The men and I exchange introductions, as we’d not met on my previous visit to Hatshepsut’s temple. Then Mr. Burton blurts out, “You’ll never believe what Lady Evelyn just discovered.” I can see that he’s eager to describe my discovery of Hatshepsut in one of the statues that their team is reassembling.
The bespectacled Mr. Hauser asks, “Have you found some artifacts you’d like to offer? Mr. Carter brought by a lovely early Eighteenth Dynasty toiletry set to us the other day. It had the usual bronze mirror, razor, and tweezers, but it also contained a most ingenious kohl tube and applicator with a wire loop and bolt to hold the lid.”
I am perplexed by his query. Why would Howard be selling anything to anyone?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
At the same time Mr. Burton barks out, “What sort of question is that to ask Lady Evelyn?”
Mr. Hauser stares at me and Mr. Burton quizzically. “I just assumed that Lady Evelyn had ‘discovered’ some object we might be interested in. Why wouldn’t she be engaged in the same business as her family—antiquities dealing?”
Chapter Thirty-One
MARCH 18, 1921
LUXOR,EGYPT
I return to the Winter Palace with far more than I bargained for. My trip to Hatshepsut’s temple had indeed yielded the tour I’d sought. But I also came away with a sense of unease and confusion, which is far less welcome.
What on earth had Mr. Hauser meant by the family business ofantiquities dealing? This question haunted me during the barge trip across the Nile, and it continues to haunt me now over dinner with my parents and Howard.
I know that Papa has acquired a wealth of ancient Egyptian artifacts over the years. In fact, I’ve heard it described as the best private collection in the world. Elegant necklaces and bracelets from Queen Tiye’s tomb. A striking electrum statue. A faience chalice and accompanying pieces. A four-thousand-year-old bronze mirror. Alabaster vases and stone animals. A gold statue of the god Amun.
Growing up, I’d always assumed that the bulk of his objects originated from his own excavations. Certainly the items from Queen Tiye’s tomb had, as had the alabaster vases with the ibex handles from last year’s dig. But as I’d helped my father catalogue his artifacts this past year—with a greater understanding of the breadth and nature of his past excavations—I realized not every object came from one of his digs and I began to wonder. Had Howard procured those other artifacts for him? Where had he gotten them? Was he allowed to do so?
Even if Howard had legitimately arranged for some of Papa’s prizes, why would he be sourcing antiquities for anyone other than his patron? And why would the Metropolitan Museum archaeologists think my father was engaged in such activities? Is it because they assume Howard wouldn’t act without Papa’s say-so? I think back to Mr. Carter’s comments over the years about the market for ancient Egyptian objects, and my head spins. My thoughts are in a muddle, and I realize how little I know.
“Cat got your tongue, Eve?” Papa asks with a gleam in his eye. He’s been in high spirits ever since his meeting with the soldiers today, and I wonder what’s happened to change his mood. Since we arrived in Egypt, he’s been irascible, and even the thrill of the chase for a Valley of the Kings tomb hasn’t alleviated that mood. Until now.
“Oh, Porchey, you know how I hate when you use slang,” Mama says, sipping her drink.
“No, Papa, just thinking about the site,” I answer, ignoring Mama. This is true. The siteispart and parcel of my musings. I’ve been thoughtful since returning from the temple, smoothing my scarab on my lap. As if it could grant me insights.
“I promise we’ll get to digging tomorrow, Lady Evelyn,” Howard adds, using my formal name in the presence of my parents.
“I would like that. There was a ridge that looks promising,” I say.
Howard’s usually impassive expression grows a bit more animated. “I noticed it as well. Could be a step or a threshold.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I blurt out, delighted that my intuition was the same as his.
Nodding, he answers me, but I cannot hear what he’s saying. The band is playing a tune, and a swell of violins and horns fills the soaring two-story space. The singer belts out lyrics from “Avalon”:
And as the night is falling
I find that I’m recalling
That blissful all-enthralling day…
The singer is no Al Jolson—no one could croon “Avalon” as well—but he sings with feeling. Without thinking, I begin to tap my foot out of habit. Not because the music moves me, but because my mind still churns with the words of Mr. Hauser. My mother perceives it otherwise.
“Howard, why don’t you and Eve take a turn around the dance floor?” Mama orders rather than asks.
“Oh. I couldn’t, ma’am.” Howard begs off.
Mama retorts. “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
Howard can hardly refuse now, and neither can I. Awkward in a dress suit, he stands, adjusts his jacket, and finally offers his hand to me. We step out onto the ballroom floor, sparsely populated with couples doing the one-step, which naturally makes me think of Lieutenant Beauchamp. Will I ever get the chance to one-step with him?
