Chapter Twenty-Five
HAMPSHIRE, ENGLAND
My maid swings the shutters open wide to bring in the morning light, but all I see is a gray sky to match my mood. Nothing seems to restore to me the vividness of color and the exuberance of spirit I experienced in Egypt.
Certainly my re-entrance into the Season doesn’t brighten my spirits.
Stepping back into the rounds of dinner parties and balls and house parties and teas and lawn tennis outings and picnics, I feel as though I’ve never left.
As if the same banal conversations have been going on since I left with the same banal people, and I’ve simply rejoined them.
Not even Mr. Carter and Papa’s return home to Highclere in the late spring enlivens me.
I help Mr. Carter study artifacts and select next year’s site—my little scarab back in England and on my worktable—and I assist Papa in moving the highlights of his Egyptian collection onto new shelves.
But nothing can compare to the joy I felt with my hands deep in the earth, slowly freeing that three-thousand-year-old vase.
I yearn for the searing sun of the Valley of the Kings, and lament the time I lost in the valley.
The conversation last night about Egypt only exacerbated my longing and my frustration.
What did I expect? Dinner with Uncle Aubrey and his dear friend T.
E. Lawrence would necessarily involve talk of Egypt, nationalism, and the ongoing insurrection.
After all, Uncle Aubrey served in the intelligence unit of the Arab Bureau along with Mr. Lawrence, and the latter also gained notoriety for immersing himself with the Bedouin tribes to help the Arab revolt against the Ottoman Empire.
Although, to look at Mr. Lawrence, he appeared so ordinary, one couldn’t imagine him in full Bedouin garb.
“You do realize that what’s happening in Egypt is just one move in an international game of chess, dear brother?
” Uncle Aubrey had asked, as he held his crystal wineglass for Streatfield to refill.
My uncle’s rumpled evening suit and uncombed hair belied the sharp mind relied upon by many world leaders.
“How so?” Papa asked.
Uncle Aubrey and Mr. Lawrence gave each other a glance, and my uncle answered.
“Well, the red pawns are obviously the Egyptian people, and the white pieces are the English. But the game we are playing with the Egyptians is one small match on the larger board, in which nationalism and colonialism are at stake. In some ways, it’s not that different from what’s happening in Ireland, with certain of its citizens clamoring for independence. ”
“I’m hoping some discussions I arranged in the spring will help move along this chess game you’re going on about,” Papa said, leaning toward Streatfield to light his pipe. He found Uncle Aubrey’s high-minded conversations annoying sometimes.
Ignoring Papa’s obvious irritation, Uncle Aubrey leaned forward in his chair. “What discussions?”
“You know there was a bit of a scuffle in the spring in Egypt, so I put some leaders together to see if they couldn’t work things out. Especially when Milner came to town.” Papa shrugged.
“You mean Lord Milner, British Colonial Secretary?” Uncle Aubrey asked, eyes widening.
“That’s the one,” Papa said, in between puffs of his pipe.
Uncle Aubrey tilted his head quizzically as he asked, “Who exactly did you put together with Milner?”
Ticking them off with his free hand like items on a shopping list, Papa said, “Allenby, Fuad, and Zaghloul. Known them all for years.”
Mr. Lawrence practically leaped up from his seat. “You managed to get all three of those men in one room?”
“Five if you count me and Milner.” Papa puffed on his pipe.
“Yes, at the Winter Palace. They didn’t resolve their differences, but it did lead to Zaghloul’s agreement to come to England to meet with Lord Milner to talk about the relationship between the two countries.
Zaghloul’s here now, in fact. Perhaps Milner will agree to the dissolution of the protectorate, maybe even a treaty for an independent Egypt with ties to England. But who knows?”
I hadn’t realized that the meetings Papa organized in Egypt had yielded these promising negotiations. From the way they stared, Uncle Aubrey and Mr. Lawrence were astonished as well. “How do you know all this?”
“Zaghloul and his men are coming to stay at Highclere when the negotiations are over.”
“My God, Porchey,” Uncle Aubrey said with a shake of his head and a chuckle. “Zaghloul—here at Highclere?”
Mr. Lawrence added, “You could end up as a catalyst for peace in Egypt. I never knew you to be so invested in political affairs, Lord Carnarvon.”
“I am when they affect me personally. I can’t excavate if riots overtake the country,” Papa said, then added, “and how many times do I have to ask you to call me Porchey? You’ve been to Highclere half a dozen times, Lawrence, and you’re Aubrey’s mate, for goodness’ sake.”
“Ah, so this is about your excavations?” Uncle Aubrey asked.
“Not entirely. I do have sympathy for the Egyptian people and understand their desire for self-governance. And, of course, I understand the English position as well. But Howard and I can hardly dig in the Valley of the Kings if the country is in turmoil,” Papa replied. “Can we, Howard?”
Howard shook his head, but otherwise didn’t speak. He was usually quiet during these dinners with Uncle Aubrey.
“How did the past season go?” Uncle Aubrey asked.
