port.

"I only wish I had your good sense, li'l sister. Not that it was m' fault. No. Not my fault that the cursed ships were cursed unseaworthy. Too many cargoes lost ..."

"Are you trying to tell me you are in financial difficulty, James?" I inquired. "For if you are hoping for money, you won't get it."

"No, no. No. Not to say difficulty. I can recoup." He laid one fat finger beside his nose and winked. "Secret. Great prospects. Only thing is ..."

"No, James. Not a penny."

James blinked. "Don' wan' money," he said in a hurt voice. "Wouldn't take it 'f you offered. Want your loving mother's heart for poor unfor-t'nate childr'n ..."

"Whose?" I inquired curiously.

"Mine. Who else's would I be asking for?"

"No one's, James. The very idea of your demonstrating disinterested compassion boggles my imagination. But why do yours need mothering? You have a wife, I believe? At least you had one . . . What have you done with—with ..."

I could not remember her name, and at first I thought James couldn't recall it either. She was the sort of woman one yearns to forget—heavy-set and doughy-faced, with a mind as narrow and inflexible as her lipless mouth.

“Lizabeth," James said. "Yes, that's the name. Poor 'Lizabeth. She suffers from a nervous complaint. Doctor's prescribed . . . course of treatment—the waters—that sort of thing. Needs complete quiet, rest, change. No kiddies. As for me, I'm off for the East. India. That private matter I spoke about. I'll come back a rich man, mark my words! So you see, dear sister, why I throw myself 'pon your mercy—not for me, but for my poor orphaned children. Will you watch over them, Amelia? Just for the summer. I'll be home in three months, and Emily—er— Elizabeth—should be back before then. Six weeks, the doctor said. Will you, Amelia? For—for old times' sake?"

"Really, James, what an extraordinary request," I exclaimed. "What about their educations? I assume Percy is attending a boarding school

"Tutor," said James. "No school for Percy. Won't hurt him to do without lessons for a while. I don't hold with all this education. My son's going to be a gentleman, by Gad. A gentleman don't need to be educated."

Emerson chuckled. "He's right about that, at any rate."

Evelyn had already been won over. She is a dear girl, and the best friend I have in all the world, but the hopeless sweetness of her nature makes her susceptible to any smooth-talking rascal; and when the appeal concerns children, on whom she dotes (her fondness for Ramses being sufficient indication of her absence of discrimination in this area), she is hopelessly uncritical. Tears glistened in her eyes; clasping her hands, she exclaimed, "Oh, Amelia, of course you will say yes. How could you not? The poor, dear children . ..."