Chapter Twelve

London, November 1972

Brograve was worried when Eve started talking about coming home. He missed her terribly; life was miserable without her smile first thing in the morning, her bright chatter around the house forming the accompaniment to his day. After he had retired from work, he often found himself following her from room to room as she tidied and rearranged drawers and chatted on the telephone, happy simply to be in her presence.

But he was concerned that she hadn’t accepted the extent of her disabilities. She was still a long way from being able to walk, and couldn’t even lift herself out of the wheelchair, because her right hand was too weak to be of much use. That meant she couldn’t go to the toilet on her own. She couldn’t get in and out of bed or dress herself without help. She certainly couldn’t have a bath. Was he capable of helping her with those things?

Most alarming of all, she still had the occasional choking fit. It happened without warning. A morsel of food went down the wrong way and suddenly she was coughing and clutching her throat, panic in her expression. When it happened at Pine Trees, she pressed her personal alarm and a nurse rushed in to help. Brograve had watched the way they did it, clutching her around the waist from behind, fist clenched, making her bend forward, then pulling backward in sudden jerky movements until the food dislodged. But what if they were at home alone and he couldn’t manage it? She might choke to death in front of him.

It was Patricia who came up with the solution. She found an agency that hired out private nurses who could either live in or visit for a few hours a day. Eve and Brograve had a large guest room where a nurse could live comfortably, so that might be a solution. He rang the agency, inquired about fees, and asked them to send details of suitable candidates.

Next he spoke to the matron at Pine Trees and asked if she thought it was a workable idea. Between them, they agreed that Sally the Sadist could visit Eve at home to continue her physiotherapy. If it didn’t work out, she could always come back to Pine Trees, although there was no guarantee her garden room would still be available.

And finally Brograve told Eve what he had been planning.

She covered her face with her hands and for a moment he thought she was upset. Maybe she wasn’t ready to leave, or felt she should have been consulted. When she looked up, her eyes were glistening with tears.

“That is the best Christmas present I’ve had in my entire life,” she cried. “I like this room but I can’t wait to be back with you, in my own home. Oh, that’s p-perfect.”

A nurse called Sionead was hired, a flame-haired, green-eyed Irish girl, and the date of December fourteenth was set for the move. Brograve had a lot of arrangements to make. He asked Mrs. Jarrold to prepare Eve’s favorite lemon sole for her first dinner at home, taking special care to remove the bones. He bought bunches of chrysanthemums in shades of mauve and gold for every room. He bought a huge box of Terry’s chocolates with mixed centers, a bottle of Gordon’s gin, and another of Eve’s favorite Tio Pepe sherry. Everything had to be perfect.

The day before the move was to take place, Ana Mansour telephoned him.

“I’m back in London and wondered how Lady Beauchamp is getting along? Did she decide about when I might come to interview her?”

“I’m afraid it’s not convenient this week,” Brograve told her, and explained about the move. “She’ll need time to settle in and get used to being at home. We’re taking each day as it comes.”

“Of course,” Ana said. “I understand. It’s just that I brought her a gift from Egypt. I wonder if I might drop it off today so it’s there to greet her when she gets back? I won’t get in your way.”

Brograve hesitated. “Certainly. If I’m not here, my housekeeper will be able to accept your gift. That’s very kind.”

When he got back from Pine Trees that evening—the last evening he would spend on his own, he hoped—there was an arrangement of exotic pink flowers in a vase on the kitchen table along with a card addressed to Eve. It wasn’t sealed so he opened it.

“Dear Lady Beauchamp,” the card read. “You will remember the beauty of lotus flowers from your time in Egypt. I hope you enjoy these ones, which have survived a plane journey perched on my lap. Wishing you and your husband a wonderful Christmas. Yours sincerely, Ana.”

He felt very touched that she would go to such an effort. It was thoughtful, and made him warm to her.

* * *

Eve was as excited about going home as a kid going to the seaside. She hoped their gardener had kept on top of all the chores without her prompting him. She loved her mature garden, a whole acre of it with different areas: the alpine rockery, the apple orchard, the vegetable patch, the rose garden she had planted herself, the wild strawberries, the rhubarb, the lupines. Their gardener took care of the heavy jobs but she did a lot herself: pottering around with her pruning shears to keep on top of the dead-heading, dealing with greenfly and slugs, watering the beds on summer evenings. Of course, hardly anything would be flowering in December. Sometimes a late rose or two survived the early frost, a defiant blast of color against the backdrop of crisp brown leaves that littered the lawn.

When the day arrived, she was wheeled out to a special van in which her wheelchair could be secured. Brograve sat in the front seat and kept swiveling around to smile encouragement. She gazed out the window, watching a father cycling along with a small child perched in a basket in front of him, then a tramp sitting on the pavement who caught her eye while they were stopped at a traffic light.

The drive should have taken more than an hour, but in less than five minutes, the driver pulled up and Brograve got out of the van.

“Where are we?” Eve asked when the driver began unfastening the straps that held her chair. She turned to Brograve. “I thought we were going to Framfield.”

His face fell. “Pipsqueak, we sold the Framfield house last year, don’t you remember? It got too big for us, and it was too far away from everything. We live here now. It’s a lovely apartment. You’ll remember when you see it.”

She was quiet as they wheeled her into a lift with metal gates, which took them up to the third floor. She missed her Framfield house as if it were a lover; she had an ache in her heart for it. Why had they left?

It was a shock to find she didn’t recognize the apartment at all. She remembered the furniture—her favorite armchair, the bureau that had been her mother’s; she recognized paintings and ornaments, but the layout was unfamiliar. She wheeled herself down the hallway, checking inside rooms and cupboards, getting her bearings. It was spacious at least, and there was a lot of natural light. The windows overlooked a park along one side. Regent’s Park? Hyde Park? She didn’t like to ask. Oh, but she yearned for her Framfield garden. She mustn’t let Brograve see how disappointed she was.

“I have a new trick to show you,” she told him, wheeling herself into the sitting room. “Come and watch.” She’d been practicing with Sally the Sadist, saving it up to surprise him. She drew up alongside an armchair, put the wheelchair’s brake on, and lifted herself slowly, leaning her weight on her left hand, before stepping sideways and lowering herself into the chair.

Brograve cheered. “Hooray! I didn’t know you could do that! You are clever, Pipsqueak!”

“It seems they were wrong about old dogs and new tricks,” she said, pleased with herself.

Brograve lifted the lotus flower arrangement that Ana had left and placed it on the table beside her. She stared at it for a long time, sniffing the delicate scent and examining the intricate design of the pink petals curled around yellow stamens.

“There were many lotus flower carvings in Tutankhamun’s tomb,” she said. “It was believed they gave strength and power. Perhaps that’s why Ana brought them for me.” And then she remembered something: that gold box she had taken from the tomb had a lotus flower carved on the lid. She shuddered involuntarily.

The nurse, Sionead, came into the room holding a cake with a candle burning on top, one hand cupped around the flame. “Welcome home, Lady Beauchamp,” she said. “I know it’s not your birthday but I thought we should celebrate all the same.”

“What a pretty cake!” Eve cried. “Thank you.” It had lemon icing and slices of sugared lemon on top.

“Make a wish!” Sionead urged, holding it in front of her.

Eve closed her eyes. Lots of wishes flooded her mind: to see her Framfield garden again, to get the rest of her memories back, but one was foremost. She wanted to walk by Christmas. That’s what she wished for as she blew. The flame sputtered for a moment, then vanished in a puff of smoke.