Papa described the thirteen vases we unearthed in the spring, and his half brother followed up: “Will you sell them or display them?”
“I haven’t yet decided. They won’t fit in my smoking room cases, but I am not quite ready to part with them. Even though they hardly pointed us in the direction of an undisturbed pharaonic tomb.”
“I am advocating selling the vases, Aubrey,” Mama declared. “We already have more artifacts than we know what to do with. And those vases really don’t complement the rest of the decor.”
Leave it to my mother to complain that the cache of ancient Egyptian vases clashes with her silk walls and her upholstery.
But I stayed quiet, listening and waiting for my moment.
I was honing in on opportunities to plead my case to return, especially now that Egypt may reclaim a modicum of peace.
Although Papa had promised, Mama often overruled him, and she seemed quite dedicated to my full attendance in this year’s Season.
“Discovering pharaonic tombs isn’t the only measure of success, Porchey,” Mr. Lawrence remarked. “I would guess the location and design of those vases might tell us quite a bit about Merneptah’s reign and changing mortuary practices. They could have intrinsic historic evidence.”
“I agree, and I think our”—Papa gestured to Mr. Carter—“reputation for methodical excavation and preserving the historical context speaks to that. But can you blame me for wanting to unearth one of the final pharaonic tombs in the Valley of the Kings?”
“Assuming such tombs even exist,” Uncle Aubrey commented wryly.
“Assuming they exist.” Papa accepted the caveat, not bothering to mask his irritation with his little brother’s naysaying.
“They must exist,” I interjected, unable to sit quietly any longer.
“Three dynasties of ancient Egyptian pharaohs were in the Valley of the Kings, and it defies logic to think that Nefertiti or Ramses the Eighth or Tutankhamun or Alexander the Great did not have tombs,” I said, with a conviction and proficiency that raised eyebrows and prompted a surprised silence.
While our dinner guests were certainly aware of my interest in ancient Egypt and excavations, I was sure even Uncle Aubrey perceived it as a passing fancy.
A way to pass the time until I found a husband. “It’s just a matter of finding them.”
“That’s a fair point, Lady Evelyn. It seems logical that those tombs are out there,” Mr. Lawrence said.
“And of course, it’s the archaeologist’s dream to find such a tomb.
But the reality is most were plundered in antiquity, and there remains tremendous value in artifacts left behind.
We should not discount those finds. Those that aren’t scattered to the winds, that is. ”
“No one is debating that, Lawrence,” Uncle Aubrey said, his tone impatient. He was clearly desirous of steering the conversation in another direction. “Isn’t the more important question: Who should own the artifacts discovered? And who should oversee the excavations of the tombs?”
Papa sputtered, a reaction which prompted a half smile from Uncle Aubrey. He loved to get a reaction from his big brother.
The ghost of a smile disappeared quickly, as Uncle Aubrey said, “I know you don’t like to discuss these questions, Porchey, but they are inevitable.
With independence looming, the new Egyptian government will naturally want to oversee their own history and their own artifacts.
The primacy of ancient Egypt may play a role in their new nationalistic pride.
They may not want to engage in the traditional system of partage.
Why on earth would the new government want to split ownership of archaeological discoveries in half, as the government under the protectorate has always agreed to do?
You should consider this if you proceed with your concession in the Valley of the Kings. ”
Papa shook his head at Uncle Aubrey’s proclamation. “I don’t think most Egyptians care about archaeology beyond the extent to which it provides income for the country. Whether in licenses or sales, which they already undertake.”
I glanced over at Mr. Carter to see his reaction.
His craggy face bore a pained expression, and I wondered if Uncle Aubrey was causing his discomfort or it stemmed from his gallbladder operation earlier this summer.
I began to get worried that Uncle Aubrey’s statements were true.
That, if Egypt successfully achieved independence, archaeology, as I’d come to understand it, would become difficult, perhaps even impossible.
A heaviness settled upon my chest at the thought of my dream slipping away.
“What do you think, Mr. Carter?” I asked, as the other men engaged in a spirited debate about whether Zaghloul would really show up at Highclere Castle. “Are the winds of change about to blow across the Valley of the Kings?”
Mr. Carter and I had never discussed the role Egyptian nationalism could play in his work and archaeology generally, other than its impact on safety.
I knew that he cared about the Egyptian people: when he served as an antiquities official before he met Papa, he protected his Egyptian workers against abuse wreaked upon them by French tourists at Saqqara at the expense of his position.
And I’d seen his rapport with the men on his excavations.
But if Egyptian independence affected his archaeology, would any sympathy and support he harbored disappear?
“Lady Evelyn, the change has already happened,” he answered softly, almost sadly.
I found his answer curious; after all, independence hovered but was not a given. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Carter?”
“Whether or not the Egyptian government achieves autonomy, and whether or not nationalist fervor affects archaeology, excavation as we know it is almost over. For the past several years, so-called experts from museums and universities have gobbled up all the available sites, leaving nothing for patrons like your father. Lord Carnarvon’s concession in the Valley of the Kings is our last chance. ”