Chapter Thirty-Four

Cairo, April 5, 1923

Straight after Pups died, Almina took charge. She was used to dealing with death from her work in the hospital. She announced she would stay in Cairo to take care of the formalities and arrange to get Pups’s body shipped home, while Eve and Porchy were to sail back and begin making preparations for the funeral.

Eve was crushed by grief and couldn’t imagine how she would manage the journey. She lay on her bed sobbing so hard she made herself sick, then she huddled on the bathroom floor, shivering, her stomach in knots. How did anyone survive this? What could she do? She was twenty-one years old but felt like a helpless child.

Almina came in and crouched to comfort her. Stroking her daughter’s hair, an arm tightly around her, she said, “We will get through this, Eve. You have to take it hour by hour. First I’m going to order breakfast to be brought to your room and you will eat something. I’ll pack while you bathe and prepare for the journey. We will grit our teeth and keep putting one foot in front of the other, because that’s all we can do.”

When the breakfast tray arrived, Almina spread some toast with butter and honey—Eve’s favorite when she was a child—and Eve managed a few bites, although her throat was so raw from crying it was hard to swallow.

Porchy was unnaturally quiet on the journey but had enough self-possession to purchase their travel tickets and hire porters to carry their luggage from the train to the steamer. Later, Eve couldn’t remember any details of the voyage except that she spent a lot of time sobbing in her cabin. Eating felt like an impossible chore because it was as though there was a huge rock lodged in her chest that didn’t leave space for food. Brograve met their train at Charing Cross and Eve clung to him, breathing his masculine scent and absorbing his steadiness.

As they walked arm in arm to the station entrance, Eve’s attention was caught by a newspaper kiosk. Pictures of Pups stared out from the front cover of almost every newspaper. “Killed by the curse of Tutankhamun” read a headline. “Writings in the tomb warned of tragedy” read another.

“Don’t look,” Brograve urged her. “There’s been a lot of nonsense written. Best not pay it any mind.”

It felt hateful that a family tragedy had been turned into sensational headlines. And they were wrong! There hadn’t been any writings. Eve was tempted to buy a paper, to read the worst, but instead she let herself be helped into Brograve’s car, glancing over her shoulder at the offensive kiosk.

On the journey to Highclere, Eve found that she was calmer if she stayed in physical contact with Brograve: resting her hand on his knee or her head on his shoulder. He didn’t say much but was a calm, solid presence, and he loved her; after all they’d been through, she knew that with certainty.

The butler greeted them at the door, wearing a black armband and conveying sympathies on behalf of all the staff. Catherine met them in the drawing room and hugged Eve warmly. She’d had a fire laid and tea prepared for their arrival, already slipping into the role of lady of the house. Now that Porchy had inherited, Catherine took over the title Countess of Carnarvon from Almina, and Highclere became theirs. Eve looked around at the pistachio-green walls and the reality dawned on her that this wasn’t her home anymore. Her mother’s house at Seamore Place had never felt like home either, and Berkeley Square, Pups’s London house, was to be sold. That made her technically homeless.

The four of them sat making a list of close friends who must be invited to the funeral. Eve went into Pups’s library to fetch his address book from the drawer of the Napoleon desk, and it felt like trespassing. That had been his domain, where children were allowed only under supervision. She had never opened that drawer before, and was choked to see he’d kept a bag of toffees inside, the same toffees he used to slip her as a child when she fell and hurt her knee, or when she’d had a scolding from her mother.

Back in the drawing room, the butler was talking to Porchy. “One other matter, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry to tell you that Lord Carnarvon’s dog, Susie, has also died. In fact, she passed away on the night of the fifth of April, which I believe is the same night as his lordship.”

“How strange!” Eve said. “Perhaps she had a sixth sense.”

Porchy spoke in the condescending tone he saved for his baby sister: “She was a twelve-year-old, three-legged mutt in poor health. She could have gone at any time.”

Eve explained to Brograve: “She lost her leg in a fox snare. All the same, I think it’s uncanny she died the same night as Pups. Rather touching even.”

He smiled and reached over to ruffle her hair.

* * *

The funeral was a quiet affair with family and close friends. They decided that Susie should be buried alongside Pups on a hill overlooking the estate of which he had been so proud. Eve sobbed throughout and Brograve kept his arm firmly around her, propping her up.

