Free The Deeds of the Disturber by Elizabeth Peters

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 . ..."
    In justice to myself I feel I must explain to the reader why I did not respond with the unhesitating warmth the bonds of blood and familial affection might seem to demand. Blood is one thing; affection is quite another. The first has no claim on me. I have never believed that the accident of birth incurs any obligation on the parties concerned, not even between parent and child once the period of dependency has passed and the adult offspring, having been given every advantage of health and education, is capable of standing on his or her own two feet. Affection, in contrast to blood, must be earned. For those who have my affection I would give my life, my sacred honor, and all my worldly goods—and I take it for granted they would do the same for me.

There had never been any affection between my brothers and myself. They were all older than I, James, the eldest of them, being seven years my senior. The others ignored me altogether, but James was throughout my childhood not my defender and guardian, as sentimental tales suggest, but my tormentor and bete noire. He kidnapped my dolls and held them for ransom, the ransom consisting of the few shillings I collected from relatives on the occasions of birthdays and Christmas. When my pecuniary resources failed, he dismembered and disfigured the hostages. He was always pinching and prodding me in public places; when I protested, I was blamed for creating a disturbance. The happiest day of my youth was the day James was sent away to school.
    In due time my brothers went off to pursue careers and found families, leaving me to care for Papa. Between his vagueness and my brothers' cruelty and indifference, I had learned to have no good opinion of men, so I was deemed a soured spinster, with little hope of an advantageous marriage.
    Revenge is sweet, says an old adage. Revenge is unworthy of a Christian woman, say the Scriptures. In this case the Scriptures err. How I reveled in my dear brothers' fury when it was discovered that Papa had left his entire large fortune to me! James had actually attempted to takethe case to law, claiming I had exercised undue influence on a helpless, aged parent. Thanks to Mr. Fletcher, Papa's excellent man of business—and to my own excellent character—this attempt went for naught, but it can hardly be supposed that it endeared my brother to me. A kind of awkward rapprochement had been patched up; James had attended my nuptials, though his expression, as he beheld the final hope of one day inheriting my money go up in the flames of marital affection, was more suitable for a funeral than a wedding. We had met only once since—at a funeral, appropriately enough—that of my brother Henry, who had succumbed to a digestive disorder. (The rumor whispered about by her loving sisters-in-law that he had been poisoned by his long-suffering wife was probably false,