“Do I ever.” My brother is the first to answer, and my uncles leap to join them.
Their wives wander off to watch, until it is just us three: Mama, me, and Grandmama Elsie. Even though Papa’s relationship with his stepmother has been rocky from time to time, I adore the spunky woman, who speaks her mind but only for the good. During the war, she moved to Egypt and helped organize hospitals and tend injured soldiers on rest there, earning commendations all around.
“Will you keep it all?” Grandmama Elsie gestures around the room, which has porcelain on nearly every antique surface and paintings hung from each inch of the hand-painted red silk wall coverings. In this room alone, paintings by Gainsborough, Boucher, Greuze, Lancret, Reynolds, van Dyke, Rubens, and Watteau hang on the walls.
Mama always remarked that Godfather’s house was so opulent because he and his cousin Ferdinand were in constant competition. But I wonder if he wasn’t motivated to create a lavish barricade to the anti-Semitism he must have encountered in the rarefied company he kept. Not that we ever speak of that.
“I don’t know why not. It reminds me of my father,” Mama says offhandedly. “He loved beautiful women and all things French. He never did understand Porchey’s love of ancient Egypt.”
“Speaking of Egypt, will you return this year?” Grandmama Elsie asks my mother, but her eyes are on me. She knows my desires. “You had quite the scare last season. I cannot imagine being in Egypt when the riots erupted.”
“We were lucky to get out when we did. I understand the situation has calmed down considerably. Zaghloul and Milner’s negotiations are ongoing, so the Egyptian citizens are calm. So calm, in fact, that the Jockey Club opened its doors again and races are back on. Porchey is thrilled about that, of course.”
“What about you, Eve?” Grandmama Elsie turns to me. “Will you be going back to Egypt?”
The topic of my return has been avoided for nearly a month, ever since Mr. Carter left to get the site organized in advance of my father’s arrival. Each time I attempt to raise it, Mama leaves the room or launches into another, seemingly urgent subject.
“I am hoping—” I begin to say.
Mama interrupts. “Eve will be staying here. She needs to participate in the full Season. The social scene in Cairo was hardly on par with London, and neither were the young men.”
Not exactly true, I think. There was that one young soldier who spoke to me in Shepheard’s our last night in Cairo. But I haven’t laid eyes on him again. And I don’t even know his name.
But that is neither here nor there in this discussion. I must forestall forming an attachment to any gentleman. Because romantic relationships and archaeology do not mix.
“Mama, I will remind you of your promise that I could return for this year’s digging season.” I force my voice to stay strong and even.
Her expression hardens, as does her tone. Strange how someone so petite and lovely can transform. “And I will remind you that was your father’s promise,notmine. My guidance trumps in this realm, and you will stay in London.”
The years of carefully arranging my words and behavior to please her melt away. The anger that has been simmering beneath the surface for as long as I can recall rises up, becoming fury.
“How can you not understand that ancient Egypt and excavations are my passion? Have you not seen that in evidence since I was young?” Raising my voice, I say, “You of all people, who found your own calling during the war in building hospitals and caring for the injured soldiers. I would think you’d understand.”
Grandmama Elsie gives me a small smile of encouragement. I know she comprehends. But the battle I must win is with my mother.
“That was different, Eve. That was for the greater good.” She dismisses my plea. Her face takes on a pinched quality, as if she’s swallowedsomething unexpectedly sour. “Excavating three-thousand-year-old tombs is folly. Yourpassion, as you call it, must be to find a husband.”
I stand up and take three steps toward her on the sofa. “Hasn’t today taught you anything? Enormous sacrifices have been made to change our world, and yet you want me to return to the stifling roles of the past, roles which you yourself have rejected. Why don’t you want for me the same life of purpose you once claimed for yourself?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
FEBRUARY 2, 1921
CAIRO,EGYPT
I step out of the Shepheard’s lobby and into the Egyptian sunshine, following in my parents’ wake. No long sojourn in Cairo to sample their social season is required of me this time; Mama didn’t even suggest it. Instead we will be heading directly to Luxor. Papa is thrilled with this itinerary, but Mama is barely speaking to me. In fact, she’s only spoken to me when absolutely necessary since our argument on Armistice Day. I won the battle to come to Egypt, but at what cost?
As Papa tussles with the manager over our bill and Mama confers with the porter about our trunks, I take a last look at Cairo. In between the wicker tables and chairs on the terrace of Shepheard’s, I can see the bustle of cars and buggies as well as the jostle of crowds along Ibrahim Pasha Street. Amidst the throngs, I spot a young European-looking girl with braids and a pinafore skipping along with an Egyptian girl wearing aseblehbut not a headscarf.
What a curious pair, I think. To see the girls more clearly, I step around one of Shepheard’s ubiquitous enormous ferns—and bash directly into a khaki-uniformed officer coming the other direction.
“Pardon me. So sorry, sir,” I say without looking up.
“Please don’t apologize, and please don’t call me sir. I’m not so old just yet.” The soldier chuckles.
I glance at his face. It’s the officer from the Residency ball. And I see a glimmer of recognition in his dark eyes.
Our gaze meets, and at the same time, we exclaim, “You!”
