Howard’s posture straightens as he answers. “Yes, me. I’ve made a handsome profit over the years when I’ve sold the antiquities to museums or collectors or even the dealers in the souk. I wouldn’t exactly call it a fortune, but I think I might be able to manage the costs of next season.”
“I couldn’t possibly let you do that, Howard,” Papa says in a low voice. “Although I’m bloody appreciative that you’ve offered.”
“Why not, Lord C.? I’ve been the beneficiary of your munificence for more than a decade now. It’s my turn to help.” Howard is in earnest.
“You’ve helped in more ways than I can count, Howard. Organizing the best damn digs Egypt has ever seen. Helping me assemble the most impressive collection of ancient Egyptian art in private hands. Most of all, being a loyal friend and compatriot for all these years.” Papa’s eyes glisten, and I feel like an intruder in this private moment.
“I feel the same way, Lord C.,” Howard says, his voice soft. But then his tone hardens, and I can see he hasn’t given up quite yet. “There’s an area near the tomb of Rameses the Sixth. There are remains of ancient workers’ huts there, and some pottery fragments and mummification bandaging with the name Tutankhamun. It seems promising, but we’ve avoided it in other years because it’s right next to the tourist area and there’d constantly be gawkers underfoot. What if I went out early—before the tourists arrive—and did some exploratory excavating? We might find our undisturbed tomb there.”
Even though I know Howard is playing to Papa’s drive for Tutankhamun, anger rises in me. The site to which Howard refers is one we’ve avoided because it has no clear tie to Hatshepsut. I cannot believe that he’s offering it now, given that we are very likely facing our last dig.
“I’m afraid the answer is no, Howard,” Papa replies. His eyes are sorrowful, but his tone is firm. “No matter where we dig, the answer is no.”
It is down to me. I am the last hope if Hatshepsut’s tomb is ever to be unearthed and her legacy along with it. Thepis aller, as my French grandmother might have called it. I owe it to the generations of women before and after me to which Madame Zaghloul referred to try. None of us deserves to be erased.
I turn to Papa. Tears well up in the corners of my eyes, unbidden but not unexpected. “Papa, please allow us a final year in the Valley of the Kings. I will follow whatever path you and Mama have set out for me afterward, but please grant me this wish.”
My father sighs, a deep and mournful sound. I don’t know whether he’s melancholy because he’s about to deny my request or because he’s going to grant it at an enormous cost to himself. I allow the tears to stream, as I wait. And wait.
Finally, Papa speaks. “Only for you, Eve. One last year.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
NOVEMBER 5, 1922
HAMPSHIRE,ENGLAND
“There’s a telegram from Mr. Carter, Lady Evelyn,” Streatfield announces to the otherwise empty Library.
I have retreated to the peace of the roaring fire and F. H. Brooksbank’s recent book,Legends of Ancient Egypt, away from Mama’s complaints about a tooth ailment and Papa’s anger that his horse Franklin just lost at the Newbury Racecourse. I’ve been nursing my parents’ spirits for the better part of the afternoon, and I’d counted on a quiet, restorative hour so I could face them with equanimity over dinner. I need to muster my strength to fend off Mama’s questions about Brograve and what it means that he’s going to join us for part of the dig. Everyone assumes that an engagement is pending—even me, at some point in the future—but I wish I didn’t have to deal with her relentless inquiries about when. In fact, given her recent near-obsession with Porchey and Catherine, I thought she’d given me up as lost to Papa, but I now see that’s not true.
Worse than dealing with Mama right now, however, is addressing Howard. He left Highclere Castle nearly three weeks ago for Egypt on less-than-pleasant terms with me. We’d had several arguments about the site he’d identified in that crucial conversation with Papa about our future in the Valley of the Kings. Papa had latched on to the idea of this undisturbed area around Ramses’s tomb and its tie to Tutankhamun. Howard knew as well as I did that the site offered no connection to Hatshepsut, and I was furious with him that he’d waste our final excavation on the pursuit of Tutankhamun rather than Hatshepsut—even thoughI knew I was being unreasonable.Please understand, he’d implored me,we need results, and if we can get them from Tutankhamun’s site, then we’ll have the wherewithal to pursue Hatshepsut next season. But I worry that there may be no “wherewithal.”
“Is the telegram specifically for me?” I ask Streatfield. Papa would not be pleased if I opened up a telegram from Mr. Carter addressed only to him. He’d be every bit as furious as if I opened his mail.
“Either for you or your father, Lady Evelyn,” he answers.
This is unusual. Typically, Howard’s telegrams are for one or the other of us. Placing down theLegends of Ancient Egypt, which tells the story of Hatshepsut in a glossy, sugarcoated sort of way, I leap up from my chair. I extend my hand. Streatfield places an envelope stamped with the Imperial Wireless logo upon it.
“Thank you, Streatfield,” I say.
“May I turn on some additional lighting in the room, Your Ladyship? The Library seems awfully dark for the intense reading that you do. I wouldn’t like you to strain your eyes,” he says.
Streatfield cannot help but look out for me. “You are too kind, Streatfield. But I am fine. Don’t fret about me.”
“Only if you insist, Lady Evelyn.”
“I do,” I reply with a smile that he returns, in the subtle uplifting of one side of his mouth. I do appreciate him, but I’d rather read Howard’s telegram without his fussing. No matter how well-intentioned.
What could Howard possibly be telegraphing at this early juncture in his excavating? I muse on this as I walk over to Papa’s Napoleonic desk in the small library. Howard only arrived in Luxor on October 28, and much of his time since would have been spent meeting with thereis,hiring the men, mapping out the area they’ll be digging, and securing supplies. I doubt that anything significant could have transpired in those few days.
Lifting the heavy brass letter opener from its surface, I slice the envelope open and slide out the telegram. Spreading it on the desk to better read the thin, almost transparent paper, I read:
“At last have made wonderful discovery in Valley a magnificent tomb with seals intact recovered same for your arrival congratulations.”
I shake my head as if I’ve been dreaming, and I need to awaken. Did Howard’s telegram say what I think it said? Surely, I’d gotten it wrong. I reread it and realize I’d gotten it right. The words indeed say “a magnificent tomb with seals intact.”
Practically shrieking in delight, I wonder whose tomb he has discovered. The telegram doesn’t say. Does he not yet know? If the seal is intact, then Howard hasn’t yet been inside. Perhaps the identity of the tomb’s inhabitant is still unknown.