That evening they had a special dinner, with Highclere’s own beef and some rare wines from Lord Carnarvon’s cellar, followed by his favorite Napoleon brandy. It was hushed and respectful, but as they sat in the drawing room after dinner, Eve became aware of raised voices from the corner where her mother and Porchy were sitting.

As she listened, she realized they were talking about the death duties that would have to be paid on the estate and her heart started to pound.

Brograve tried to intervene: “Tonight is not the time for such a conversation,” he said. “Save it for another day.”

“When else?” Porchy demanded. “Mama is planning to disappear back to her London social life and her beloved hospital tomorrow, leaving me in the lurch.”

“It’s absurd,” Almina said. “You can’t really expect me to sink the remainder of my Rothschild inheritance into paying death duties to the government. What on earth would I live on?”

Eve’s eyes filled with tears. “Please, both of you, not now.” She felt too fragile to act as peacemaker.

“No!” Porchy slammed his glass on the table, some brandy sloshing over the side. “This place is mine now and if you’re not planning to help me, Mama, you can get the hell off my bloody land!”

Brograve stood up and walked between them, his imposing height giving him authority. “Funerals are strange occasions,” he said, turning from one to the other. “People say things they don’t mean and later regret. Let’s leave this subject for now and please—everyone—raise your glasses to Lord Carnarvon, who was the most decent of men.”

Eve raised her glass—“To Pups”—and the others joined in. She was proud of Brograve; he was a beacon of strength, like a lighthouse in the eye of a storm.

Almina rose to go to her room and when Eve followed, she found her mother packing.

“I’m going to London first thing in the morning,” she said. “Porchy and Catherine have made it very clear I’m not welcome.”

Eve ran to hug her. “That’s not true, Mama. Porchy is plastered. Don’t pay any attention.”

“It is true. Who am I anyway, now I’m no longer Countess of Carnarvon? I can’t be the dowager countess because your grandfather’s second wife has that title. I’m no one.”

How like her mother to worry about the title, Eve thought. But it wasn’t just that—it was what it symbolized: her hard-won acceptance in polite society after her illegitimate background. “You are a remarkable woman who runs a very successful hospital and you have dozens of friends who adore you. I adore you!”

“We must spend more time together, Evelyn.” Her mother kissed her cheek. “I’d like that.”

“Me too,” Eve said. She had lost one parent and she desperately needed the one she had left.

* * *

Eve stayed a few more days at Highclere, finding comfort in riding around the estate with Brograve, telling him stories of her childhood, and visiting places she and Pups had loved: the stables, the lake, the farm, the circular Grotto Lodge. Every day she walked up Beacon Hill to sit by Pups’s grave and she talked to him in her head as if he were there. It made her feel close to him.

“Did you ever talk to Edward?” she asked Brograve. “After he died, I mean.”

“I still do,” he said. “I’ve told him all about you, and that I can’t wait to marry you.” He gave a woeful smile.

“I’m sorry,” Eve said. “We were supposed to be married this month.” Almina had canceled the church for now.

“It’s alright, my love,” he said. “We will marry when you are ready, but not a moment before.”

Among the deluge of condolence letters, Eve picked out one addressed to her, feeling as if she recognized the handwriting. When she opened it, she saw it was from the popular novelist Marie Corelli, the one who had written before Christmas. It began with her offering sympathy on Eve’s loss, followed by her assurance that Lord Carnarvon was at peace in the spirit world.

“He came to me in a séance yesterday evening,” she wrote, “and asked me to contact you. He said he doesn’t want you to mourn because he died a happy man, having achieved his life’s ambition with the discovery of the tomb. But he would like a chance to talk to you once more and asked that you consult a spirit medium. If it is at all possible, he promised he will be there with you.”

Eve got goose bumps all over. Could it be true? Had Pups contacted Marie Corelli from the afterlife? Why would he, when he had never met her and hadn’t held a high opinion of her? If he were going to contact any spiritual medium, surely it would have been Sirenia?

“Who’s the letter from?” Brograve asked, and she made a snap decision not to tell him. She had a strong feeling he would try to talk her out of consulting a medium, and she already knew that she was going to give it a try.