“The retired American archaeologist,” Brograve interjects.
“Yes.” Howard nods approvingly. I can see that he’s pleased with Brograve’s interest and growing knowledge. “Although Davis is a businessman foremost, and an archaeologist only as a hobby.”
For a time, Howard worked for Davis, supervising his excavations in the Valley of the Kings. Whenever Davis’s name is mentioned, he’s wont to explain the limitations of Davis’s expertise—his bank account. The excavation in question occurred long after Carter finished working for Davis.
I return to the subject at hand. “Anyway, Davis uncovered a pit with a strange assortment of objects—everything from broken pottery to animal bones to papyri to remains of flowers. And, they found the kind of linen bandages used to wrap mummies, one of which had the name Tutankhamun on it. Nearby, Davis stumbled across an empty chamber and assumed it was Tutankhamun’s tomb, plundered in antiquity.”
“You two think otherwise?” Brograve ventures.
“Perhaps,” Howard answers, his smile gone and his face closed off.
“But is there evidence of Hatshepsut near the site? I know that her tomb is your main objective.” Brograve handily surmises the problem with this potential site.
I am impressed. Not only that Brograve is parsing all this unfamiliar history and our arcane methodologies but also doing it for me. I don’t doubt that he has some genuine interest, but I know the spark is fanned by his feelings for me.
Before I can answer, Howard barks, “The location of Hatshepsut’s tomb has no bearing on where we choose to dig.”
Brograve recoils a bit at the harsh words, and then pushes himself to standing. “Apologies if my understanding of archaeology is limited, Mr. Carter.” His smile returns when he faces me. “In any event, I should chase down my man and direct him in the unpacking. From your clothes, it looks as though we may ride before luncheon?”
I glance down at my forgotten riding clothes. Smiling up at him, as if my attire had been selected for just such an occasion, I say, “What gave it away?”
He moves to leave the Music Room, and I nod. “I’ll be right behind you.”
The moment he clears the Music Room doorway, I hiss at Howard, “Why did you speak to him so sharply? He’s just making conversation.”
“You told him about Hatshepsut,” Howard growls back in an angry tone he’s never used with me before. “How could you? You know how furious your father would be if he knew we’d had her in our sights all along.”
“Brograve is loyal to me.” I stand firm against Howard’s tirade. “He knows better than to mention it to my father.”
“No one is completely trustworthy. What might he say after a few too many ports in the smoking room after dinner? And you’ve got to be aware that our excavations are hanging by a thread.”
Is he talking about Papa’s financial troubles? My stomach lurches. Howard and I haveneverdiscussed the pecuniary plight of my father and the impact it could have on our dig. I haven’t even discussed it with Papa, and I hadn’t been certain Howard knew. But now it sits uncomfortably between us.
“I hope you have faith in me,” I say, pivoting away from him and out of the room.
I catch up with Brograve in the corridor, just as he’s about to enter the Great Hall. Tugging gently on his arm, I say, “I’m sorry about Howard. He can be crotchety and difficult. His reaction had nothing to do with you.”
“How many times do I have to ask you never to apologize? About your father. About Howard. About your work.”
“I know I can be a little obsessive.”
“Eve, I meant what I said before.” He reaches for my hand. “Your fascination with ancient Egypt is wonderful, and I’m proud of the work you do there. I’ll miss you come January, but while I’m tromping around rainy Suffolk, drumming up votes for my election, it will give me great pleasure to think of you digging away in the warm Egyptian sun. Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll dig alongside you.”
Chapter Forty-Four
MARCH 1, 1922
LUXOR, EGYPT
How could this season be more unsuccessful than the last? This is the question Papa, Howard, and I are each thinking, but not saying. Sipping my bee’s knees cocktail, I stare around the Royal Bar so as to avoid meeting their eyes. Objectively, the Winter Palace is every bit as elegant as the day we first arrived, but its luster dims in the midst of our own failings.
The only blessing is that Mama isn’t here. Egypt kept her attention for only four weeks. Then the design houses of Paris beckoned, and she summoned Catherine to meet her to stock up on the bride-to-be’s trousseau. Thank God. I couldn’t have tolerated the weight of Mama’s disappointment. It’s hard enough to gloss over it in my regular letters to Brograve.
A jazz trio plays, but the upbeat music throws our sour mood in bold relief. And I, for one, feel worse listening to it.
“Hundreds of tons of soil dug up from the Valley of the Kings floor and not a single object to show for it,” Papa fumes. “Not a glass bead. Not a broken piece of pottery. Nothing that would help fund this tomfoolery.”
Neither Howard nor I reply. What can we say? We’d chosen the site, practically without a word from my father, so the blame falls to us. Over the summer, Papa had been entirely engaged—as I now know—in selling off another property he’d inherited from his father and auctioning off paintings, automobiles, and furniture. Even thesale of a few of his precious Egyptian artifacts hadn’t been enough to cover the costs of Highclere’s expenses and its tax bill, according to Porchey.
