Chapter Thirteen

London, December 1972

Christmas was around the corner, so Eve threw herself into the arrangements. Maude very kindly agreed to do her shopping at Harrods from a long list she’d handwritten—fifty-four gifts for friends and family, including a bottle of Rive Gauche perfume for Sionead, a new Barbour jacket for Brograve, and a box of cigars for Porchy, which would be delivered direct to Highclere. She managed to gift-wrap everything herself, sitting at the dining-room table, and she scribbled her wobbly signature on dozens of Christmas cards but left Brograve to address and stamp them and stick them in the postbox. They had a tree in the corner that Sionead festooned with the mismatching decorations they’d collected over the years, and Brograve nailed a festive holly wreath on the front door.

She invited Maude and Cuthbert for dinner on the twenty-third to thank them for all their help during her illness. Mrs. Jarrold rose to the occasion and produced a spectacular menu of coquille Saint Jacques, beef Wellington, and a bread and butter pudding. There was champagne to start, a different wine for each course, and Napoléon brandy, which always reminded Eve of the smell of Pups when she sat on his lap as a child.

Cuthbert and Brograve had served in the war together, so their friendship went back even further than Eve and Maude’s: fifty-six years as opposed to their fifty-two. Brograve had retired long ago but Cuthbert was working for the British Council and had just returned from a trip to Cairo.

“Did they have Christmas decorations everywhere?” Eve asked. “I remember finding that very odd when I was in Cairo one Christmas.”

“None that I noticed,” Cuthbert said. “Fifteen percent of the population is Christian, but they fast in November and December and celebrate on the seventh of January.”

“It’s a sensitive time for Anwar Sadat in the aftermath of the Israeli war,” Brograve said. “Did you encounter any problems?”

Cuthbert made a face. “It’s frightfully difficult politically, but we steered well clear. We were there on a cultural mission, to reach out the hand of friendship and invite collaborations.”

Maude chipped in: “Yes, and to persuade them to educate their children at British universities, while refusing to send back any of the Ancient Egyptian treasures our ancestors stole from them.”

The men laughed. “That’s my job in a nutshell,” Cuthbert agreed.

Eve knew there was a school of thought that they should hand back antiquities to the countries they had come from during the colonial era, but it wasn’t straightforward. Some of these countries didn’t actually exist anymore because maps had been redrawn; others didn’t have the facilities to care for antiquities properly. She would be sad to see everything returned. The British Museum was an extraordinary archive of world culture, and she loved to hear the gasps of schoolchildren seeing a mummy for the first time, or a haunting Easter Island statue, or the Rosetta Stone, which had made it possible for scholars to translate hieroglyphics. She didn’t say anything though; it was too hard to get her thoughts in order.

Mrs. Jarrold called them to the dining room, where she was serving the first course. Brograve wheeled Eve through in her chair, while Maude took Cuthbert’s arm to help him stand up. He was stooped from a spinal condition and Eve noticed him wincing.

“How did we all get to be so old?” Maude asked. “It seems only yesterday when Eve and I were flitting around town, our only concern being which frock to wear to that evening’s party.”

“That was never one of my concerns,” Brograve quipped.

“You used to hate parties,” Eve said, then turned to their guests. “His mother practically begged me to invite him out, but more often than not he turned me down. It’s a wonder we ever got together.”

“How did you know his mother back then?” Maude asked. “I can’t remember. Were they friends of your family’s?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. They turned up at the Winter Palace in Luxor in the winter of . . .” She hesitated and glanced at Brograve. She still had trouble remembering dates.

“February 1921,” he said.

Eve continued: “I’d been digging in the Valley all day and got back to the hotel, covered in sand from head to toe, bedraggled as a street urchin. Imagine my horror when I saw Brograve standing in reception with an older couple, who I assumed were his parents. I tried to slink behind a screen, but he spotted me, called me over, and made the introductions.” Eve pulled a face. “Betty was a delightful woman but I made a terrible blunder over cocktails and upset her badly.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Brograve murmured, and she was grateful, but all the same she knew it had been.

* * *

Brograve’s father, Sir Edward, was formal, shaking Eve’s hand briefly without smiling, but his mother was instantly friendly.

“Do please call me Betty,” she said in an American accent. “I never understand English titles and how you’re supposed to use them. Am I Lady Betty or Betty, Lady Beauchamp? Frankly, I just prefer Betty.”

“In that case you must call me Eve. How lovely to meet you. Are you staying here long?”

Betty explained that they were on a Nile cruise and had fancied a couple of nights on dry land while they explored Luxor. “I can’t wait to see Karnak and the Valley of the Kings,” she said.

“I’ve just come from the Valley,” Eve explained, gesturing at her grubby gown. “And I appear to have brought some of it back on my clothing.”

At that moment they heard the sound of raised voices coming from outside. Men were shouting in Arabic, and they sounded alarmed. Brograve hurried to the door to see what was going on.

