Chapter Forty-Six
CAIRO, EGYPT
Even a long soak in a scented tub in my hotel room cannot clean away the despair of the day.
The grime from traversing the souk alleys, yes.
The smell of spice from my skin, of course.
But as for the despondency over the dearth of leads to Hatshepsut’s tomb, nothing can scrub it away.
Only a sign from Hatshepsut herself as to the whereabouts of her final resting place might wash away this gloom.
How I long for a comforting embrace from Brograve, I think, and the intensity of my yearning surprises me.
Still, I have a role to play with Papa, especially if there’s any hope for us to finish this excavation season.
The slightest hint of hesitation on my part, and he might withdraw from the Valley of the Kings altogether.
Cut his losses, financial and otherwise.
I’ve got to exude optimism, even though I feel anything but.
And that includes participating in the Cairo social scene.
On Papa’s arm, I climb the steps to the colonnaded entrance of the grand High Commission Residency.
This evening’s event is not a ball, thank goodness, but a large dinner party.
I still have to wear one of the few gowns that I brought, but luckily, Mama finally relented and allowed me to get one of the Fortuny Delphos dresses I’ve long admired.
The hundreds of silk taffeta pleats comprising the body of the garment and the adjustable drawstring neckline and waist make the gown uniquely comfortable—not to mention that the style is modeled upon the ancient Greek sculpture of the Charioteer of Delphi, so I feel steeped in history instead of constricted by society.
The Allenbys stand in the soaring entryway, greeting their guests upon arrival and answering the inevitable questions about the declaration that Egypt is an independent country.
While Papa and Howard pause to chat with our host, Mama’s dear friend Lady Allenby descends upon me.
“Darling Eve,” she cries out, “how fetching you look in that shade of coral red!”
She bombards me with a slew of questions about Porchey’s upcoming wedding.
I proffer detail upon detail about the summer festivities, which I am dreading because I worry that the issue of my own engagement will be front and center.
Not that Brograve and I have done more than tiptoe around our feelings and wade into the water of the future, but I sense it coming in the natural course of things. And so will every other society matron.
Just as Lady Allenby begins to inquire about Brograve—informed, no doubt, by Mama—another guest approaches, distracting her. Howard steps forward and asks if I’d like to join him in the parlor, flooding me with relief.
Glasses of champagne in hand, Howard and I retreat to a corner of the parlor, a high-ceilinged, paneled room of a type that could be found in any English estate, save for the Egyptian-tiled floor.
I gaze around the room, taking in the clusters of women decked in their finest, and I’m reminded of how petty I found the guests at past Residency parties.
Neither Howard nor I feel like mingling, and in each other’s company, neither of us has to pretend at merriment or even polite conversation. The events of the day have depleted us, and I’m happy to hide in the shadows with him.
But then Papa summons Howard to talk archaeology and politics with other guests, and I’m approached by a gray-haired woman wearing a dress that isn’t exactly an evening gown.
Her serviceable navy garb is full-length, but its design is utilitarian and the patterned shawl around her shoulders does nothing to make it more formal.
“I hope I’m not overbold in introducing myself,” the woman says in a distinctly American accent, “but I believe I saw you at the Winter Palace a few days ago.”
I don’t recall this stately woman, but then, the hotel bursts with seasonal tourists. Postwar visitors have returned in droves, even though the Egyptian political status isn’t exactly stable.
“Yes, we’ve just come from there,” I answer. “And we return again in a few days’ time.”
“That’s a rather short stint in Cairo. You’ll hardly have time to see the pyramids,” she announces in a booming voice, fixing her bright blue eyes on me.
“Oh, we come out every year for the entire excavation season, so I’ve spent quite a lot of time in Egypt. No need to worry that I won’t catch the sights,” I reassure this forthright American.
“Where are my manners?” she utters. “I am Mrs. Ernest Thomas Seton.”
She stretches out a gloved hand, and then quickly withdraws it. English women don’t typically shake hands in greeting, although I understand that it’s quite common for American women to do so.
“I am Lady Evelyn Herbert,” I say. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Seton.”
We exchange nods, and Mrs. Seton settles into an awkward silence. Perhaps she’s recognized the missteps in her manners—announcing herself instead of engaging a mutual acquaintance to do the job and attempting to shake hands—and has retreated into herself.
