All at once, a muster of British soldiers appears on the edge of the pit, with Papa at the center. He stares down at us. “Ah, just the two I was looking for. These fine gents are increasing their patrols in Luxor and in the Valley of the Kings because they’ve heard rumors of another insurgency. They’d like to get a peek at what we are doing out here. Lay of the land and all that.”
Once I get over my agitation that another uprising might be on the horizon, I scan the row of soldiers, unconsciously searching forLieutenant Beauchamp. It’s silly, I know, to be hoping for his unexpected arrival here in Luxor. He waited a long time to return home to England, and from the three letters I received since his departure, it sounds as though he’s settled back into English life. He’s even considering a run as the National Liberal candidate for the Lowestoft division of Suffolk, where his father recently served as MP. He couldn’t possibly be among these men.
What was it about Lieutenant Beauchamp that I found so compelling anyway? We have only ever met twice, and in many respects, he is just like every other officer I’ve met in England and Egypt. Yet, in our two brief conversations, I sensed a kindred spirit of sorts and an openness I hadn’t otherwise encountered.
I asked myself this question over and over when I caught myself daydreaming about him during the long days at the site. Archaeology requires extensive periods of patient waiting, easily filled by replaying those short encounters. I hadn’t found an answer to this question, and yet I found myself thinking about his bright eyes; warm, engaging smile; and his insightful comments.
“Carter,” Papa calls down, “would you mind giving these men a tour of the site? The captain and I have a few important items to discuss.”
What must Papa review with the captain? My heart sinks at the thought of military matters cropping up again. We’ve heard that Mr. Zaghloul will be returning to Egypt soon, but without a finalized treaty with England. Will there be another wave of demonstrations? Is that what the army is preparing for? While I am sympathetic to the Egyptian people’s desire for independence, I hope it doesn’t precipitate another urgent departure. We’ve only just begun here.
“Certainly, Lord C.,” he yells up. Then he turns to me with an apologetic gaze and says, “I’m sorry, Eve. The decision about where to dig may have to wait until tomorrow.”
“Understood, Howard.” I give him a smile of understanding. “We both answer to the same taskmaster.”
As I climb toward the surface, I realize that, for the first time since we arrived in Luxor, I will have the day to myself. Suddenly, I know what I will do. It is the one thing Papa wouldn’t like.
Chapter Thirty
MARCH 18, 1921
LUXOR,EGYPT
I wait until I’ve passed through the Valley of the Kings. Once I’m certain Papa and Howard are out of sight, I instruct the man leading my donkey. “Don’t go directly to the dock. Please turn toward the temple.”
He turns back toward me. “Are you sure, mademoiselle?”
“Quite. We will be making a stop before we take the Nile barge back to the Winter Palace.”
Our donkeys approach Hatshepsut’s temple. Although I see the astounding structure every day as we travel from the Nile to the Valley of the Kings—and I’ve toured it before—it never fails to inspire awe.
“Can we pause for a moment?” I call up to my guide.
He glances back at me again strangely, but does as I ask. For a long moment, I observe the enormous elevated, colonnaded terraces cut into the cliff so that they make one uniform, monochromatic compound. Might Hatshepsut have stopped in this same place and gazed upon her creation?
At my signal, we resume our progress. As we draw closer to the temple proper, I see groups of workers near colossal statues that must be ten feet high. The statues are in varying states of disrepair—some almost completely reconstructed from disparate stone chunks and some still a heap of rubble. One fully reassembled figure had already been put in its original place at one corner of the lower terrace. How magnificent the temple appears with its adornments restored.
Several of the workmen stare at me, and I notice they have many more children at the site than we do at ours. Like thereisand workers at our site, I suppose they may find it odd to see a woman at an excavation site, and an English one at that. My mother and I are the only two I’ve ever seen in the Valley of the Kings, apart from the tourists. But, though they may gawk, not one of the men stops working.
I begin to wonder about the wisdom of this impromptu visit when a dapper gentleman in European garb carrying armfuls of photographic equipment approaches. “May I help you?”
“I hope I haven’t disturbed your work. I’m Lady Evelyn Herbert and I’ve come from”—I point behind the temple—“the Valley of the Kings where I’ve been working with my father, Lord Carnarvon, and Mr. Howard Carter.”
“Ah, right, I believe we met last year when you visited with your father,” the man says, “and Mr. Carter, of course. I enjoyed hearing about the early years of excavation here at the temple he undertook. We are indebted to the work he did here starting the reassembly of the structure—and his fine drawings. I am Harry Burton, the Metropolitan Museum photographer.”
The face of the esteemed photographer is suddenly familiar from that tour. Mr. Burton had accompanied us along with Mr. Winlock, the Metropolitan Museum of Art director of this site. I’d been struck by the atmospheric beauty of the images he shared with us afterward.
“My apologies, Mr. Burton, for not recognizing you straightaway. Your photographs are so memorable. The way you capture not only the clarity of objects and interiors but the sensation of timelessness and wonder. One could almost imagine being back in Hatshepsut’s day when studying your images.”
“You flatter me, Lady Evelyn.” His cheeks seem redder, but perhaps it is simply the heat of the day. “Where are my manners? How can I be of assistance? And can I get you some tea? I know the route from the Valley of the Kings to the temple can be dusty and dry.”
“That is very kind of you, but I am fine. I was returning to the Winter Palace earlier than planned today, and I thought I might stop and take a brief look at the work being done at the temple. But I certainly don’t want to be a nuisance.”
“You could never be a nuisance,” he exclaims. “I only apologize that Mr. Winlock isn’t here to show you around personally—”
“Please don’t apologize,” I interject. “I should have made arrangements. I’m certain he’s busy with the undisturbed room he discovered in the tomb of Meketre last season. I understand it was filled with wooden models that tell the story of daily life at his estate.”
I know quite a bit about the tomb of Meketre, who had served as vizier under Pharaoh Mentuhotep II. Papa had railed on and on about Mr. Winlock’s find, the hundreds of miniature mortuary figures, some rowing in boats, others guiding oxen. It had been salt in the wound of our failure to unearth any other objects after the cache of vases last season.
