Chapter Eleven

London, November 1972

It may not seem much to your generation but for a man to touch your breast in 1920 was a very shocking thing.” Eve laughed at Katie’s expression. “I knew I could never trust him again, although we stayed friends for some time afterward.”

“Had you already met Brograve by then?” Katie asked.

“I had, but I didn’t see him often. He was a recluse. He wouldn’t come to parties or balls unless his mother positively forced him. The only time I bumped into him was at horse races. He was always at Royal Ascot in June. He gave me a tip on a horse once—Diadem.” She smiled, pleased to have remembered the name. Tiny details like that were particular triumphs. “We both won a few pounds that day.”

* * *

Eve had gone to Ascot with the unholy quadrumvirate but as soon as she spotted Brograve, she left them and dashed over to say hello. It was the first time she had seen him since their Christmas meeting in Cairo.

“Evelyn Herbert,” she reminded him, holding out her hand.

“Of course, how could I forget?” He took her hand and gave a little bow.

“I’m very glad to meet you again, especially since our social circles don’t seem to overlap in London.”

“That’s because I don’t have a social circle,” Brograve admitted. “I’m not a fan of balls and soirees.”

Eve was surprised. “How do you ever meet anyone?”

He gave a self-deprecating smile: “I try to avoid it whenever possible. Present company excepted, of course.”

“Goodness, we’re total opposites in that case,” Eve said. “Making new friends is my absolute favorite pastime.” Her voice was drowned out as last bets were called for the King’s Stand Stakes. She smiled. “I know you’re a cavalry man so I hope you can give me a tip for this race that will make my fortune.”

“My money’s on Diadem,” he said. “Odds of seven to three.”

“Perfect! Might I ask you to place the same bet for me?” She opened her purse and handed him a guinea. “I’ll wait here to watch the race with you. You’ve picked rather a good spot.”

As soon as the starting pistol fired, Eve began cheering for Diadem, and Brograve laughed out loud at her exuberance. He was handsome when he laughed, Eve thought. Shame it didn’t happen more often.

Diadem took the lead in the last furlong and when she crossed the line first, Eve couldn’t contain herself. “We won!” she yelled, her voice hoarse from shouting. She beamed at Brograve. “From now on you must be my racing tipster. We’ll make a killing together.”

“I have to confess that the tip came from a friend,” he said. “But I’m glad to be of use.”

Maude, Emily, and Lois found them afterward and Eve made the introductions, feeling a prickle of annoyance when Emily monopolized his attention, even placing her hand on his arm.

Brograve went to fetch Eve’s winnings and brought them to her, but she didn’t get another chance to talk to him alone for the rest of the afternoon. Just before leaving, he issued an invitation and she fancied he was looking at her.

“I don’t suppose you ladies are interested in polo, are you?” he asked, blushing slightly.

Eve smiled encouragement. “We could be, so long as you don’t mind our complete and utter ignorance of the rules.”

“I’m playing at the Hurlingham Club next Saturday. At two o’clock. You’d be welcome to come, but please don’t worry if you have other plans.”

“That sounds fun,” Emily cried. “Count me in.”

“And me,” Maude said.

“I’m afraid I shall have to check with my mother,” Eve said. “She rather rules the social calendar. But if it’s at all possible, I should love to watch you play a . . . a chukka, isn’t it?”

He laughed. “Well done. We’ll make an aficionado of you yet.”

He tipped his hat to the four of them, then Eve watched his back as he left.

“I think Eve has a pash for someone,” Maude told the others in a teasing tone.

“No, it’s not that,” Eve said. “He lost his brother and I like trying to cheer him up.”

The girls exchanged knowing looks. “It’s a slippery slope,” Maude remarked.

When asked, Lady Carnarvon point-blank refused to allow Eve to attend the polo. “It’s not appropriate,” she said. “I’m too busy so who would chaperone you?”

“Oh goodness, Mama, the other girls would be there. And no one bothers about chaperones these days. It’s a positively Victorian concept.”

“Maybe others don’t, but we do.” Her mother had made up her mind and would not be swayed. Eve knew it was because she had mentioned Brograve’s name, and that it would have been another matter entirely if Tommy Russell were playing.

Maude and Emily went to the Hurlingham Club and reported back that Brograve was a talented player, and had been a convivial host after the match finished.

“We gave him your apologies,” Emily said, and Eve felt a curious twinge of jealousy.

* * *

“You said it was ages after meeting Brograve before you got married?” Katie asked. “Why was that?”

“It was!” Eve shook her head at the memory. “After the w-war, the men who’d fought were all damaged by their experiences, but it came out in different ways. You got the ones like Tommy Russell, who turned to the demon drink, or to drugs, or who took crazy risks as if, having survived the trenches, they were somehow invincible. One man we knew died after diving off Waterloo Bridge, convinced he’d be able to swim the Thames.” She pursed her lips. “Then there were others, like Brograve, who closed in on themselves and were almost impossible to reach.” She laughed. “It’s just as well I relished a challenge.”

“Do you realize you’re not stammering?” Katie said. “I’m sorry to say it, but I’m not sure you need me anymore. Perhaps I need you, though. Can I bring my boyfriends around for you to vet? You can pick out the good guys and tell me which to ditch.”

Eve laughed. “I would adore that. I’ll prepare a q-questionnaire. Come anytime.”

When Brograve arrived that afternoon, Eve looked at him with fresh eyes, remembering the man he had been in his early twenties. His face had had a guarded quality, and his brown eyes were masked and difficult to read. She’d never known where she stood with him right up until they got engaged.

Now she noticed he’d lost weight. His cheeks were gaunt, and there was a grayish tint to his skin. If she knew him, on the nights Mrs. Jarrold didn’t leave supper he would just have cheese and crackers washed down with a whisky. She would telephone Maude and ask her to invite him around for a proper evening meal.

I have to get home, she thought. He needs me.

Christmas was only four weeks away. Come what may, she was determined to be back by then.