The Collector's Daughter Read online

  The guests around the table looked at each other in bemusement, then one girl laughed, followed by another, and soon the whole table was in stitches. Eve couldn’t help joining them. It seemed Brograve was able to laugh at himself, thank goodness.

  He paused at the end of the first verse, glanced around his audience, then launched into the second with even more gusto: “O Lord our God arise, scatter our enemies . . .” More partygoers wandered in and gathered in a circle around them, enjoying the spectacle. When he finished there was a spontaneous burst of applause.

  Brograve bowed, then sat down. Eve caught eyes with him and grinned. It was wonderful to watch him enjoying himself. She hadn’t seen that often enough.

  The game continued. One young woman was challenged to do a handstand and she complied bravely, skirts falling over her head to show peach silk bloomers. Another was ordered to recite the alphabet backward while eating a bunch of grapes. The forfeits were getting increasingly outlandish, so Eve decided she would answer the question if she threw a six unless it was completely impossible to do so.

  When her turn came, she opened a slip of paper from the top hat. It read: “Tell everyone around the table the initials of the one who is your secret pash.” What should she do? If she said she didn’t have a pash, they might force her to do a forfeit.

  “AE,” she said, adopting a mysterious tone.

  Everyone around the table began speculating. Algernon Edwardes? Andrew Eglinton? Eve shook her head at every suggestion.

  Only Brograve guessed the truth. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Ancient Egypt, I presume?”

  She laughed. “How very clever of you! Shall we leave the table now before they finagle any more secrets from us? I think we’ve been decent enough sports.”

  It was one of those soft July evenings when it stayed light well beyond ten o’clock. They wandered into the garden and picked up glasses of champagne from a table covered in white damask. At the far end of the lawn, a wooden door was flung open leading onto the famous Heath, at a point halfway up Parliament Hill.

  “I’ve never been to the top,” Eve said. “Would you like to go and look at the view over London? It’s said to be spectacular.”

  They strolled up slowly, glasses in hand. Birds were squawking like children who have been allowed to stay up past their bedtime and are expending a last burst of energy before sleep. There was a summery scent of greenness and a faint buzz of insects.

  At the brow of the hill, they paused. The view was hazy and Eve peered out, trying to detect landmarks.

  “That’s St. Paul’s.” Brograve pointed to the distinctive dome. “And I think that’s St. Bride’s just right of it. The one shaped like a wedding cake.”

  “I’m surprised we can see green hills to the south of the city,” Eve said. “It makes London feel small, yet it takes forever to cross when you’re driving.”

  “Would you like to sit awhile?” Brograve asked. He whipped off his jacket and laid it on the grass, then held her glass while she sat. Impressively, he lowered himself to sit beside her without spilling either of the drinks he held in each hand, and they sat regarding the view. His shoulder was touching hers, and she was intensely aware of it but didn’t move away.

  “How is your mother?” she asked, remembering the awkwardness last time they met.

  “Better,” he replied. “It will be seven years this December since Edward died. I suppose the grief will never go away but she is learning to live her life despite it.”

  Eve shivered. “I don’t think I would ever recover if my brother, Porchy, died. Even though he’s the family troublemaker!” She told him about Porchy’s unpopular choice of bride, then an idea came to her. “You should meet him! We’re having a shooting party at Highclere on the twelfth of August and he’ll be there. Why not join us?”

  “I don’t shoot,” Brograve said, gazing at the horizon. “I did quite enough of that in the war.”

  “I don’t either,” Eve told him. “It’s not obligatory. But do come. Stay a few days. I’d love you to see Highclere.”

  He hesitated for so long she sensed he was searching for a polite excuse to refuse. Perhaps he thought she was making advances to him and he wasn’t interested. She felt simultaneously disappointed and humiliated.

  “I’m afraid I have work commitments that won’t let me escape,” he said at last. “But thank you for the invitation.”

  Eve asked him to tell her more about his magical copper cables and they sat awhile longer, but the atmosphere had changed. He had shrunk back from their earlier intimacy and raised the shutters and she had no idea why.

