Chapter Fifteen

London, July 1921

As the friends’ second Season drew toward a close, Maude’s parents agreed to throw a party for the younger set at their Hampstead house. Eve decided this was a good opportunity to fulfill her promise to Betty Beauchamp to tempt Brograve into society. The invitation was sent, and a reply came two days later offering his apologies. He said he would not be able to attend, but gave no reason.

Eve resolved not to let him off the hook so easily. She asked the operator to put a call through to his family home in Putney, South London, and got Betty on the line.

“I think he’s worried he won’t know anyone,” Betty confided. “Perhaps if he could bring a friend, that might persuade him?”

“Of course he can bring a friend!” Eve exclaimed. “I know I speak for the hostess, who is my dearest chum. Please will you pass that message on?”

Formal balls were completely out of fashion in their set, so they had decided that Maude’s party would be a “Fun and Games” one with card tables, a roulette wheel, and childish pursuits like Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

Eve was doing rather well at roulette when she looked up and noticed Brograve had arrived with an equally tall man by his side. Maude was chatting to the friend, while Brograve hung back, looking uncomfortable. Eve collected her chips and slipped them in her evening bag, then hurried over.

“You’re here!” she exclaimed to Brograve. “Wonders will never cease!”

“And he’s brought his friend Cuthbert Delauney,” Maude told her.

Eve shook hands with them both and addressed Brograve. “Are you going to stay awhile or are you already devising excuses to escape?”

He chuckled. “Am I so transparent? I have no skill at the kind of talk people seem to make at parties. I find myself tongue-tied and thinking with longing of the book I could be reading in the garden at home.”

“That’s precisely why this kind of party is ideal,” Eve told him. “There’s no need to talk. We can just play games.”

Maude was deep in conversation with Cuthbert so Eve led Brograve to a sunny parlor that had French doors leading out to the garden. “Let’s see what mischief they’re getting up to in here.”

A lively group were huddled around a card table, laughing raucously.

“Come join us,” a young man beckoned. “We’re playing Answers and Commands.”

“That sounds alarming.” She glanced at Brograve.

“We take turns to throw the dice and if you get a six, you select a question from this hat.” The young man indicated a top hat filled with folded slips of paper. “Should you refuse to answer your question, you must perform a forfeit taken from the other hat.” It was a brown homburg that reminded Eve of the one Howard Carter often wore.

“Perhaps we’ll observe for a while,” she said, worried that Brograve might find it too intrusive. “I’d like to see what kind of forfeits you have in store before I commit myself.”

“You’re either in or you’re out,” the man said. “No half measures. Are you a lion or a mouse?”

Brograve and Eve caught eyes. He was waiting for her to decide. “Shall we give it five minutes?” she suggested, and he agreed.

The dice was passed around, each person taking a turn. Eve was relieved to get a four but immediately afterward, Brograve threw a six.

“On the first throw. Just my luck!”

“Take a question!” the young man ordered, and two of the others chanted, “Ques-tion! Ques-tion!”

Brograve dipped his hand into the top hat and pulled out a question. Eve watched him and could have sworn he blanched as he read it.

“Read it out!” the young man ordered.

“‘What is the thing you are most ashamed of?’” He took a deep breath. “I am going to plead the Fifth Amendment, as the Americans say, and surrender myself to your forfeit instead.”

He dipped into the homburg, pulled one out, and read it. “It seems I am to sing the national anthem in a style of my choosing,” he declared to the company, with a sheepish grin.

Eve remembered his singing in Cairo, and worried that everyone would laugh at his appallingly flat voice. Was he aware he was tone deaf? He hadn’t appeared to be.

Brograve stood, placed his right hand on his heart, and began to sing, in the style of an opera singer: “God Save Our Gracious King . . .” all on the same baritone note. He gesticulated dramatically with his left arm but his singing was completely tuneless.

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.