“We found Hatshepsut’s earliest tomb. Her original resting place, the one designed for her when she was a very young queen, the Great Royal Wife of Thutmose II, her brother. It might have even been started when she was still a princess.”
“What all did you find?”
“We discovered a stunning crystalline sarcophagus, likely abandoned as Hatshepsut’s position changed and she became more than aroyal wife and queen. The rectangular sarcophagus is in pristine condition, elegantly carved, but empty. It is rather simple in decoration. Aside from an image of the sky goddess Nut and a hieroglyphicudjateye, the sides and top contain only text and a cartouche. But that’s befitting for Hatshepsut’s station at that time.”
Of course I know the artifact he’s describing. The Egyptian government currently has possession of the sarcophagus, but I’ve seen detailed images. Mr. Carter and I have even discussed it several times, as we sought to understand Hatshepsut’s history and locate her resting place.
“I cannot believe that’s how you found the sarcophagus?!” I exclaim.
“Indeed,” he says with that wry smile of his. “But I tell you this story not to boast or brag, Lady Evelyn. I share this tale so you can understand how far I am willing to go in my pursuit of my goals, and that includes finding the tomb of Hatshepsut. She has been with me the entirety of my career—since I was a young English lad hired to sketch her temple—and I have no intention of abandoning the search for her tomb and her mummy. Especially when she is so close, as your own chart”—he points to my worktable—“is showing us.”
“Even if my father has ordered you to look for Tutankhamun?” I ask, smoothing the scarab in my hand, quite without thinking. Then I blurt out, “The most interesting thing about him is that he’s related to Hatshepsut.” The bloodlines of the ancient Egyptian royals are unbelievably complicated—largely because they typically married family members and so many records are lost—but it seems fairly clear that Tutankhamun, who became pharaoh seven reigns after Hatshepsut, shares a familial heritage with her.
“I would never disobey your father’s explicit commands. We will do what your father ordered and search for Tutankhamun. But as we do, we will also hunt for Hatshepsut.”
Chapter Twelve
DECEMBER 24, 1919
HAMPSHIRE,ENGLAND
This is the Christmas I wished for as a child.
The house smells of pine and mulling spices and ginger. The evergreen branches of the twenty-five-foot Christmas tree sparkle with decorations that practically touch the balcony of the Saloon’s second story, and I pause to inhale their fragrance. It’s been a long time since such a tree has graced Highclere’s halls. The war saw to that.
Slowly, relishing every moment of this day, I descend the oak staircase from the second-floor balcony into the Saloon proper, careful not to run my hand along the banister as I usually do. The railing is wrapped round with bunches of variegated and plain holly mixed with winterberries and silk ribbon, and Mama would be furious if I disturbed it before the guests arrive tomorrow for Christmas Day and the shooting party after Christmas. But I do take in the glory of the garland.
I pause at the base of the stairs, gazing at the twinkling magnificence of the Saloon. From the soaring Christmas tree to the abundance of colorful glass ornaments on its branches to the plenty of fir wreaths, some lying flat and glowing with candles, to the sprigs of mistletoe hanging on red silk ribbons on scattershot ceilings, it glimmers. To my surprise, tinsel shimmers between the ornaments, and I wonder where Mama came by it; production of the metallic decoration had halted during the war due to a military demand for copper. Time seems to have rolled back to the days before all the loss and injuries and shortages and fear—or perhaps it’s rolled forward.
Tonight is Christmas Eve, and for the first time ever at Highclere Castle, it will be just us four. Me, Mama, Papa, and Porchey. When we were youths at Highclere—and for me, that includes up to my thirteenth year—Porchey and I spent the entirety of the holiday upstairs in the Nursery on the top floor with Nanny Moss and either nursemaids, in our younger years, or governesses, in the latter ones. The prevailing belief was the children should not be seen or heard, even on Christmas. We would have a simple version of the Christmas Eve feast being served downstairs to my parents and their guests, then Nanny would fill our nursery stockings with the gifts Mama and Papa had selected. On Christmas morning, Porchey and I would spring out of bed early to unwrap them, a delight even though the presents were never what we’d requested. Shortly thereafter, we would dress in our formal Christmas attire, because we never knew when Mama and Papa might make the annual progress up to the third floor to wish us Happy Christmas, before scampering back downstairs for their meal and their guests. Then we would wait for their arrival. Sometimes nearly all day.
Is it any wonder I became fascinated with the very subject that fascinated my father? Although I do indeed adore history and archaeology, it certainly didn’t hurt that it gave Papa and me a unifying passion. This would give him reason to seek me out when he returned to Highclere from his months in Egypt and his shorter jaunts to the Continent with Mama. Sometimes I wonder if my heartfelt obsession with ancient Egypt is the differentiating factor in the kind of relationship I have with him. After all, he and Porchey, who loathes all things dusty and archaic, only seem to share strife and dislike.
The silver beading on my evening gown makes a slithery sound as I leave the Saloon and walk toward the Dining Room. Once inside its yellow silk walls, and under the stern gaze of Anthony van Dyck’s portrait of King Charles I, I greet my parents and Porchey, “Happy Christmas Eve!”
Elegant in their evening wear, Papa and Porchey each return my felicitations and take turns leaning in for a kiss on the cheek, but Mama holds back. What have I done now? Might we not find somecommon ground on Christmas, of all days? A small part of me longs to ask the blunt question, but I’ve spent years watching Porchey’s relationship with her deteriorate bit by bit as he took that confrontational tactic—so I hold back.
“We’ve been waiting, Eve.” She chastises me for being one minute late.
“Apologies, Mama.” I say what I do not feel. “I was organizing my gowns and attire for the next few days of entertaining.”
I offered an excuse of the sort she normally finds palatable, making certain I’ll be presentable for the parade of guests and activities we will have over the next week. But tonight, it seems the holiday spirit of forgiveness eludes her. “I certainly hope this tardiness won’t be in evidence over the next few days.”
“Of course not, Mama. I would never let you down—or Papa’s family or our guests, for that matter,” I assuage her, my eyes downcast in the docile expression she prefers.
I hear Porchey snicker, and I shoot him a look. He knows my obeisance is a charade, but there is no need for him to share that with Mama. It’s a demeanor I had to especially cultivate during the war years, when he was away serving with the Hussars. He has decided to remain in the army for the time being, but that does not seem much of an active commitment, as he’s mostly underfoot. I only hope he hasn’t had too much to drink already, or he may just let my cat out of the bag.
We settle in our seats, and the first course of oyster soup is served. Sipping champagne and the rich, creamy soup in turn, the table is quiet except for compliments about the food. My parents then slip into a discussion about the details of the shooting party, when they’ll set out, what drives they’ll cover, who will be the guns, what is expected in terms of birds and rabbits shot, and what will be served for the shooting lunch picnic.
The conversation continues in this vein as the next course is served, the turbot Dugléré, named after Adolphe Dugléré, who had been chef to the Rothschild family. And it doesn’t stop even when the third course of roast turkey with sage and chestnut stuffing—my personal holiday favorite—is brought to the table.
While our parents debate the perfect time for the shooting luncheon, Porchey knocks back a full glass of champagne and then whispers to me, “You look positively ecstatic about the shoot.”
“My favorite. A whole afternoon of chatter about guns and dead pheasants, and an additional outfit change as well. I can think of nothing better,” I reply.
While I do enjoy tromping about the altered winter landscape, I do not enjoy the shoot itself. Barraging buckshot on innocent pheasants and partridges seems untoward after the war.
“Maybe Papa will allow you to shoot?”