  The light was fading and the sky had turned the color of tobacco before they headed back to the party. Maude grabbed Eve’s arm and drew her into a corner where Emily and Lois were chatting.

  “Well?” she asked, her eyes flickering toward Brograve. “Did he try to make love to you?”

  “Not even remotely,” Eve replied, trying to keep the hurt from her voice.

  “But you wanted him to?”

  Eve furrowed her brow. “I think I did.”

  Maude embraced her. “I predicted it a year ago at Ascot,” she said, with irritating smugness. “You are slow on the uptake, Eve Herbert.”

  “Do you think he might be one of them—you know, like Oscar Wilde?” Emily asked. She was just back from her honeymoon, glowing with contentment and superior in her knowledge of the joys of the matrimonial bed.

  “I don’t think it’s that,” Eve said, but she didn’t know for sure. It was totally beyond the scope of her life experience. Perhaps he was simply content to be single, like Howard Carter.

  And yet, she sensed he liked her. She knew his eyes followed her when she walked across a room, and that he listened when she was speaking. It was a mystery, but short of throwing herself into his arms—could she? no, she wasn’t brave enough—Eve had no idea how to solve it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  London, Christmas 1972

  Eve and Brograve went to Patricia’s for Christmas Day. Her sons, Simon and Edward, were home from university for the holidays, and looking taller than ever—like beanstalks, Eve said. Patricia’s husband, Michael, was a generous host, handing them glasses of champagne as soon as they took their coats off. They had made space for Eve’s wheelchair, but she transferred herself to an armchair, hating the visible reminder of her disability.

  They exchanged presents, leaving the sitting-room floor strewn with crumpled balls of shiny paper, and they all watched the Queen’s speech on television at three o’clock. It had been Elizabeth II’s silver wedding that year and she thanked the public for the good wishes they had sent, before referring to the suffering in Northern Ireland. Eve glanced at Michael, knowing he had served there with the army, but he didn’t comment. He seldom spoke about his work.

  Patricia was dashing in and out of the kitchen. Eve heaved herself up from her chair, grabbed the back of the sofa, and shuffled to the kitchen door, using the sofa for support as she inched her way along cautiously. She was proud of this new achievement, which she’d been practicing at home.

  “It was my goal to be walking by Christmas,” she said, “and I think this counts, don’t you?”

  “You’re amazing, Mum!” Patricia exclaimed, rushing over to hug her. “I’m so proud of you.”

  At four on the dot, Patricia ushered them into the dining room. A bronzed turkey sat at one end of the table, waiting for Michael to carve, and the boys helped to bring in myriad dishes of vegetables and sauces. Patricia flopped into her chair with a sigh.

  “My work is done,” she said. “Someone hand me a drink.”

  Brograve filled her glass from a decanter of wine. “A toast to the hostess with the mostest,” he cried, raising his glass, and they all joined him.

  After eating, they went back to the sitting room and Michael came to perch by Eve, holding out a Sunday supplement.

  “Before I forget,” he said, “there’s an article in here I thought m
ight interest you.” He turned to the page and handed it over. “It’s about an archaeological dig in Saqqara in Egypt, and it mentions your boy Tutankhamun. I saved it for you.”

  The first thing Eve saw was the picture of the gold funeral mask with the striped headdress and uraeus. “Thank you,” she said. “I wonder what they’ve dug up this time?”

  The boys wanted to watch The Morecambe & Wise Show Christmas special on television, so the set was switched on to warm up. Eve dug her glasses from her handbag and began to read the article while Simon fiddled with the aerial to get a sharper picture.

  On one of her trips to Egypt Eve had visited Saqqara, site of some ancient step pyramids dating back to the Third and Fourth Dynasties. This new discovery was the tomb of Maya, an Eighteenth Dynasty bureaucrat who had been in charge of royal burials in Tutankhamun’s day.

