With Mama at my side, I lead the two men into the Library. Gesturing for them to enter, I watch as they wander through the Small Library, past the pillars, and into the Library proper. The men offer compliments on the sumptuous beauty of the two rooms, and Mr. Lufti adds, “I have a library in my home in Cairo, but it is nothing next to this.”
They pause to examine the spines of several leather-bound volumes, and Mr. Zaghloul asks, “Do you have a favorite, Lady Carnarvon?”
I know which book Mama is going to choose. The volume isn’t preferred by her. In fact, I doubt she’s even read it. But it is the most prestigious book in the entire collection, and prominence is alwaysmost critical to her. “I would have to pick the oldest book here. A copy ofComedia Cassariaby Italian poet Ludovico Ariosto, which bears the date of 1538. It is a masterful work of poetry. In fact, it served as inspiration for Shakespeare’sThe Taming of the Shrew,” she proclaims.
“Ah, my wife adores poetry, although I do not think she would be familiar with this Ariosto. Her taste tends toward our Egyptian poet Ahmed Shawqi, who recently returned to Egypt after a long period of forced exile in Spain,” Zaghloul says. His voice is calm and even—almost matter-of-fact—but I can see an invitation in his words. Do we dare discuss his own exile in Malta? Can we talk about the topics about which Ahmed Shawqi writes—freedom for Egypt?
By design or out of ignorance, Mama does not accept either invitation. Instead, she says, “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of meeting your wife, Mr. Zaghloul. She sounds like a delightful person.”
“That she is, Lady Carnarvon, and a strong one. She led the Wafd call for independence during my exile. It was an unprecedented act for an Egyptian woman.”
Even though I’ve heard rumors about Mr. Zaghloul’s wife, I’m shocked to hear him call her a leader of the revolution. How should I reply? Papa had warned us to not step into this international minefield, and to avoid discussion of politics and archaeology if at all possible. The question of who should own Egypt’s past has started to become a rallying cry for the nationalists, as Uncle Aubrey had predicted. So neither of us speak.
“What about you, Lady Evelyn?” Mr. Zaghloul asks, when none of us engage. “Do you have a favorite work in this great Library?”
“Without question, the section on ancient Egyptian history,” I answer without thinking, and then worry about my answer. Still, I cannot withdraw it now, so I guide the men to the shelves in question. “My father, of course, has a great love for your country’s past, and consequently acquired these volumes. I have spent many happy hours here in the company of your forebears, leaving me with a great respect for your history and accomplishments.”
Mr. Lufti nods, and bestows a pleasant smile upon me, as one might a child. Or a dilettante. “How lovely.”
I mean to show them I’m in earnest, by referencing my favoritehistorical figure. “I am particularly drawn to the New Kingdom. The reign of Pharaoh Hatshepsut presents so many intriguing mysteries and timely questions, don’t you think?”
The smile fades from Mr. Lufti’s face, and suddenly he and Mr. Zaghloul are staring at me. As if they are seeing me anew.
“You know about Hatshepsut?” Mr. Lufti queries, almost in disbelief. “She is not one of our better-known pharaohs. In fact, her reign had almost been lost, until hieroglyphics were decoded and the remaining references to her translated.”
“I am a student of the great Hatshepsut,” I answer. “The mystery of the attempts to erase her from the historical record preoccupies me—here and in Egypt. I hope to find answers one day.”
The men nod at me appreciatively, and Mr. Zaghloul compliments me by saying, “Perhaps Hatshepsut has been waiting all these thousands of years for you to come along and help solve her riddle, which she holds close like a very real sphinx. But if that is indeed the case, please remember that each society forms its own version of the past. And Hatshepsut’s past belongs to Egypt. Hers is our story to tell.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
NOVEMBER 11, 1920
LONDON,ENGLAND
The Armistice Day service has rendered the Red Room in the exclusive Seamore Place mansion absolutely quiet. The entire house used to reverberate with music and witty, cultured conversation when it still belonged to the man we called Godfather, because the official relationship of Alfred de Rothschild and my mother was that of godfather and goddaughter. When Godfather died two years ago, all this became Mama’s, and Papa immediately sold off our London town house. Now, when we are in London, we stay in this ornate monument to antique French furniture and art, which we only occasionally visited during my childhood and then only in our finest clothes and on our best behavior.
Not even Mama’s delicate sipping of tea from a Sèvres porcelain cup or Porchey’s guzzle of whiskey from a crystal tumbler seem to make a sound in this lavish space on this somber day. After the thunder of hundreds of soldiers marching in unison and the clop of countless horses’ hooves, the silence carries its own deafening roar.
The morning had been long and cold and sad. On this second Armistice Day, the Cenotaph was unveiled by King George V, as the carriage carrying the coffin of the unknown soldier proceeded through the crowd-lined streets of London. The coffin was then borne aloft by pallbearers into Westminster Abbey, where my family and a thousand other mourners observed from the pews, sang psalms, and prayed. The unknown soldier was then laid to rest in the west end of the naveunder a slab of black Belgian marble, in a service that will be emblazoned in my mind forever.
Who will be the first to speak?I wonder as I stare around this mournful room. Even though the gilt- and mural-covered ceilings of the Red Room soar to nearly twenty feet and the room could easily hold two Highclere dining rooms, the crimson-hued formal parlor feels crowded. Between our immediate family, Papa’s stepmother, who Porchey and I call Grandmama Elsie; and his half brothers, Aubrey and Mervyn; and their families, every seat is taken. In our mourning attire, we look like blackened smudges of soot against the bloodred silk walls and sofas. It is fitting.
With his cane, Papa pushes himself to standing and begins to pace the room. After a minute or two, he settles at an ornate eighteenth-century French desk. A clicking noise breaks the silence, and Mama swivels around to stare at Papa. He is opening and closing the tiny door of the gold chinoiserie nécessaire on top of Godfather’s desk, an ornate item decorated with sprays of ruby and diamond flowers, emerald foliage, and diamond pagodas. During my infrequent youthful visits here, I’d always been fascinated by the gem-encrusted case, which held various miniature gold implements such as an inkwell, a perfume bottle, and a powder box.
“Will you stop fiddling with that, Porchey? It was made over a hundred years ago and is quite delicate,” Mama scolds.
My brother looks up at Mama. “But I’m not doing anything.” His voice is petulant, and for a moment, I’m brought back to the unfortunate childhood quarrels between them in the nursery. Nanny Moss always tried to prevent them before they erupted, but Mama and Porchey’s characters were too volatile and too similar. I learned from their bickering, and in my parents’ company, I stay small and quiet. Until I can no longer.
“I’m not talking to you,” Mama snaps. “I’m speaking to your father.”
Papa glances over at my mother. “I’m only looking inside, Almina. My God, there are a load of gemstones on this thing. Wonder what it’s worth?”
Everyone stares at Papa. No one ever talks about money.
“That’s shockingly crass, Porchey.” Mama says what we are all thinking. “Especially on such a day as this.”
My father rises from the desk, and says, “Anyone fancy a spot of billiards before luncheon?”
