I want to run into his waiting arms. And, tossing propriety to the wind, I very nearly do. But then his expression changes, and I follow his gaze.
I see his parents smiling expectantly across the lobby. The stodgily dressed couple in heavy gray traveling suits are perfectly fine people, if a little stiff. When I wave at them, they approach, and I say what I do not feel, “What a delight to see you both—Lady Beauchamp, Lord Beauchamp.”
I now realize this visit from Brograve will be entirely different from the one we’d envisioned. It will consist of a multiday tour through the Valley of the Kings, with me acting as guide, instead of introducing Brograve to the life of an archaeologist, the next step in assessing what our future together might hold.
We stand in a small circle, and Brograve explains their unexpected appearance. “As you know, I had planned on traveling to Egypt in two weeks’ time, but when my parents expressed interest in coming, the only tickets available for three people necessitated immediate departure. I wrote you a letter to explain, but I expect you haven’t received it yet,” he says, his eyes apologetic. I can see he’d rather have come alone as well.
“It’s positively thrilling, Lady Evelyn,” Brograve’s mother gushes, her eyes shining. “To think that your father discovered the last remaining tomb of a pharaoh in the Valley of the Kings.”
Astonishing, I think,how people who didn’t even know what a pharaoh was three months ago are traveling halfway around the world to catch aglimpse of his last remains. The fervor sweeping the globe is not born out of a legitimate interest in ancient history or fascination with Egypt, but hunger for the latest headlines and descriptions of the golden treasure within the tomb. Very few care about the historical mysteries that Tutankhamun’s tomb might answer, even though I know I shouldn’t necessarily attribute those views to Brograve’s parents. It rankles, and I wonder how it must make the Egyptians feel to have this glut of Europeans descend like locusts to ravage their history.
And then it occurs to me. Do the Egyptian people perceivemeas a locust, come to devour their heritage? Certainly the nationalists must think the magnificent partage Papa expects to receive as part of the excavation would be tantamount to grave robbery itself. I can almost hear Mr. Zaghloul argue that Tutankhamun’s tomb belongs to Egypt and is crucial for the country’s pride and identity. The newly powerful nationalists have been uniform in arguing that Tutankhamun serves as the symbol of the government’s ancient power and claim the boy pharaoh as their own. A pit forms in my stomach at this thought.
But I say none of this. How can I? I haven’t even properly thought through all these views myself. I’ve been as swept up as the most ignorant tourist.
“Itissensational, Lady Beauchamp,” I reply. “Although, you do know I work on the site alongside Papa and Mr. Carter. We opened the tomb together, and I was right alongside them as we entered the chamber.”
Lady Beauchamp gasps. “You went inside that three-thousand-year-old tomb?”
What does she think I do here? I give her a smile that I hope is magnanimous. “I did indeed. Hasn’t your son mentioned that I’m actively involved in all of Papa’s excavations in the Valley of the Kings? I have been for years.”
Lady Beauchamp opens her mouth to answer, but Brograve interjects, “Of course I’ve told her all about your archaeological work, Lady Evelyn. I sing your praises to anyone who will listen—I’m so very proud.”
Lady Beauchamp sniffs, and adds, “I suppose it’s one thing tohear about it, and quite another to see you in your khaki excavation clothes.”
I’m not certain how to take her remark, and I decide to ignore it.
“Your father’s gamble finally paid off,” Lord Beauchamp chimes in with a chuckle. “He’s always been a gambling man with horses and cars, but who would have thought his biggest win would be with ancient Egypt?”
I force myself to smile at this jocular comment. If only Lord Beauchamp knew what an onerous journey this has been for Papa, I don’t think he’d liken archaeology to the Newbury Racecourse.
A strong urge to retreat to my suite overtakes me. Are the Beauchamps irritating me because they breezed into Luxor unexpectedly—upending my plans with Brograve? Or are they annoying simply because they are emblematic of the onslaught of family, friends, distant acquaintances, and tourists here for all the wrong reasons? Either way, I need to bathe, change, and collect myself before dealing with them any further.
Before I can excuse myself to do so, Lady Beauchamp leans toward me. In her most conspiratorial voice, she says, “The best part of our hasty travel is that we’re here just in time.”
“Just in time for what?” I ask.
“For the ceremony, of course”—Lady Beauchamp’s brow furrows in confusion—“when select guests will be allowed to enter the inner sanctum of Tutankhamun’s tomb.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
FEBRUARY 18, 1923
VALLEY OF THEKINGS,EGYPT
Chairs are arranged in a semicircle before Tutankhamun’s chamber as if it’s a stage. The rows face the only remaining objects in the antechamber—the two black-and-gold guardian statues. The nearly six-foot-high figures stand as wardens against the ancient wall we will be tearing into today. They’ve been guarding against the intrusion of the present into the past for millennia, and today we will be relieving them of their charge.
Howard and Papa pace the area in front of the statues, their nerves obviously on edge. In order to enter the tomb, everyone here today has to pass by the press, who, along with the tourists, arrived in feluccas, donkeys, sand carts, and horse-drawn cabs and are camped outside the tomb on the hills. The journalists’ ire over being squeezed out of the story has increased as today’s ceremony approached, especially that of the Egyptian reporters, and they’ve made no secret of it. They hurled epithets at Papa and Howard, and barraged guests progressing toward the tomb with questions. Egypt has perpetuated itself through the ages, I think to myself, shouldn’t this new generation—including its reporters—have the opportunity to rest on the laurels of the old? I feel torn between my allegiance to Papa and Howard, with their promise of ongoing archaeological work, and my sympathy for this Egyptian position.
When the seats fill and the guests—archaeologists like Mr. Winlock; government officials; theTimesrepresentative; Uncle Aubrey; and the unanticipated Beauchamps, of course—settle down, Papaclears his throat and offers his welcome, and then Howard gives his speech. Taken together, their words express appreciation for all the support they’ve received and endeavor to anchor this discovery in the annals of history. Most guests aren’t familiar with Tutankhamun, and Howard attempts to share a bit about his New Kingdom reign and his most important legacy, the restoration of the polytheistic ancient Egyptian religion after his father, Akhenaten, attempted a shift toward a monotheism with the sun god Aten.
Howard then holds out his pick and begins to chip away at the mortar. Because we’ve already undertaken this exercise in the dead of night nearly three months ago, I know that the audience will receive a glimpse of the interior soon. Before my watch shows that a half hour has passed, I hear a gasp from Lady Beauchamp. Quite to my surprise, the normally reserved woman stands and cries out, “I see gold!”
The rest of the guests rise, craning for a look. At Papa’s signal, Howard allows a single-file line of onlookers to peer through the opening he’s just created. When it’s my turn, I see what I expect—a corner of the ornate gilded box. Howard and I exchange a brief smile, and then the audience members are quickly shepherded back to their seats. The removal of a portion of the wall large enough for people to enter will take some time.
How I wish this excitement had landed on the worthier Hatshepsut, I can’t help but think. It’s hard to see all this fuss for a pharaoh who only ruled for nine years, when a magnificent, impactful ruler lies uncelebrated somewhere nearby in the Valley of the Kings.
Howard returns to his labors; and ladies, some in impractical silk dresses, pull fans from their purses. Even though the tomb entrance is open to the elements, the air is close, still, and very warm.If these hothouse flowers knew what it’s like to actually excavate they might not be even temporarily enamored of Egyptology, I think. I glance over at Brograve, who appears every bit as enthralled as the other guests but not the least deterred by the heat. It bodes well. He catches my eye, and we smile at each other.
