Free The Deeds of the Disturber by Elizabeth Peters Page A

though I would certainly not have blamed her if she had done it.)
    These poignant memories flashed through my mind in far less time than it takes to write them out, but when I came back to myself I realized that conversation had ceased and that all eyes were upon me, including those of my dear Emerson. Undoubtedly he had heard James's request, but instead of the forceful comment I had expected he remained silent, his expression unusually enigmatic; it gave me no clue as to his feelings.
    James had clasped his fat fingers around the stem of his glass and was leaning forward, elbow planted crudely upon the table. Perspiration streaked his encrimsoned cheeks; his thick lips sagged, conveying not so much the appeal he intended as habitual ill humor. "My dearest, kindest sister," he began.
    I turned from him to Emerson. What a difference—what a heavenly contrast! The firm, well-modeled lips, the lean brown cheeks and piercing blue eyes, the wavy black locks that crowned his head, the jutting chin with its pronounced dimple (or cleft, as Emerson prefers to call it when he refers to it at all, which is not often). A soft yet electrical warmth penetrated my limbs. I repressed it—for the time being.
    "I must consult my husband," I said. "No such decision can be made without his advice and concurrence."
    Emerson's eyes widened, then narrowed with poorly suppressed amusement. "Just what I expected you would say, Peabody. We never act on important matters without consultation—do we?"
    "Certainly not, Emerson. We will let you know our decision after we have discussed the situation, James."
    But James, being a man, had not the sense to leave well enough alone. Lurching sideways in his chair, he spread his hands in appeal— dropping his glass in the process—and addressed Emerson. "Radcliffe —dear brother—glad to see, master in his own house. Fine woman,my sister—bossy, though. You tell her, eh? Tell her . . . woman's duty . . . mother . . . gadding about the world . . . poor children ..."
    "Good Gad," said Emerson. "I really think we must oblige, Peabody, if only for the sake of the unfortunate offspring of this disgusting object. How did you ever come to have such a relative?"
    With the help of two of the stronger footmen, James was persuaded to retire to his bed, all the more readily since he sensed, even in his inebriated condition, that he had won his case. Emerson's argument had a strong effect on me, and Evelyn's pleas could not leave me unmoved, particularly since I feared she might be foolish enough to offer to take the children herself. Walter was the only one who voiced an objection. In his mild, soft voice, he remarked, "Ramses ought to be considered, don't you think? He is not exactly . . . His habits are ... He may not ..."
    "Speak up, Walter, and don't stutter," Emerson replied, frowning. "If you are implying that Ramses is not the most suitable companion for well-behaved children, you have a point. If you are suggesting we invite Ramses' opinion, I beg to inform you that you are out of place. He has been wretchedly indulged."
    With a smile and a shrug, Walter abandoned the argument; but later, when we had retired to our room, I raised it again. "Emerson, I feel I must ask you this. I am willing to take the children, but I cannot understand your willingness to accommodate James. Are you sure you aren't doing this to pay Ramses back for rewriting your book?"
    "I have never heard such an outrageous accusation in my life," Emerson exclaimed. "Pay Ramses back? Can you suppose I would stoop to revenge myself on a little child? My own little child? My sole heir, the prop of my old age, the—"
    "I thought so," I said. "Shall we go and say good night to the boy?"
    "He'll be asleep," Emerson said.
    "No, he won't."
    And of course he was not. The room was dark except for a softly glowing lamp; tender mother that she was, Evelyn believed in night lights for small children, lest they learn to fear the dark. Ramses was not