“Like?” I glance at him, observing sweat starting to drip down his face now.
“Like, where we will dig next? I feel certain that your father will be so delighted to see your face emerging from this chamber that he’ll grant you any wish. Do you have another site in mind?”
Howard knows how to distract me. “Well, you and I had considered that expanse on the periphery of the Valley of the Kings, closest to Hatshepsut’s temple.”
In hushed tones, we debate the merits of one site over another. As the heat mounts, however, even this topic cannot divert my focus from the crisis at hand. When the smell of sulfur begins to waft through the stagnant air from some ancient source recently disturbed, Howard tries to dismiss my mounting concerns. But I can see that even the stalwart Howard Carter is worried.
Has an hour gone by? Perhaps two? Longer? The passage of time has become hazy in the chamber. Too anxious to sit any longer, I push myself to standing and pace around the small rectangular space. “I only wish we’d found something in here to make it worth the risk. And worth dedicating an entire season to it.”
“Never lament your efforts, Eve. It is only by failing that we will ultimately succeed. We will uncover Hatshepsut. She is waiting to be found.”
“I’d been so hopeful that this chamber would contain the tomb made for her once she became regent—or even pharaoh.”
“Me too. But we are close. She is somewhere nearby in the valley; I can feel it.”
The metallic clank of stone on stone sounds out. At first, we think more debris has fallen from the ceiling, and we crouch down, our hands held protectively over our heads. But then, we hear a whoosh, and a pile of rocks dislodges from the corner of the rubble pile andtumbles in our direction. A hint of daylight streams through the hole formed in the detritus blocking the entrance, and the top of a white turban peeks through.
It is Ahmed Gerigar, one of Howard’s foremen, come to save us.
Chapter Thirty-Three
APRIL 8, 1921
PORTSAID,EGYPT
The surge of women presses against our vehicle from all sides. We have come to a complete stop at this intersection of city streets, and Mama’s terror is mounting. I’d thought we’d reached our lowest point last week when our season’s excavation efforts came up empty-handed and Howard and I were trapped in an empty, ancient chamber for the better part of a day. How wrong I’d been.
“Porchey,” Mama screeches, “tell the driver to take another route.”
“There is no other route, Almina,” Papa insists, in an alarmed tone himself. “We cannot move. Can’t you see that?”
Even Howard, usually the essence of calm, sounds concerned. “Every other way to the port is blocked, Lady Carnarvon.”
“Thisway is blocked.” Mama is now shouting. “We will never make it to the ship on time if we stay here. And if we don’t board theSaturnia, who knows when another ship will be allowed to leave the Port Said harbor?”
The country has again erupted in riots and strikes, because England has not agreed to the sought-after terms for independence, but insists on continuing the protectorate. The protests have been organized by none other than Mr. Zaghloul’s wife, Safiya. This former daughter of a prime minister had indeed followed the traditional path of purdah until her husband’s exile, when everything changed and she assumed his mantle and organized the efforts of the Wafd. Her special talent is mobilizingallthe Egyptian women—Copts and Muslims, pashaand worker class,well educated and illiterate—behind the cause of freedom, an unprecedented event in Egyptian society. Even with Mr. Zaghloul back in Egypt again, she continues to lead protests.
Today, we are captive to the women she’s marshaled on the Port Said streets. Thousands of her followers—from all walks of Egyptians life—march at her urging, including women who, until recently, were in purdah. If I was not so terrified, I would be impressed by her efforts.
“There’s only one way out of this if we are going to make the ship,” I proclaim.
“What’s that?” Papa asks.
“We’ve got to walk the rest of the way to the dock,” I say, ignoring my mother’s immediate protests and trying not to think of my father’s limp. “It’s less than a mile.”
“Have you lost your mind, Eve? We won’t survive that mile,” Mama insists. “We’ll be attacked by this mob that so desperately hates the English.”
“Mama, as I’m certain you’ve noticed, this isn’t a violent mob. And, even if it did turn angry, that ire won’t be directed at us if we blend in,” I force myself to sound more confident than I actually feel amidst this crush of people, and reach into my hand luggage to pull out two shawls. “Here, put this over your head and wrap it around your mouth. The four of us will walk in a line, with you at the back and me at the front. We will shield Papa and Mr. Carter.”
“I will do no such thing,” Papa snaps at me. “How could you think I’d ever submit to the ungentlemanly act of allowing my wife and daughter to protect me in a riot?”
“Would you prefer to remain here, Papa? If I recall correctly from the newspaper reports, there were people stuck in their vehicles and carriages for a day and a half during the last strike. You’ll certainly miss theSaturniain that case.” I meet his gaze, daring him to challenge the validity of my plan.
Howard intercedes. “Lord C., I hate this unchivalrous scheme as much as you do, but I think Lady Evelyn is right. It’s the only way out of the mob and onto the ship.”
“You’d think hosting Zaghloul at Highclere would give us somekind of immunity here,” Papa grumbles, but I see that he’s packing up his small bag and slinging it on his shoulder. He has agreed, even though he’ll never say so aloud.
“What about our trunks?” Mama asks, always one to worry about the frivolous and unnecessary. Even in a crisis. “We can’t leave them behind.”
