Chapter Five

London, July 1972

Brograve rested his elbow on the edge of the bed and laid his head on his hand as he watched Eve sleep. Thinking back to the girl he’d met in Cairo at Christmas 1919 made him melancholy. She’d been so effervescent, those amber eyes sparking, and she’d looked at him intensely, as if she wanted to know everything about him. He scarcely ever talked about Edward back then—he was a reserved person by nature, and the grief was still raw—but somehow he had found himself blurting out to her that his brother had died even though it was only their first meeting. And when her eyes filled with tears in response, he felt the early stirrings of what would gradually become love.

Almina had made it very clear she didn’t consider him worthy of her daughter. Her curtness spoke for itself. He had become heir to a baronetcy on his brother’s death but that obviously wasn’t good enough for her precious Eve, who was the daughter of an earl.

Brograve had followed them to the doorway of the ballroom and watched Almina introduce Eve to Lord Tommy Russell, son of an earl who was at least as wealthy as her father, Lord Carnarvon. Tommy had the reputation of a hard-living, untrustworthy cad, and Brograve’s stomach gave a twist as he watched him cling to Eve’s hand far longer than was customary. There’s no question he would fall for her, but would she for him? Brograve turned and left the party rather than wait to find out.

He looked at her now, head resting on the pillows, snoring very faintly. She would be horrified if she could see herself in a mirror. Her hair was usually immaculately set and tinted a rich mahogany shade, but now it was unruly and there was a hint of gray at the roots. Her skin was pale and dry as parchment. Perhaps he should bring her face cream next time he visited. He liked the creases at the corners of her eyes that had been earned with laughter, the faint lines scored across her brow, the deeper grooves like parentheses around her mouth. She had such a narrow nose that her reading glasses often slid down. The long neck was hardly wrinkled at all and he knew she was proud of that. She liked to wear a pearl necklace he had given her one birthday, which drew attention to her neck.

Can you feel how much I love you? he wondered. Have I told you often enough?

Was it luck that they chose each other? Or fate? Suddenly he could hear Eve’s voice in his head: “No, you dunderhead. It was all down to me. I chose you early on, but I couldn’t get you to realize it. You were so blinkered that it took me four years to get you down the blooming aisle.” He chuckled. He had a memory of her saying that one time.

Brograve closed his eyes and drifted off. He hadn’t been sleeping well at Patricia’s, unused to a single bed, unused to being without Eve.

* * *

Eve dreamed that she was driving an old-fashioned car with open sides. It was a left-hand drive, like the Panhard & Levassor in which her father had taught her. He’d given her her first-ever lesson on Armistice Day, the eleventh of November 1918, as their own particular form of celebration.

She had been upstairs in the schoolroom at Highclere, with Nanny Moss, when they heard the church bells ringing in the village and knew it meant that the war had ended. It gave her a shivery feeling. She hoped Porchy would be home soon. Several estate workers had died in the fighting, including the two Harrys—Harry Ilot and Harry Garrett—teenage boys who had worked on the grounds, and used to mumble shyly if Eve addressed them. It was wonderful to think the killing was over now and life could go back to normal.

The Times that morning had said that ships would be honking their horns at eleven a.m. and huge crowds were expected to gather at Trafalgar Square, but at Highclere it felt like any other day: remote, silent, and tedious.

Eve rushed down the red staircase to her father’s library, to make sure he had heard the bells. He was sitting at his Napoleon desk, the one that an ancestor had purchased from the estate of the French emperor. His hands were resting on the eagles’ heads that decorated the arms of the matching chair, and the racing pages of the paper were spread in front of him.

“I heard,” he said. “Thank god.”

“We should do something to celebrate, Pups,” Eve said. “In London people will be taking to the streets and here we are, stuck at home as if nothing’s changed.”

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps drive into Newbury to see if anything’s happening there?”

Pups regarded her for a moment. “I suppose fresh air is a good idea. . . . Tell you what: how do you fancy your first driving lesson?”

Eve shrieked. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought she would be allowed to drive. “Are you serious? That’s too exciting for words! I can’t think of anything I’d like more. Can we start now? Straightaway?”

Pups sat beside Eve in the Panhard, pointing out the gear pedals, throttle, and brakes, and positioning her hands on the steering wheel. They had to adjust the seat as far forward as it would go so her legs could reach the pedals. One of the old men who worked in the stable came out to hand-crank the engine and it juddered to life, the vibrations traveling up her arms and down through her whole body. She released the brake and the car lurched forward, like a greyhound let off the leash. Lord Carnarvon reached across to straighten the wheel, then left Eve to get the feel of it for herself.