  Eve remembered Howard Carter talking about him. He’d described him as a powerful figure with his finger in many pies. He was treasurer of the kingdom, responsible for raising tax revenues, he was fan bearer to the king, meaning he had the king’s ear, and he organized the festival of Amun every year, as well as making the arrangements for burials in the Valley of the Kings.

  “He would have known Tutankhamun well,” Howard had said. “And probably had a lot of influence over him since he was so young when he took the throne—perhaps just sixteen or seventeen.”

  The article said that Maya’s tomb had first been discovered by a German archaeologist in 1845 but then it was lost again, covered up in a Saharan sandstorm, and it had only been rediscovered this year. Among the tomb contents were detailed papyrus records Maya had kept of his work, indicating that he was a man of great precision.

  Eve wondered if his writings would answer the question she and Howard had often pondered: Was Tutankhamun murdered? His skeleton had shown signs of a head injury, but three thousand years after his death it was impossible to tell if it had been caused in an accident during the burial or if it was a deliberate killing.

  She read that Maya had fancied himself a necromancer: his writings seemingly spoke of magic in Tutankhamun’s burial chamber that would bring “discord and unnatural death” to tomb robbers. That rang a bell. She remembered something about that. Maybe Howard had mentioned it? Threats to deter any who might consider plundering the treasure were common in Ancient Egyptian tombs, but had there been something specific?

  According to Maya’s record, some early robbers had been caught in his lifetime, after betraying each other. The penalty for tomb robbery in that era was either beheading or drowning in the Nile. Maya decreed drowning on this occasion, and the bodies of the six men were tied to rocks and toppled into the river. Eve shivered. There was something about the story that made her uneasy, and she wondered if she used to know more than she was remembering.

  The author of the article couldn’t resist mentioning, in a side panel, all the “unnatural” deaths that had been associated with Tutankhamun’s tomb in the modern era, but Eve had long since learned not to read such things. Journalists loved the “curse” story, but she found it distasteful the way they used genuine human tragedies as popular entertainment.

  “Are you alright?” Brograve asked. “You should watch this. Eric is playing Prince Albert while Ernie is Queen Victoria.”

  Eve put down the magazine and watched the pair clowning around. Her grandsons were chortling. Patricia looked pink-cheeked and glowing as she sipped a glass of ruby dessert wine, and Michael reached across to squeeze her hand. She had chosen her husband well, just as Eve had. She hoped the boys would find similar happiness in their marriages. Their grandmother, Almina, hadn’t, and neither had Porchy. It wasn’t a given.

  Eve drifted off into a micro-sleep, in which she was still conscious of the sound of the television in the background, but she was in Cairo again, and there was a clamor in the streets. Was it nationalist protests? The River Nile was wide and muddy as it flowed under the Qasr El Nil Bridge and men were shouting in Arabic, their voices strident and full of alarm.

  * * *

  Christmas 1921 was spent at Highclere, then, in early January, Eve and Pups sailed for Egypt. He had some business to attend to in Cairo before he proceeded to Luxor, and Eve made use of the free time to go sightseeing. It was on that trip that she visited the step pyramids at Saqqara, as well as the monumental pyramids of Giza, which she rode around on a camel’s back. The following day she decided to explore the Egyptian Museum.

  The concierge at her hotel hailed a carriage driver to take her the short distance to the imposing building in Ismailia Square. She bought a guidebook at the entrance kiosk, politely rejecting the services of the official guides. Consulting the map, she headed for the Eighteenth Dynasty collection, because in her opinion that was the epitome of Ancient Egyptian artistry.

  Straightaway she came upon a glorious painted chair, which had belonged to Sitamun, a daughter of Amenhotep III, with dancing scenes in plaster and gilt relief, and armrests finished with the heads of birds, just like Pups’ Napoleon chair. She gasped at the limestone statues of Amenhotep with his wife and three daughters, which stood over twenty feet high. There were several lifelike heads of Nefertiti, wife of Akhenaten, who was rumored to have been a great beauty; she had pronounced cheekbones, almond eyes, a slender nose, and full lips. The wealth of the collection left Eve overwhelmed. She could take in only a small part of it; several return visits would be needed to do it justice.

