Chapter Twenty-Seven

London, January 1973

While Eve was taking an afternoon nap on the sofa, a plaid blanket draped over her, Brograve sat in the window seat to write to Ana Mansour. She had given him the address of a London hotel just off the Edgware Road. He kept it short, his fountain pen scratching across the Basildon Bond paper with their personal letterhead: the names Lord and Lady Beauchamp in fancy scroll and the family crest, parts of which dated back to his fourteenth-century ancestor Guy de Beauchamp.

It was snowing outside: gusty, horizontal snow that was settling on the roof of the townhouse opposite. The sky was so gray it felt almost like the middle of the night, although it was only three in the afternoon. Typical January weather.

He looked at Eve, sleeping peacefully, a fire glowing in the grate, and felt a fierce rush of protectiveness. During most of their married life she hadn’t needed his protection because she was such an independent character, but these strokes were cruel. They made her fragile in a way she’d never been before.

He was glad he had been able to provide for her materially, although their lifestyle was nothing like as grand as the one she had grown up with at Highclere. He remembered being awestruck the first time they turned into the estate’s twisting drive and the Italianate towers came into view. He hardly uttered a word as the butler greeted them at the front door and Eve led him through the hall into the gothic-style saloon at the center of the house. It had a vaulted ceiling two stories high, and a colonnaded gallery that ran around the first floor, with arches around the ground floor leading off to the other main rooms. Heraldic crests and ancestor portraits lined the walls, making it look more like a museum than a home.

Eve took him up a curved oak staircase and showed him to his room at a corner of the building, with a tall window looking out over the grounds and its own bathroom through a connecting door. “Where’s your room?” he asked, hoping it was nearby, but she explained it was on an upper floor reached via the red staircase, not the oak. After she left, he unpacked and hung his clothes in the oak closet, then sat on the edge of the bed feeling nervous and unworthy. The purpose of the trip was for him to ask Lord Carnarvon’s permission to marry his daughter, and he didn’t have a clue what to say. He’d rehearsed several speeches in his head but none sounded right.

There was a knock on the door and a liveried footman asked if he could unpack his bags for him.

“It’s already done,” he said. “Thank you.” Then he wondered if he had committed a faux pas by doing the man out of a job.

“Lord and Lady Carnarvon are having sherry in the drawing room. They invite you to join them when you are ready,” he said, giving a little bow and starting to withdraw.

“Wait!” Brograve said. He checked his hair in the looking glass, smoothing it quickly with his hand. “Could you show me where the drawing room is? I’m afraid I’m hopelessly lost.”

* * *

Lord and Lady Carnarvon were sitting opposite each other, and Eve was next to her father but she leaped to her feet and rushed over when she saw him, taking him by the arm and bringing him to greet his hosts. A footman handed him a glass of sherry from a silver tray and he lowered himself carefully into a chair, terrified of spilling a drop on the irreplaceable brocade or the plush Persian carpet. When he dared look around, his first impressions were of pistachio-green silk wallpaper and gilded moldings. Oil paintings lined the walls, and the furniture looked priceless, certainly far too grand to place a drink on, so he clutched his glass in his hand.

Porchy arrived soon after with his new wife, Catherine. Eve bombarded them with questions about married life, keen to hear every last detail. Everyone kept glancing at him, though, and he got the impression they knew why he was there, but it wasn’t mentioned, as if there were protocols that must be observed.

They went through to the dining room for dinner and Brograve shivered as he looked up at the imposing equestrian portrait of Charles I, the king who lost his head after the English Civil War.

“It’s a Van Dyck,” Lady Carnarvon said, the first words she had spoken to him directly. Her expression was cold. She didn’t approve of him.

After the meal, Lord Carnarvon rose and beckoned for Brograve to follow, saying, “Shall we?” It was time. Eve gave his hand a quick squeeze of encouragement.