They were on private estate roads with no traffic, but she had to be wary of grazing cows that could suddenly wander out from among the ancient cedars of Lebanon. She found that the slightest pressure on the steering wheel caused the car to veer left or right, and that she had to be very gentle with the pedals or it bounced erratically. It wasn’t long before she was cornering, gliding, and braking with confidence. It felt natural, as if the car were an extension of her body. She adored the wind in her face, the sensation of speed, and the feeling of being in control.

“I love driving!” she yelled over the rumble of the engine, and her father grinned.

“I rather thought you would. But whatever you do, don’t tell your mother. Let’s keep it our little secret, eh?”

It was the dichotomy of her teenage years: her father offering her freedom while her mother tried to rein her in and teach her the rules of “polite society.” Each wanted a different daughter, and while she struggled to please both, it was her father’s vision that appealed the most.

* * *

Almina’s main goal as a parent was to turn her tomboyish, horse-loving daughter into a young lady worthy of a great match. When they traveled to Paris to purchase Eve’s coming-out wardrobe, it was their first trip alone together. Eve would have liked to wander around taking in the sights but instead they spent most of their time in fashion-house ateliers. It was a serious business. Everything from the length of her neck to the circumference of her ankles was measured by the elegant ladies who bustled around them. Her mother chatted knowledgeably about the Empire waistline, the flounced and draped skirts, and the above-the-ankle hem, while Eve flitted in and out of curtained cubicles, trying on gowns of taffeta and satin, crêpe de chine and Chantilly lace, along with soft kid shoes with high heels and jeweled decorations. The ladies told her she would have to return daily for fittings until each garment was like a second skin. She felt exhilarated and terribly grown-up, but at the same time there was a twinge of loss for the carefree childhood she had spent in cream serge smocks, with comfortable lace-up boots that were perfect for running around.

Over dinner at the Paris Ritz, Almina suggested, almost offhand, that she should pick Eve’s husband for her.

“Girls your age have no common sense when it comes to men: a few fancy compliments and you’re all a-flutter. But it is the most important decision of your life, and will affect everything that comes after: the home you are able to provide for your children, your social standing, and thus your happiness.”

Eve was horrified. “What about love, Mama? What about passion? Goodness, would you have me marry someone I don’t have anything in common with, so we will struggle to make conversation over the breakfast table?”

“Conversation over breakfast is not the most challenging aspect of a marriage by any means.” Almina scrutinized her daughter. “And I can’t imagine you ever being lost for subjects to talk about. But of course your feelings will be taken into account—so long as you recognize that I am a better judge of what will work long-term.”

Eve knew her parents’ marriage had been arranged. Porchy had told her. The family’s not-so-secret skeleton in the closet was that their mother was the illegitimate daughter of Alfred de Rothschild, a stern Victorian gent with a bushy walrus moustache who Eve had previously been told was her mother’s godfather. She looked at him with new respect once she heard he’d had an affair with her grandmother. At least there must be passion in his soul.

“It was common knowledge,” Porchy said. “They didn’t try to hide it. Mama’s name, Almina, is a combination of their names—Alfred and Mina. It was a huge scandal at the time, and it meant Mama would have struggled to get a husband if Alfred hadn’t offered a vast dowry of hundreds of thousands. And Pups was forced to accept because Highclere needed the money.”

“Will you have to marry a girl with money?” Eve asked him.

Porchy made a crude gesture, miming the exaggerated shape of a woman’s figure. “Maybe money will be the secondary consideration,” he sniggered.

In Eve’s opinion, her parents’ marriage wasn’t an enticing example of matrimony. They spent much of the year apart—her mother in London, her father at Highclere—and when they were together, she frequently heard raised voices behind closed doors. Her mother liked city life: parties and fashion, and running her private hospital. Her father liked the countryside—horses and shooting, motorcars and photography—and he loathed parties. Two more different people was hard to imagine.

Eve was in her early teens when she made up her mind about the type of man she wanted to marry. Handsome, of course, and cultured, so he was a sparkling conversationalist. He would have to love travel, because she planned to travel widely, and he would have to be willing to let her be a lady archaeologist. That was essential.

She opened her eyes and saw Brograve asleep on the hospital bed beside her. Thank god she’d married him and not Tommy Russell, the man her mother had selected for her. Tommy had become a drunk, or so she heard. Bad luck for his wife. What was her name again? She couldn’t for the life of her remember. . . .

A nurse popped her head around the door, and Eve raised a finger to her lips to shush her. Her husband looked as though he needed the sleep.