  When she left, carriage drivers jostled for her custom, but the day was not oppressively hot and she decided to walk back to the hotel. It gave her a sense of daring to be walking on her own in a foreign city. She was slightly apprehensive because of the pro-independence protests, but the English quarter was said to be safe. She wondered what Egyptian men made of her as she strolled by, wearing only a picture hat tied with a ribbon rather than the full veil that their women wore.

  “Lady Herbert!” a voice called, and she turned, startled to see Brograve hurrying across the road toward her.

  “How extraordinary!” she greeted him. “Have you followed me all the way from England?”

  He laughed. “I’ve only followed you for the last few seconds. But I’d be happy to walk with you, if you like. Where are you heading?”

  “Pups and I are staying at the Intercontinental,” she said. “But don’t let me waylay you if you have other plans.” He looked very smart in a slim-fitting gray suit and a jaunty boater.

  “I’m going in that direction as it happens,” he said. “I’ve been in a meeting and now I’m joining my parents for lunch at Shepheard’s Hotel. But tomorrow I return to London. My business is demanding all my time.”

  Eve felt a stab of disappointment. It was odd to be in his presence again when she had been thinking about him so much since Maude’s party.

  “Is all well in the world of copper cables?” she asked. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed an Egyptian child, a curly-haired boy who looked around three or four years old, wandering into the road. She turned to look for a parent in pursuit but couldn’t see one. At least the traffic was quiet.

  “It’s fine, thanks,” he said, and she saw that he had also noticed the child, then he looked the other way. They could hear some kind of commotion. At first Eve couldn’t work out what was going on and she asked Brograve, but instead of answering, he suddenly set off at a run. In an instant she understood: a donkey had become untethered and was careering down the road at speed, the cart behind it swinging wildly from side to side. Her heart began pounding. Brograve was running straight into its path.

  A few Egyptian men leaped out and tried to catch the donkey’s reins but it swerved out of reach and they had to jump back to avoid being struck by the cart. Others stood well clear. The donkey was terrified, Eve guessed. All the yelling was causing it to panic.

  Brograve was standing in the middle of the road now, between the child and the donkey, and she could tell he was calculating whether he would be able to catch the reins and bring it to a
stop.

  “No, don’t!” she yelled. It was too dangerous.

  At the last moment he seemed to realize this and instead he grabbed the child. The donkey was almost upon them when he dived out of its way in an athletic leap, landing on his shoulder and rolling onto his back, while holding the child in the air above him.

  The donkey cart hurtled past and Eve dashed across the road toward them, at the same time as an Egyptian man who appeared to be the child’s father. The boy was completely unhurt but started crying from shock as Brograve sat up and handed him over.

  “Shukran, shukran,” the man kept repeating, bowing and holding the child tightly. Eve knew it meant “thank you.” Brograve replied with a few words of Arabic. She hadn’t known he spoke the language.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked when father and son left.

  He was still sitting on the curb and he put his hands over his face and didn’t reply.

  “Did you land on your shoulder?” she asked. “I hope it won’t be bruised.”

  Still he didn’t reply. She picked up his hat, which had fallen off, and laid it on the curb beside him, then she crouched and placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said. “You saved that boy’s life.”

  His shoulders were shaking and he made a strangled noise in his throat.

  “Don’t call me brave,” he muttered. “Don’t ever call me brave.”

  The words were muffled and his voice was strange. It was only then Eve realized he was crying.

  * * *

  At first she couldn’t decide what to do. He would be embarrassed for her to see him like this. Should she leave him alone, walk back to the hotel and give him time to compose himself? Or should she offer words of comfort? Instead, she sat on the curb beside him and stayed silent.

  There was a mosque opposite. Men were starting to file in for the lunchtime prayers so she knew it must be almost one. Pups would be expecting her—they were having lunch with Uncle Mervyn—but she couldn’t leave Brograve while he was struggling to control himself.