“Probably some local dispute,” Sir Edward said. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’m going up to our room to read some telegrams I’ve received.” He bowed and told Eve it had been a pleasure to meet her, before heading for the stairs, swinging a room key.

“It’s the office,” Betty told Eve. “They can’t leave him to vacation in peace.”

“Am I right in thinking he’s in politics?”

Betty nodded. “He’s a member of parliament, and he’s also chairman of Lloyd’s of London, the insurance company. The telegrams will be from them.”

Brograve returned. “There’s a snake in a tree. A cobra, I think. Some men are trying to knock it down with forked sticks.”

“Which tree?” Eve asked, the blood draining from her face.

“A palm tree by the staircase up from the garden.”

“You mean the tree I just walked under?” Eve asked, having visions of a snake dropping onto her head, or uncoiling to strike as she passed.

“Oh my, was it there when we arrived?” Betty asked, an edge of hysteria in her voice.

“I think I should buy you ladies a drink,” Brograve said. “I’m sure they won’t allow any snakes indoors.”

Eve was about to excuse herself, feeling too scruffy to enter the hotel’s very smart salon, with its cool marble floors, white blinds, and aquarelles of ancient sites on the walls. She considered going upstairs to let Marcelle tidy her hair at least, but the lure of a drink was too powerful.

“Perhaps I’ll join you for a quick freshener,” she said. “I could murder a gin rickey.” It was a drink she had been introduced to by Tommy Russell—gin with ice, soda, sugar, and lime.

“How do you two know each other?” Betty asked as they sat down, and Eve explained while Brograve went to the bar to place their order.

Betty admitted she had found it difficult to make friends since she had arrived in London. Everyone seemed to have their own social group and did not include outsiders. “It means I don’t have many acquaintances with sons or daughters of Brograve’s age who might invite him to social events,” she said, then looked at Eve. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to include him in your gatherings once in a while? He hardly goes anywhere and I’d love him to make more friends.”

Brograve was returning from the bar and overheard her. “Mother!” he exclaimed, his cheeks coloring.

“I’ll do my best,” Eve promised, smiling at him. “But I suspect I might need to hold a pistol to his head.”

A waiter brought a tray with three gin rickeys served in tall glasses dripping with condensation. Eve and Betty kept up an effortless flow of conversation without Brograve uttering more than a few words. It seemed he would never get a sentence in edgeways if she didn’t ask direct questions, so she turned to him.

“Are you still playing polo?” she asked. “I was sorry to miss that match at the Hurlingham. My friends said that, from the little they could understand, you seemed to be a skilled player.”

He gave an embarrassed laugh. “Not at all. In fact, I’ve had to retire from the team as my work doesn’t allow me time for sport.”

“What work is that?” she asked. “Are you a career officer in the Life Guards?” She sipped her drink, brushing away a drop of condensation that landed on her skirt.

“My commission has recently come to an end,” he replied, “and I am starting my own business.”

“Goodness, that sounds intriguing. What kind of business?” The conversation was hard work because Brograve never volunteered information, leaving her to dig for it.

“I’m sure you will find it terribly dull, but I plan to manufacture a new kind of copper cable. It’s the type required for the telephone network to be expanded, and will have many other uses, I hope.”

“Well, far from finding it dull, I can tell you I will be your biggest customer,” Eve told him. “I love telephones! I spend far longer on them than you can possibly imagine. How did we ever manage without them?” She shook her head, smiling at Betty. “I also remember you mentioning that your father wanted you and your brother to go into politics. Will you combine the two careers, as he has done?”

Brograve glanced at his mother, seeming uncomfortable, and Eve wondered if she’d spoken out of turn. The terrace doors opened and she turned, momentarily distracted by the thought of the snake in the garden.

“Am I misremembering?” She turned back. “You said your brother would have made a better politician than you, because he was more outgoing.”

Betty made a slight choking noise and clutched the triple strand of pearls at her throat.

“I’m so sorry,” Eve said, realizing too late she had strayed into difficult territory. “I shouldn’t have mentioned Edward. I can be horribly tactless sometimes.”

Betty’s eyes filled with tears, and Brograve whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her. She covered her face with it, shoulders heaving.

“Please forgive me . . .” Eve’s voice tailed off in horror as Betty stood up abruptly. What had she done?

“I’m sorry,” Betty said, her voice choked with tears. “I have to get better at this. I must.”

Brograve half-rose from his seat, reaching out a hand, but his mother hurried through the bar toward the stairs before he could stop her.

“Please run after her,” Eve begged. “Tell her I’m a complete dolt and am heartily ashamed of myself. I remember now you warned me that she couldn’t bear to talk of your brother.”

“Don’t concern yourself. She’ll be fine,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “Perhaps she will compose herself and return to join us soon.”

Eve thought how hard it must be for him to live in an environment where he had to curb his own grief because of his mother’s distress. All the pressure rested on him as the son left behind. No wonder he had the air of carrying the world on his shoulders.

She decided then and there to take him under her wing. She felt drawn to this tall, reserved man. She sensed she could be good for him—if only he would relax his guard for five minutes and let her.