Before I can ask exactly when he means, he whispers with a vehemence, “Promise me that you’ll back my relationship with Catherine—with Papa and Mama.”
My mind is distracted and my stomach in knots, but my loyalty will always lie with Porchey. “Of course. I promise.”
Chapter Forty-Two
JULY 2, 1921
HAMPSHIRE, ENGLAND
Heat swells in the dining room. Silver tongs clatter on silver trays. Constant conversation buzzes like a bee in my ear. The scents of ladies’ perfumes compete. Knees crowd around the fully extended dining room table. My senses are overwhelmed, and I feel I could scream. The statement Porchey made about the family finances has taken hold of me, body and mind, and I am reeling.
Seemingly unconnected developments from the past few years rise up and knit together. The auction of Highclere artwork through Sotheby’s nearly three years ago. The quick off-loading of our London town house when Mama inherited Godfather’s house at Seamore Place. Uncharacteristic haggling over hotel bills. Strange remarks about the worth of certain objects, such as Godfather’s collectables. Furtive battles between my parents. Even the subtle downsizing of staff, such that we have too many guests and too little help tonight.
What sort of archaeologist could I possibly be if I couldn’t even weave together the obvious clues about my own family’s fortunes to recognize that we are on the financial brink?
A knot forms in my stomach, and I cannot eat another bite of the turbot or pheasant. Even the sight of the expensive Bordeaux and oysters makes my gut roil. How much is this house party costing? Is every sip of wine and every taste of lobster taking away much-needed financial support for Highclere Castle or the excavations?
How will I find Hatshepsut now?
“I say, Eve, can you tell our guests the story of our narrow escape from Egypt?” Papa asks.
Even though this wouldn’t be considered the usual dinnertime topic in many families, Papa loves to trot me out on these occasions. Now that I’ve been working with him in Egypt, it tickles Papa to have his guests react to stories by his proper, diminutive daughter about dangerous, unexpected situations. But I’m not certain I’m in the frame of mind to entertain. So much seems to be at stake, and despair has crept into my spirit. What purpose will my life have if I am robbed of archaeology? Will I be forced to focus on monotonous teas and luncheons and dinners and balls and the constant, attendant dress changes while I hunt for a husband? If I am fortunate enough to even afford such things, that is. Having tasted vibrant, enticing life, how can I go back?
One by one, the eyes of our guests turn to me. The rheumy blue of aging lords, the wary green of social-climbing ladies, the judgmental hazel of Mama, the soft turquoise of Papa and Porchey, and the adoring brown of Lieutenant Beauchamp.
What choice do I have but to perform? Scarab tucked in the palm of my hand, I summon my facade, the one that’s served me in good stead throughout my twenty years. With it firmly in place, I draw our guests into the tale of our Egyptian excavation, the discovery of the chamber, the long hours trapped behind a wall of rubble, and our narrow escape from the impending riots. I do mention Ahmed, but unlike my discussion with Lieutenant Beauchamp, his role in the story goes unremarked upon by our dinner guests.
The gasps and chuckles are exactly the reaction Papa sought. By the time I’m finished, the guests are congratulating me not only on our flight but on my retelling. Yet I’m left feeling hollow. Is it our guests’ failure to acknowledge Ahmed that has me reacting this way? Or is it the pervasive sense of impending ruin that I now feel?
Dinner concludes, with men and women alike querying whether it will be safe to return to Egypt this year. Papa assures them that the political situation will be stable enough for us to go back. And I hope he’s right; rumors about martial law and another exile for Mr. Zaghloul have abounded.
The men and women separate. As I walk through the Saloon toward the drawing room where the ladies congregate, I hear Lieutenant Beauchamp’s voice in my ear.
“I say, Lady Evelyn, are you quite all right?” he asks in a low voice. “You had the table rapt with your story, but I can see you’re not quite yourself now.”
I want to embrace this lovely man. No one else sees—or even bothers to look—behind the thin veneer of my demure presence and obedient manner. But, of course, I don’t wrap my arms around him. Now is not the moment to reveal my feelings and worries. Too many guests float about, not to mention my parents. Not to mention that we’ve never touched in any way.
But a small rebellion does occur to me. Not enough to raise our guests’ eyebrows but plenty satisfying to make up for the performance into which I’d just been pressed. “Care to see the Egyptian treasures up close? The objects have just come back from the Burlington Fine Arts Club exhibit, and they haven’t been returned to their cases.”
His eyes shine bright in the low light of the chandelier. “Would I?” Then he pauses, and asks, “Would it upset your father if I don’t join the men in the smoking room? I don’t want to be on his bad side.”
It gives me a little thrill to think ofwhyLieutenant Beauchamp cares about offending my father. His attentions over the past months have revealed his feelings for me. Even though similar emotions are building within me, I can’t surrender to them just yet. For so long I’ve dissuaded any and all suitors—knowing that an engagement and then marriage would mean the end of my excavations—that it’s hard for me to seriously consider someone.Unless, I think for the first time,Lieutenant Beauchamp might be a very different sort of partner. One that might actually contemplate a wife with an interest in archaeology.
“No, not at all,” I reply, forcing myself away from these musings. They’re premature, in any event. “He’ll be so wrapped up with his other guests, he might not even notice. And even if he does, he’ll assume Mama pulled you aside.”
“Only if you are sure?”
I don’t answer. Instead of following the ladies into the Drawing Room, we turn left and pass through the open door to the Library.There, I walk directly toward a set of bookshelves, and run my hand along a particular shelf. I pull at what looks like a leather-bound volume, and the entire bookshelf swings open, revealing itself to be a secret door. Lieutenant Beauchamp gasps.
Turning back toward him, I smile and lead him into the Music Room. We step into the gilt-laden room, which seems to flicker like a gold flame in the dim illumination from the wall sconces. Wooden trunks and specially designed crates litter the floor, but I know precisely what I’m looking for. There, on top of the case holding the bronze and gold statues, sits a large, shallow, rectangular box.
I motion with my index finger for Lieutenant Beauchamp to come close. Unlatching the box, I step back so he can better observe the magnificent object within the red velvet interior. “My God,” he says in a low voice. Then he asks, “Can I put it on you?”
I nod, feeling very daring indeed. I have never been so bold as to put the ancient Egyptian jewelry on before.
He then reaches into the box; lifts the necklace of garnet, gold, silver, carnelian, and turquoise; and fastens it around my neck. Lieutenant Beauchamp has never touched me before, and I shiver at the sensation of his fingers on my skin. The stones feel cool and somehow right around me, as do his fingers.
“How does it look?” I glance up at him and ask quietly. I don’t want anyone to find us here.