They walked across the entrance hall and into a book-lined room with ornate wood-paneled ceilings and crimson velvet chairs. Two pillars separated this room from the main library, which stretched off into the distance. Lord Carnarvon poured him a snifter of brandy and he breathed in the rich aroma, then took a sip for Dutch courage, topping up the sherry and wine he’d already consumed.

“I understand you want to marry my daughter,” Lord Carnarvon said, saving him from having to raise the subject himself. “And that she is in agreement with the plan.” He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes, I b-believe so,” Brograve said, nerves making him stutter. “In fact, I was being altogether too slow in the matter so she p-proposed to me.” Immediately he’d said it, he wondered if he was being ungallant, but Lord Carnarvon bellowed with laughter.

“That’s my Eve! God bless her, you’ll have your hands full, but I imagine you know that already.”

He flicked open a silver table lighter and toasted a fat cigar over its flame, while Brograve pondered how to answer.

Lord Carnarvon puffed on his cigar until the tip glowed. “I’ve never done this before, but I imagine I had better ask how you plan to provide for my daughter. What is your profession?”

Brograve explained that he had started a company producing copper cables, and that he already had substantial orders. “I should also tell you that my father wants me to stand for parliament in his seat of Lowestoft at the next general election.” He winced, sure that Lord Carnarvon was not a Liberal.

“Is that not somewhat of a suicide mission?” he replied. “The Liberal Party is in shambles, is it not? That Lloyd George coalition has well-nigh killed them off.”

“It will be tricky,” Brograve agreed. “I think the chances of winning are slim, but my father is retiring and it’s his dearest wish that I should fight the seat, so . . .” He spread his hands. He knew he wouldn’t win. In fact, it would be hugely inconvenient if he did because the new company took all his time, but he had to try for his father’s sake.

“Your father’s at Lloyd’s of London, is he not? I look forward to meeting him. Perhaps we could all dine together at my club in the autumn?”

Brograve’s heart gave a little leap. “Does that mean . . . ? Do you mean that I have your permission to marry Eve?”

“Good grief, man, of course you do! I would never go against Eve’s wishes. She simply wouldn’t have it.”

Brograve heaved a sigh of relief and Lord Carnarvon laughed again. “Her mother might be a tad frosty because you weren’t her first choice of candidate and Almina likes to be in charge, but my advice is to ride out the storm. When were you thinking of tying the knot?”

“Next April?” Brograve said, a question in his voice. “Eve wants a spring wedding.”

“April it is, then.” He put down his cigar and rose from his chair. Brograve rose as well, and Lord Carnarvon first of all shook his hand, then threw his arms around him and embraced him, patting his back. “Welcome to the family, young man.”

Almina didn’t say anything to Brograve’s face but he heard that she berated Eve in private. “I offered you the son of an earl,” she said, referring to Tommy Russell, “and instead you chose the son of a boring old baron.” Eve imitated her mother’s voice as she passed this on, doing an uncannily accurate impression. It didn’t endear his future mother-in-law to him.

Still, April 1923 was decided on, and the women planned a trip to Paris to start researching wedding dresses. Almina rang to book the church, and spoke to her favorite florist and photographer. This was her forte. She loved organizing events and would oversee every detail with fierce perfectionism.

And then everything changed: an election was called for November fifteenth, and Brograve was in the midst of campaigning when Eve and Pups received the telegram from Howard Carter about the discovery of the tomb. Had it not been for politics, Brograve would have joined them, and he would have been there when they crawled into the burial chamber for that illicit nighttime visit instead of hearing about it secondhand. He wished he had been; Eve was raving about it afterward.

She and Pups were halfway to Egypt when the election result was announced: Brograve got a measly 25 percent of the vote in Lowestoft, and his Conservative opponent took 57 percent. Across the country, the Liberals were decimated and the fledgling Labour Party had its fortunes boosted.

Brograve wouldn’t see the tomb until the following February, when he visited with his mother and father. And if he thought their wedding in April would be a straightforward matter, he had another think coming.