Chapter Forty
LONDON, ENGLAND
“The suspense is overwhelming, Lady Evelyn,” Lieutenant Beauchamp exclaims, his eyes wide and his smile encouraging. “How did you escape from the dangerous chamber?”
I suddenly hesitate. I’d been detailing the thrill of discovering an ancient underground room and juxtaposing that elation with the terrifying moment of the chamber’s collapse, but now I waver.
Does it denigrate Ahmed’s courage to dramatize the moment of our rescue in my retelling to Lieutenant Beauchamp?
No, I think. Ahmed played a heroic role in the story, and it deserves to be emphasized.
Too often, I’ve noticed, Papa and Howard and I write out the crucial roles our Egyptian counterparts play.
Anyway, how can I resist Lieutenant Beauchamp’s expression?
I can’t help but be tickled at his genuinely alarmed reaction.
Obviously, I emerged from the chamber unharmed.
I’m here, after all. And he and I have connected at five events since my return—six, if you count today’s outing to the Burlington Fine Arts Club where Papa has lent several pieces for its ancient Egyptian art exhibit.
Despite this, Lieutenant Beauchamp’s concern is real, and it pleases and touches me.
“I’m not certain Mr. Carter and I would have made it out of the chamber unscathed without Ahmed Gerigar, one of the foremen.
He tunneled through that dangerous barricade of unstable rock and dug a large enough hole for me and Mr. Carter to crawl through.
We were unspeakably hot while we waited, of course, but that was the extent of our injuries,” I announce, “thanks to Ahmed.”
“How fortunate for us all,” he says, with a lingering glance. “I am indebted to Ahmed.”
I want Lieutenant Beauchamp to know that wasn’t the end of Ahmed’s selfless bravery. “That wasn’t the only time he saved us. We faced another, very real danger when we tried to get out of Egypt before the nationalists stormed again.” I share the harrowing escape from Port Said.
“I cannot believe that I’ve seen you”—he pauses, counting on his fingers—“a total of six times since you’ve been home, and you’ve never disclosed these perils. A whole day stuck in a blazing hot underground desert room and nearly being attacked by a mob!” he exclaims, incredulous.
“It isn’t exactly the usual dinner party conversation.”
“It’s the sort of thing I hope you feel comfortable discussing with me.
I am so very glad you are safe and back in England.
Perhaps one day I’ll get the chance to thank this Ahmed,” he says, with eyes so warm and kind, I feel a pang, of what, I’m not quite sure. Has anyone ever looked at me this way?
“That would be wonderful—assuming we can get back into Egypt safely. I feel like the protestors are always nipping at my heels. If only I could get through one archaeological season without—” I stop, suddenly realizing how selfish and petty my words sound.
Why should the quest for independence take any sort of heed to our dig?
My wants regarding ancient Egypt—even those of Papa and Howard—are minute compared to the larger needs of the modern-day Egyptian people.
Lieutenant Beauchamp seems one of the few people in my circle with any sort of real interest in or sympathy for their cause—save Uncle Aubrey—and I don’t want him to think ill of me. I like him far too much for that.
“Not that I blame the nationalists, mind you,” I add. “Their cause is just, and I understand why they want to represent themselves. Even if that view isn’t very popular among our set.”
“I confess, Lady Evelyn, it’s you that opened my eyes to the Egyptian people and their cause. I hadn’t that same perspective when I served in Egypt and—”
Before Lieutenant Beauchamp can finish, Papa waves us over.
We weave through the clusters of people in the gallery, all studying the artifacts.
This exhibit of ancient Egyptian art is wildly popular, far exceeding everyone’s expectations, and has attracted a strange blend of collectors, archaeologists, and curiosity seekers.
“The guests seem to be appreciating the pieces.” Lieutenant Beauchamp bends down and whispers to me as we make our way across the room. At six feet and two inches, he towers over me by more than a foot, yet he never makes me feel small.
“That’s a relief.” I turn toward him and whisper back, “Not five years ago, people found ancient Egyptian art primitive. But that’s because they didn’t understand the artistic style and its meaning.
They thought that the Egyptian artists’ use of strong, simple lines meant they were incapable of more complex work, which simply isn’t true.
Their work is highly stylized for a reason—it’s meant to impart a very specific narrative that people of their time would have comprehended. ”
“Do people understand Egyptian art now?”
“I doubt it,” I answer. “But it’s become fashionable, so most people pretend. Just like the spectators here today,” I say with a giggle and a glance around the room, and Lieutenant Beauchamp laughs along.
We join Papa, Mama, and Howard, who are staring at the remains of an obsidian statue mounted on a silk board. It appears to depict a pharaoh—the headdress and uraeus signify that status—but the only part left is the head.
