“Hmmm,” he says offhandedly and reclines back on the pillows. I see that he’s still lamenting the fact that he cannot tutor Neferure anymore. I know her progress is slower than it was under him, and that failing riles him. Never mind all he’s done to memorialize the Thutmoside line, which will benefit her in numerous, immeasurable ways in the future, he stews over his perceived shortcomings with Neferure.
“And don’t forget that you are overseeing the education of Thutmose the Third. I would trust no one but you to ensure that he has proper academic instruction as well as military training, when the time is right.”
He doesn’t speak, and I can see he’s weighing and balancing all these accomplishments against the sacrifice of his time with Neferure. His expression is inscrutable, and I know I must raise the one topic I’ve long avoided.
I lie back next to him, and say, “Senenmut, have you thought that perhaps it’s time to take a wife? And perhaps have a child of your own?”
He turns to me with an expression of such dismay and disdain, that I blather on. “Neferure will always be like your own daughter, of course, it’s just—”
“How can you even suggest such a thing, Hatshepsut?” He interrupts me. “Do you doubt my love for you? My love for Neferure?”
“Never!” I exclaim, clasping his hands in mine. “It’s just that you know I can never marry again. And, even if I could, I cannot have any more children. It isn’t fair of me to deprive you of a legacy that will preserve your memory for all eternity, especially when Neferure will soon have even less time with us as a family. She’ll begin her trainingto become the God’s Wife of Amun sometime in the next year or two, and a year or two after that, she’ll wed Thutmose the Third,” I say, feeling a wave of melancholy myself at the thought of Neferure waking long before dawn every morning and performing the laborious rituals necessary to start the day. The decision to have her become the next God’s Wife of Amun was not easy, but I know it is the only way she’ll have her own source of power outside marriage.
Senenmut sits up, and pulls me up alongside him. Placing his wide, strong hands on my cheeks, he says, “For all intents and purposes, you are my wife, and Neferure is my daughter. You are the only family I will ever want or need.”
Eve
Chapter Forty
JUNE 8, 1921
LONDON, ENGLAND
“The suspense is overwhelming, Lady Evelyn,” Lieutenant Beauchamp exclaims, his eyes wide and his smile encouraging. “How did you escape from the dangerous chamber?”
I suddenly hesitate. I’d been detailing the thrill of discovering an ancient underground room and juxtaposing that elation with the terrifying moment of the chamber’s collapse, but now I waver. Does it denigrate Ahmed’s courage to dramatize the moment of our rescue in my retelling to Lieutenant Beauchamp?No, I think.Ahmed played a heroic role in the story, and it deserves to be emphasized.Too often, I’ve noticed, Papa and Howard and I write out the crucial roles our Egyptian counterparts play.
Anyway, how can I resist Lieutenant Beauchamp’s expression? I can’t help but be tickled at his genuinely alarmed reaction. Obviously, I emerged from the chamber unharmed. I’m here, after all. And he and I have connected at five events since my return—six, if you count today’s outing to the Burlington Fine Arts Club where Papa has lent several pieces for its ancient Egyptian art exhibit. Despite this, Lieutenant Beauchamp’s concern is real, and it pleases and touches me.
“I’m not certain Mr. Carter and I would have made it out of the chamber unscathed without Ahmed Gerigar, one of the foremen. He tunneled through that dangerous barricade of unstable rock and dug a large enough hole for me and Mr. Carter to crawl through. We were unspeakably hot while we waited, of course, but that was the extent of our injuries,” I announce, “thanks to Ahmed.”
“How fortunate for us all,” he says, with a lingering glance. “I am indebted to Ahmed.”
I want Lieutenant Beauchamp to know that wasn’t the end of Ahmed’s selfless bravery. “That wasn’t the only time he saved us. We faced another, very real danger when we tried to get out of Egypt before the nationalists stormed again.” I share the harrowing escape from Port Said.
“I cannot believe that I’ve seen you”—he pauses, counting on his fingers—“a total of six times since you’ve been home, and you’ve never disclosed these perils. A whole day stuck in a blazing hot underground desert room and nearly being attacked by a mob!” he exclaims, incredulous.
“It isn’t exactly the usual dinner party conversation.”
“It’s the sort of thing I hope you feel comfortable discussing with me. I am so very glad you are safe and back in England. Perhaps one day I’ll get the chance to thank this Ahmed,” he says, with eyes so warm and kind, I feel a pang, of what, I’m not quite sure. Has anyone ever looked at me this way?
“That would be wonderful—assuming we can get back into Egypt safely. I feel like the protestors are always nipping at my heels. If only I could get through one archaeological season without—” I stop, suddenly realizing how selfish and petty my words sound.
Why should the quest for independence take any sort of heed to our dig? My wants regardingancientEgypt—even those of Papa and Howard—are minute compared to the larger needs of themodern-dayEgyptian people. Lieutenant Beauchamp seems one of the few people in my circle with any sort of real interest in or sympathy for their cause—save Uncle Aubrey—and I don’t want him to think ill of me. I like him far too much for that.
“Not that I blame the nationalists, mind you,” I add. “Their cause is just, and I understand why they want to represent themselves. Even if that view isn’t very popular among our set.”
“I confess, Lady Evelyn, it’s you that opened my eyes to the Egyptian people and their cause. I hadn’t that same perspective when I served in Egypt and—”
Before Lieutenant Beauchamp can finish, Papa waves us over. We weave through the clusters of people in the gallery, all studying the artifacts. This exhibit of ancient Egyptian art is wildly popular, far exceeding everyone’s expectations, and has attracted a strange blend of collectors, archaeologists, and curiosity seekers.
“The guests seem to be appreciating the pieces.” Lieutenant Beauchamp bends down and whispers to me as we make our way across the room. At six feet and two inches, he towers over me by more than a foot, yet he never makes me feel small.
“That’s a relief.” I turn toward him and whisper back, “Not five years ago, people found ancient Egyptian art primitive. But that’s because they didn’t understand the artistic style and its meaning. They thought that the Egyptian artists’ use of strong, simple lines meant they were incapable of more complex work, which simply isn’t true. Their work is highly stylized for a reason—it’s meant to impart a very specific narrative that people of their time would have comprehended.”
“Do people understand Egyptian art now?”
“I doubt it,” I answer. “But it’s become fashionable, so most people pretend. Just like the spectators here today,” I say with a giggle and a glance around the room, and Lieutenant Beauchamp laughs along.
