Chapter Twenty-Seven
LONDON, ENGLAND
The Armistice Day service has rendered the Red Room in the exclusive Seamore Place mansion absolutely quiet.
The entire house used to reverberate with music and witty, cultured conversation when it still belonged to the man we called Godfather, because the official relationship of Alfred de Rothschild and my mother was that of godfather and goddaughter.
When Godfather died two years ago, all this became Mama’s, and Papa immediately sold off our London town house.
Now, when we are in London, we stay in this ornate monument to antique French furniture and art, which we only occasionally visited during my childhood and then only in our finest clothes and on our best behavior.
Not even Mama’s delicate sipping of tea from a Sèvres porcelain cup or Porchey’s guzzle of whiskey from a crystal tumbler seem to make a sound in this lavish space on this somber day.
After the thunder of hundreds of soldiers marching in unison and the clop of countless horses’ hooves, the silence carries its own deafening roar.
The morning had been long and cold and sad.
On this second Armistice Day, the Cenotaph was unveiled by King George V, as the carriage carrying the coffin of the unknown soldier proceeded through the crowd-lined streets of London.
The coffin was then borne aloft by pallbearers into Westminster Abbey, where my family and a thousand other mourners observed from the pews, sang psalms, and prayed.
The unknown soldier was then laid to rest in the west end of the nave under a slab of black Belgian marble, in a service that will be emblazoned in my mind forever.
Who will be the first to speak? I wonder as I stare around this mournful room.
Even though the gilt- and mural-covered ceilings of the Red Room soar to nearly twenty feet and the room could easily hold two Highclere dining rooms, the crimson-hued formal parlor feels crowded.
Between our immediate family, Papa’s stepmother, who Porchey and I call Grandmama Elsie; and his half brothers, Aubrey and Mervyn; and their families, every seat is taken.
In our mourning attire, we look like blackened smudges of soot against the bloodred silk walls and sofas. It is fitting.
With his cane, Papa pushes himself to standing and begins to pace the room.
After a minute or two, he settles at an ornate eighteenth-century French desk.
A clicking noise breaks the silence, and Mama swivels around to stare at Papa.
He is opening and closing the tiny door of the gold chinoiserie nécessaire on top of Godfather’s desk, an ornate item decorated with sprays of ruby and diamond flowers, emerald foliage, and diamond pagodas.
During my infrequent youthful visits here, I’d always been fascinated by the gem-encrusted case, which held various miniature gold implements such as an inkwell, a perfume bottle, and a powder box.
“Will you stop fiddling with that, Porchey? It was made over a hundred years ago and is quite delicate,” Mama scolds.
My brother looks up at Mama. “But I’m not doing anything.
” His voice is petulant, and for a moment, I’m brought back to the unfortunate childhood quarrels between them in the nursery.
Nanny Moss always tried to prevent them before they erupted, but Mama and Porchey’s characters were too volatile and too similar.
I learned from their bickering, and in my parents’ company, I stay small and quiet. Until I can no longer.
“I’m not talking to you,” Mama snaps. “I’m speaking to your father.”
Papa glances over at my mother. “I’m only looking inside, Almina. My God, there are a load of gemstones on this thing. Wonder what it’s worth?”
Everyone stares at Papa. No one ever talks about money.
“That’s shockingly crass, Porchey.” Mama says what we are all thinking. “Especially on such a day as this.”
My father rises from the desk, and says, “Anyone fancy a spot of billiards before luncheon?”
“Do I ever.” My brother is the first to answer, and my uncles leap to join them.
Their wives wander off to watch, until it is just us three: Mama, me, and Grandmama Elsie.
Even though Papa’s relationship with his stepmother has been rocky from time to time, I adore the spunky woman, who speaks her mind but only for the good.
During the war, she moved to Egypt and helped organize hospitals and tend injured soldiers on rest there, earning commendations all around.
“Will you keep it all?” Grandmama Elsie gestures around the room, which has porcelain on nearly every antique surface and paintings hung from each inch of the hand-painted red silk wall coverings.
In this room alone, paintings by Gainsborough, Boucher, Greuze, Lancret, Reynolds, van Dyke, Rubens, and Watteau hang on the walls.
Mama always remarked that Godfather’s house was so opulent because he and his cousin Ferdinand were in constant competition.
But I wonder if he wasn’t motivated to create a lavish barricade to the anti-Semitism he must have encountered in the rarefied company he kept. Not that we ever speak of that.
“I don’t know why not. It reminds me of my father,” Mama says offhandedly. “He loved beautiful women and all things French. He never did understand Porchey’s love of ancient Egypt.”
“Speaking of Egypt, will you return this year?” Grandmama Elsie asks my mother, but her eyes are on me. She knows my desires. “You had quite the scare last season. I cannot imagine being in Egypt when the riots erupted.”
“We were lucky to get out when we did. I understand the situation has calmed down considerably. Zaghloul and Milner’s negotiations are ongoing, so the Egyptian citizens are calm.
So calm, in fact, that the Jockey Club opened its doors again and races are back on.
Porchey is thrilled about that, of course. ”
“What about you, Eve?” Grandmama Elsie turns to me. “Will you be going back to Egypt?”
The topic of my return has been avoided for nearly a month, ever since Mr. Carter left to get the site organized in advance of my father’s arrival. Each time I attempt to raise it, Mama leaves the room or launches into another, seemingly urgent subject.
“I am hoping—” I begin to say.
Mama interrupts. “Eve will be staying here. She needs to participate in the full Season. The social scene in Cairo was hardly on par with London, and neither were the young men.”
Not exactly true, I think. There was that one young soldier who spoke to me in Shepheard’s our last night in Cairo. But I haven’t laid eyes on him again. And I don’t even know his name.
But that is neither here nor there in this discussion. I must forestall forming an attachment to any gentleman. Because romantic relationships and archaeology do not mix.
“Mama, I will remind you of your promise that I could return for this year’s digging season.” I force my voice to stay strong and even.
Her expression hardens, as does her tone. Strange how someone so petite and lovely can transform. “And I will remind you that was your father’s promise, not mine. My guidance trumps in this realm, and you will stay in London.”
The years of carefully arranging my words and behavior to please her melt away. The anger that has been simmering beneath the surface for as long as I can recall rises up, becoming fury.
“How can you not understand that ancient Egypt and excavations are my passion? Have you not seen that in evidence since I was young?” Raising my voice, I say, “You of all people, who found your own calling during the war in building hospitals and caring for the injured soldiers. I would think you’d understand. ”
Grandmama Elsie gives me a small smile of encouragement. I know she comprehends. But the battle I must win is with my mother.
“That was different, Eve. That was for the greater good.” She dismisses my plea. Her face takes on a pinched quality, as if she’s swallowed something unexpectedly sour. “Excavating three-thousand-year-old tombs is folly. Your passion, as you call it, must be to find a husband.”
I stand up and take three steps toward her on the sofa.
“Hasn’t today taught you anything? Enormous sacrifices have been made to change our world, and yet you want me to return to the stifling roles of the past, roles which you yourself have rejected.
Why don’t you want for me the same life of purpose you once claimed for yourself? ”