Chapter Sixteen
FEBRUARY 24, 1920
LUXOR,EGYPT
I cannot tear myself away from the window. The private train car taking us from Cairo to Luxor is as sumptuous as those we’ve used at home, but the view is nothing like the rolling green pastures in England or the blighted countryside in France. As we follow along the Nile, the landscape is verdant and agricultural, dotted with swaying date palms, but just beyond is the ocher desert. This wide, dry expanse calls to me, and I can’t help but think that this alluring land is like the ubiquitous palm trees—its roots south in Aswan, its foliage north at the branching Nile delta, and its date fruit represented by Fayum.
On the crimson velvet banquette across from me, Mama has drifted off. I can see her closed eyes below the celadon wide-brimmed picture hat she’s wearing. The ball at the Residency last evening went quite late and our train departure was very early, so I’m not surprised she succumbed to the unladylike habit of sleeping in public. Not that this train compartment is open to anyone except her, me, and the occasional porter delivering our drinks and meals for this twelve-hour journey. Papa, tired of the Cairo social obligations, left a few days ago.
I’ve kept my end of the bargain over the past few days. I danced with officers and civil servants. I made polite conversation with any number of society matrons and high government officials. I submitted to lectures on gardening and flower arranging with exotic plants. The only bright lights were that conversation with the officer lastnight and the trip to the pyramids. The sight of the great monuments materializing before me, almost shimmering in the haze, took my breath away and reminded me of my purpose in this ancient land.
Now it’s time for Mama to keep her end of the bargain—and Papa as well.
But I have not placed my trust solely in my parents. They disappointed me too often and too mightily over the years. I do, however, have faith in Mr. Carter and the plan we cobbled together in the days before his late-November departure.
The sun has set, and the horizon is unsettlingly dark by the time our train pulls into the Luxor station.This is ancient Thebes, I keep thinking, as the porter loads us and our mountain of trunks into the waiting Renault. After years of longing to visit Egypt, I can hardly believe I am in the religious capital of the New Kingdom, the epicenter of ancient Egypt, the place where Hatshepsut herself lived, prayed, and ruled. I have envisioned her unorthodox rise in power over and over and even committed my musings to paper, but now I see that the world I imagined for Hatshepsut was but a shadow of the real Egypt.
After a brief drive through gaslit streets, the vehicle pulls into the circular drive of the hotel. There, awaiting us with two wide curved staircases that resemble open arms, is the Winter Palace. The grand structure sits on the bank of the Nile, presiding over it like the jewel it proclaims itself to be. Both the Nile and the nearby ancient temples aren’t really visible in the dark, but it is enough that they are so close.
Papa often claims that this hotel is his favorite place in the world outside of Highclere Castle. Certainly, he had been the hotel’s most regular guest before the war. Only in the past few months has it reopened to tourists and regular guests. During the war, it served as a place for injured and recuperating soldiers, much like Highclere.
Mama and I step inside the soaring two-story lobby, and the small, fastidious hotel manager greets us. “Welcome, Lady Carnarvon. It is an honor to welcome you back to the Winter Palace. We have missed you.” His accent is thick and French.
“And I have missed this hotel,” she says, gazing around the elegantly appointed space, with its intricate wrought-iron bannisters, a crystal chandelier rivaling Highclere’s own, and the ubiquitous palmtrees. I can almost hear her assessing whether the hotel is entirely up to snuff, or whether the toll of war is still evident.
“Lord Carnarvon and Mr. Carter are awaiting your arrival in the Royal Bar, ma’am.”
“We may want to freshen up before meeting them,” my mother says, mostly to me.
The manager bows. “As you wish—”
Before he can finish, I interrupt. I see an opportunity. “I am actually quite parched, Mama. Why don’t you stop in the room, and I’ll meet Papa on my own?”
That skeptical eyebrow of hers rises. “Is that quite appropriate?”
The manager reassures Mama. “I will escort her myself, Lady Carnarvon.”
She pauses before nodding, always stingy with her acquiescence. “Before you go, Mr.— What did you say your name was?”
“Monsieur Gavreau, ma’am.”
“Monsieur Gavreau, can you make sure my mail is brought up to the suite immediately? I am expecting quite a few invitations, and I was curious—what night of the week do you hold your dances?”
I cannot believe Mama is asking about the Winter Palace’s weekly balls. The finer hotels customarily hold a ball one night of the week; they did before the war, anyway. This practice has returned in full force in Cairo, as I know from my own rounds, but I’d been hoping Luxor hasn’t quite caught up.
I stop short. Why is she asking this question? I have already kept my social end of the bargain. This is meant to be my time to work with Papa and Mr. Carter. I shouldn’t have to attend the Winter Palace balls, even if the hotel is holding them.
“Lady Carnarvon, I regret to say that our ballroom is still under construction. It had been used as a hospital and surgical theater during the war, and the conversion back is not yet complete.”
I heave a huge sigh of relief. I hadn’t intended it to be audible, but from the glare I receive from Mama, it must have been. I need this exchange to end. “I’ll see you shortly, Mama.”
Monsieur Gavreau takes my cue and leads the way. We cross the lobby, bustling with well-dressed guests speaking French, Italian, andArabic along with English, and step into a red-paneled room with book-lined shelves, upholstered chairs, and a dark wood bar. No wonder Papa likes the Royal Bar; it is evocative of Highclere’s Library.
“Ah.” Papa springs up from his chair to embrace me. “Eve. You’ve finally arrived!”
Mr. Carter rises as well, but bows in greeting instead. “Lady Evelyn, we have been anxiously awaiting you.”
Papa orders me a bee’s knees cocktail, and we settle around a small table. The men are grinning, but strangely, not saying anything. They look like two naughty schoolboys with a secret.