But then she blurts out a question, and I realize my mistake. She’s simply been formulating her next line of inquiry. “Did you say you are here for an ‘excavation season’?”
“Yes, I am here to assist my father, Lord Carnarvon; and Mr. Howard Carter in their archaeological concession in the Valley of the Kings.”
She stares at me with that direct gaze of hers. “You are an archaeologist?”
My cheeks warm, and I hope they don’t match the flaming hue of my gown.
I do not intend to mislead. “Not a formally trained one. Although I’ve been tutored by the preeminent Egyptologist Howard Carter.
But I do work on the digs. Since childhood, I’ve been intrigued by ancient history and the legacy of its people. ”
“How fascinating!” she practically shouts. “I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a woman archaeologist. And I’ve spent a considerable amount of time talking to women from all walks of life, in Egypt and elsewhere. Would you ever be willing to be interviewed for my book?”
“Your book?”
“Here I go again, leaping in the fray without even properly introducing myself. My sister would be horrified.” She gestures to a similarly attired woman across the room.
“My husband is English born and Canadian raised, and he’s founded an organization called the Boy Scouts to teach wilderness skills to young men.
During my travels with him, I write companion books encouraging women to explore the world and have adventures of their own. ”
“How marvelous!” I exclaim. For once, a stale society gathering contains a breath of fresh air. “What parts of the world have you written about?”
“I started out publishing books about women in the American West. But when the war came along, I put aside the writing to direct a women’s motor aid unit in France.
Now I’ve started up again with Egypt. China, Egypt, Hawaii, India, Indochina, Japan, and South America are next on the list”—she chortles—“in no particular order.”
“Have you had much luck finding Egyptian women willing to talk with you? By all accounts, they keep to themselves.”
Mrs. Seton hesitates. “May I speak freely? I don’t want to offend”—she chuckles—“although you might not have guessed that from my brusque manner.”
“Of course,” I say.
“It’s less that the Egyptian women don’t want to talk to European women, and more that European women never approach their Egyptian counterparts.”
“Ah, I see.” And I do. Most English cling to every scrap of control they have over Egypt, and yet never immerse themselves with its people. “It’s a failing I’ve encountered myself—and one I’m guilty of as well.”
“We all are to some extent.” She reassures me with a pat on my arm. “But I’ve found that Egyptian women from all walks of life are eager to share their stories with me. All I have to do is ask.”
“You’ve found women from different sort of backgrounds amenable?”
“Indeed,” she answers with a proud nod. “In fact, tomorrow I’ve been granted an audience with Madame Zaghloul.”
“Saad Zaghloul’s wife? The Mother of the Egyptians?” I use the name that the newspapers have taken to calling her as her influence continues to mount.
“The very one. In fact, I’ve just overheard a story about Madame Zaghloul involving our host. Apparently when her husband was arrested and exiled in Malta for two years, she had a startling conversation with High Commissioner Allenby.
She told him that it didn’t matter if he exiled her husband because ‘You can banish the body but you cannot banish the spirit of Zaghloul. He is here as long as I am here.’”
“How very courageous of her. I’m shocked she’ll talk to you. Especially since I’ve heard the Wafd Party isn’t exactly in support of the announcement. Didn’t they reject the declaration of independence as a ruse?”
“Well,” she smiles, “I’m not English, am I?”
“Touché,” I reply with a smile. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like this blunt, forward-thinking woman, and I quite like her.
“Would you like to come with me tomorrow, Lady Evelyn?”
“I doubt very much that Madame Zaghloul would welcome me into her home.” I practically snort at the suggestion. “Isn’t her house referred to as Beit El-Umma? The House of the Nation? I hardly think she’d like to host an aristocratic English lady there, and she may well react very negatively.”
“I cannot think she’d object to me bringing along my very quiet assistant.”
What a notion, I think, to actually meet the Mother of the Egyptians. And using subterfuge, no less. Somehow it seems more monumental to meet Madame Zaghloul than her husband, with whom I’d spent a long weekend at Highclere Castle.
“You’d do this for me? Risk your time with Madame Zaghloul by bringing me? Through deceptive means? You don’t even know me,” I ask, wondering at the magnanimity of this stranger.
“I’d be doing it for all women who seek understanding and connection—and who step outside societal expectations to do so. Women like you, a woman archaeologist. Women like Madame Zaghloul. Women like me.”