Papa turns and asks us, “What do you make of this?” Our group had a good long chat in the lobby when Lieutenant Beauchamp arrived, so Papa feels free to skip the pleasantries and bark out his question.
“Oh, I wouldn’t venture an uneducated opinion in this company.” Lieutenant Beauchamp smiles and takes a step back.
“It’s lovely in its way, I suppose,” I answer, drawing a bit closer to the plaque. “It says here that this is Amenemhat the Third. Wasn’t he that Middle Kingdom ruler who inherited a prosperous throne from his father, Senusret III?”
Papa claps his hands and exclaims, “Exactly, Eve. He was an unaccomplished pharaoh, so why in the world are people flocking around this scrap of a statue and praising it so excessively? It’s on the cover page of the exhibit catalogue for goodness’ sake.
“I heard someone say, ‘It’s the finest expression of Egyptian statuary art in the world.’ My own red quartzite statue of his father—a far more important pharaoh”—he points to the case housing his treasure—“is more artistic, in any event.”
“As I was just telling Lieutenant Beauchamp, most people have no real understanding of Egypt’s art or its history. So, Papa”—I reach out and squeeze his hand—“I wouldn’t let their fascination with this obsidian statue frustrate you.”
He squeezes back, and says, “You always know what to say, my Evie.” Then his expression darkens again, and he says, “Still, it is irksome that MacGregor is getting so many accolades for this damn obsidian relic when he doesn’t do any of the digging himself.”
Papa’s comment about Reverend William MacGregor, a collector who lent many of the objects here, stops me cold.
Has Papa unearthed every object he lent to the Burlington Fine Arts Club?
I know he hasn’t. In fact, I recently learned that the red statue of Senusret III Papa just referred to came from the shop owned by Nicholas Tano, an antiquities dealer whose store is opposite Shepheard’s.
Before I can formulate my remark, Mama pulls Papa away to speak with one of their friends, a conversation into which Howard is swept, leaving Lieutenant Beauchamp and me free to wander the room.
As we pass by display cases, I point out the painted bowls; stone chalices; gold, turquoise, and carnelian jewelry; faience animals and cartouches; toiletry sets; ushabti; an intact gaming board; and bronze and gold statues that Papa loaned.
When Lieutenant Beauchamp asks about how archaeologists have managed to retrieve so many decorative objects, I explain, “We have so many because the ancient Egyptians believed that, in order to have their belongings in the afterlife, they needed to be buried with them or their facsimiles.”
Lieutenant Beauchamp halts. “So all of these items came from tombs?”
“For the most part,” I answer slowly. Had he not realized that before this moment? “Does that sound horribly macabre to you? I suppose I’m used to it.”
“No,” he says, with a shake of his head. “It just puts all this in context, I suppose.”
I realize that we have stopped next to a pedestal with a very familiar vase on top. “Oh my!” I exclaim in surprise, my hand flying to my mouth for speaking so loudly in this hushed space.
“What is it?” Lieutenant Beauchamp asks.
“I excavated this vase myself. I dug it out of the Egyptian soil with my own hands.”
“This very vase?” His eyes are wide with astonishment.
“Yes, last season. It was part of a set of thirteen. I had no idea that Papa thought it worthy of lending for this exhibit. He must have wanted to surprise me.” I am irrationally proud, as if I’ve carved this vase myself.
For all his dithering about how unsuccessful our last two excavation seasons have been, we did indeed uncover some prizes last year.
“It has elegant proportions, but these handles—unique to the Pharaoh Merneptah—make it quite distinctive and artistically important.”
“What are those animals on the handles?”
“They are ibexes, a type of goat that climbs among the rocky hills and the Egyptians associated them with renewal,” I say, then point out the markings on the vase surface.
“And this is Merneptah’s cartouche. It would have originally been painted blue—most of the objects in the room, in fact, would have been.
We would have been standing amidst a riot of color. ”
Lieutenant Beauchamp’s gaze is now on me rather than the vase. “You are a wonder, Lady Evelyn. Even though I spent significant time in Egypt, I feel as though I’ve never been there at all. It all looks so different through your eyes.”
I feel my cheeks warm at the compliment. The intensity of his gaze unsettles me, and I avert my eyes, back to the vase. “I am delighted that you find my commentary interesting. A lot of people might find it horribly dull.”
“Interesting? That’s too small a word. I find it revelatory.”
“You are are too kind, Lieutenant Beauchamp.” I circle the vase, keeping my eyes fixed on it.
“Not in the slightest. Do you know what this means?”
His remark piques my curiosity, and without thinking, I look up at him. “No.”
“We must go to Egypt together.”