We join Papa, Mama, and Howard, who are staring at the remains of an obsidian statue mounted on a silk board. It appears to depict a pharaoh—the headdress and uraeus signify that status—but the only part left is the head.
Papa turns and asks us, “What do you make of this?” Our group had a good long chat in the lobby when Lieutenant Beauchamp arrived, so Papa feels free to skip the pleasantries and bark out his question.
“Oh, I wouldn’t venture an uneducated opinion inthiscompany.” Lieutenant Beauchamp smiles and takes a step back.
“It’s lovely in its way, I suppose,” I answer, drawing a bit closer to the plaque. “It says here that this is Amenemhat the Third. Wasn’t he that Middle Kingdom ruler who inherited a prosperous throne from his father, Senusret III?”
Papa claps his hands and exclaims, “Exactly, Eve. He was anunaccomplished pharaoh, so why in the world are people flocking around this scrap of a statue and praising it so excessively? It’s on the cover page of the exhibit catalogue for goodness’ sake.
“I heard someone say, ‘It’s the finest expression of Egyptian statuary art in the world.’ My own red quartzite statue of his father—a far more important pharaoh”—he points to the case housing his treasure—“is more artistic, in any event.”
“As I was just telling Lieutenant Beauchamp, most people have no real understanding of Egypt’s art or its history. So, Papa”—I reach out and squeeze his hand—“I wouldn’t let their fascination with this obsidian statue frustrate you.”
He squeezes back, and says, “You always know what to say, my Evie.” Then his expression darkens again, and he says, “Still, it is irksome that MacGregor is getting so many accolades for this damn obsidian relic when he doesn’t do any of the digging himself.”
Papa’s comment about Reverend William MacGregor, a collector who lent many of the objects here, stops me cold. Has Papa unearthed every object he lent to the Burlington Fine Arts Club? I know he hasn’t. In fact, I recently learned that the red statue of Senusret III Papa just referred to came from the shop owned by Nicholas Tano, an antiquities dealer whose store is opposite Shepheard’s.
Before I can formulate my remark, Mama pulls Papa away to speak with one of their friends, a conversation into which Howard is swept, leaving Lieutenant Beauchamp and me free to wander the room. As we pass by display cases, I point out the painted bowls; stone chalices; gold, turquoise, and carnelian jewelry; faience animals and cartouches; toiletry sets; ushabti; an intact gaming board; and bronze and gold statues that Papa loaned. When Lieutenant Beauchamp asks about how archaeologists have managed to retrieve so many decorative objects, I explain, “We have so many because the ancient Egyptians believed that, in order to have their belongings in the afterlife, they needed to be buried with them or their facsimiles.”
Lieutenant Beauchamp halts. “So all of these items came from tombs?”
“For the most part,” I answer slowly. Had he not realized that before this moment? “Does that sound horribly macabre to you? I suppose I’m used to it.”
“No,” he says, with a shake of his head. “It just puts all this in context, I suppose.”
I realize that we have stopped next to a pedestal with a very familiar vase on top. “Oh my!” I exclaim in surprise, my hand flying to my mouth for speaking so loudly in this hushed space.
“What is it?” Lieutenant Beauchamp asks.
“I excavated this vase myself. I dug it out of the Egyptian soil with my own hands.”
“This very vase?” His eyes are wide with astonishment.
“Yes, last season. It was part of a set of thirteen. I had no idea that Papa thought it worthy of lending for this exhibit. He must have wanted to surprise me.” I am irrationally proud, as if I’ve carved this vase myself. For all his dithering about how unsuccessful our last two excavation seasons have been, we did indeed uncover some prizes last year. “It has elegant proportions, but these handles—unique to the Pharaoh Merneptah—make it quite distinctive and artistically important.”
“What are those animals on the handles?”
“They are ibexes, a type of goat that climbs among the rocky hills and the Egyptians associated them with renewal,” I say, then point out the markings on the vase surface. “And this is Merneptah’s cartouche. It would have originally been painted blue—most of the objects in the room, in fact, would have been. We would have been standing amidst a riot of color.”
Lieutenant Beauchamp’s gaze is now on me rather than the vase. “You are a wonder, Lady Evelyn. Even though I spent significant time in Egypt, I feel as though I’ve never been there at all. It all looks so different through your eyes.”
I feel my cheeks warm at the compliment. The intensity of his gaze unsettles me, and I avert my eyes, back to the vase. “I am delighted that you find my commentary interesting. A lot of people might find it horribly dull.”
“Interesting? That’s too small a word. I find it revelatory.”
“You are are too kind, Lieutenant Beauchamp.” I circle the vase, keeping my eyes fixed on it.
“Not in the slightest. Do you know what this means?”
His remark piques my curiosity, and without thinking, I look up at him. “No.”
“We must go to Egypt together.”
Chapter Forty-One
JULY 2, 1921
NEWBURY, ENGLAND
