Chapter Fifty-Eight
LUXOR, EGYPT
The following days fly by in a blur. A formal opening of the tomb with the Allenbys, the governor, Egyptian ministers, and other archaeologists, where we pretend surprise at the contents of the antechamber.
The installation of the local police for the crowds that begin to form on the periphery of the site.
The flood of reporters at the Winter Palace and in the Valley of the Kings, angling for stories, which Papa has tried to control by arranging an exclusive with the Times for which he gets paid.
The selection of guards to patrol the tomb exterior day and night.
A trip to London for supplies and experts’ advice about artifact preservation, during which Papa and I are hounded by journalists.
An hour-long audience with King George V and Queen Mary in the Yellow Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace.
A festive holiday at Highclere with an intimate exchange of gifts with Brograve along with the finalization of plans for Luxor, much changed now that we’ve found Tutankhamun.
A heroes’ welcome on our return to Egypt.
Only the excavation itself grounds me. The hours inside the narrow, fragile antechamber—as Howard and I call it between ourselves, as no one else knows about the other chambers yet—bring me back to my passion and my purpose.
I lose myself as we undertake the methodical mapping and scale drawing of the chamber, catalogue and remove the contents, and assist Harry Burton—who we borrow from the Metropolitan Museum team at the temple—in photographing the items. Occasionally, I must suppress the nagging thought that all this attention should be bestowed upon an important figure like Hatshepsut and not a largely insignificant boy pharaoh like Tutankhamun.
I focus instead on the gifts this discovery can bestow, funding for another excavation and a place for me at the site.
There will be time enough, I tell myself over and over, to find Hatshepsut afterward. Do I really believe this, or am I trying to convince myself?
I say the words again as I step through the crowd gathered outside the Winter Palace, the unofficial headquarters for the Tutankhamun fanatics of both the journalistic and voyeur type.
Thousands of tourists and newspapermen have descended upon Luxor.
All the hotels are full, and some have even set up courtyard tents to house the overflow.
The demand for communication has increased multifold such that three additional telegraph lines have been run to the city, and a local hospital has been converted into a telegraph office.
Even those who cannot afford the luxurious accommodations of the Winter Palace find ways to camp out in the lobby, sometimes in the form of endless cups of tea or a slow-sipped aperitif.
So many onlookers crowd the hotel, pestering the staff for information about the excavation, that the manager has installed a board in the lobby where he posts regular updates about the site.
And at night, revelers flood the hotel’s Tutmania dance parties, where Tut-themed cocktails are served.
The faces of Papa and Howard have become known to the masses, particularly to the members of the press.
But I am still largely unknown, and since Papa is busy with some officials this afternoon, I manage to slip inside the lobby without turning a single head.
No one would suspect that a tiny, twenty-one-year-old woman had anything significant to do with the excavation, in any event.
If any of the reporters other than the Times journalists to whom Papa had sold exclusive rights to cover Tutankhamun’s discovery understood who I am, I’d be swarmed by press desperate for any scrap of a story.
The Egyptian newsmen who’ve been cut out of the biggest front page news in their country for millennia are particularly tenacious.
But their plight, I understand. Neither Howard nor I is pleased with Papa’s decision, and the Egyptian authorities are furious.
Crossing the lobby toward the stairs, I dream about a long soak while reviewing my notes on the artifacts we catalogued today: two intricately carved chairs covered in gold leaf and inlaid with lapis lazuli.
As I reach for the wrought-iron handrail, I see a familiar face on the bottom step with a wide, welcoming grin.
“Brograve! What a wonderful surprise! I didn’t expect you for weeks!
” I cry out, delighted to see him. He looks handsome in the wide-brimmed straw hat and the colonial-weight campaign jacket from Poole’s I’d given him for Christmas.
We’d spent an exciting holiday mapping out his trip here, and I think we both assumed we’d make firm plans for the future after the excavation season ended.
I want to run into his waiting arms. And, tossing propriety to the wind, I very nearly do. But then his expression changes, and I follow his gaze.
I see his parents smiling expectantly across the lobby. The stodgily dressed couple in heavy gray traveling suits are perfectly fine people, if a little stiff. When I wave at them, they approach, and I say what I do not feel, “What a delight to see you both—Lady Beauchamp, Lord Beauchamp.”
I now realize this visit from Brograve will be entirely different from the one we’d envisioned.
It will consist of a multiday tour through the Valley of the Kings, with me acting as guide, instead of introducing Brograve to the life of an archaeologist, the next step in assessing what our future together might hold.
We stand in a small circle, and Brograve explains their unexpected appearance.
“As you know, I had planned on traveling to Egypt in two weeks’ time, but when my parents expressed interest in coming, the only tickets available for three people necessitated immediate departure.
I wrote you a letter to explain, but I expect you haven’t received it yet,” he says, his eyes apologetic.
I can see he’d rather have come alone as well.
“It’s positively thrilling, Lady Evelyn,” Brograve’s mother gushes, her eyes shining. “To think that your father discovered the last remaining tomb of a pharaoh in the Valley of the Kings.”
Astonishing, I think, how people who didn’t even know what a pharaoh was three months ago are traveling halfway around the world to catch a glimpse of his last remains.
The fervor sweeping the globe is not born out of a legitimate interest in ancient history or fascination with Egypt, but hunger for the latest headlines and descriptions of the golden treasure within the tomb.
Very few care about the historical mysteries that Tutankhamun’s tomb might answer, even though I know I shouldn’t necessarily attribute those views to Brograve’s parents.
It rankles, and I wonder how it must make the Egyptians feel to have this glut of Europeans descend like locusts to ravage their history.
And then it occurs to me. Do the Egyptian people perceive me as a locust, come to devour their heritage?
Certainly the nationalists must think the magnificent partage Papa expects to receive as part of the excavation would be tantamount to grave robbery itself.
I can almost hear Mr. Zaghloul argue that Tutankhamun’s tomb belongs to Egypt and is crucial for the country’s pride and identity.
The newly powerful nationalists have been uniform in arguing that Tutankhamun serves as the symbol of the government’s ancient power and claim the boy pharaoh as their own.
A pit forms in my stomach at this thought.
But I say none of this. How can I? I haven’t even properly thought through all these views myself. I’ve been as swept up as the most ignorant tourist.
“It is sensational, Lady Beauchamp,” I reply. “Although, you do know I work on the site alongside Papa and Mr. Carter. We opened the tomb together, and I was right alongside them as we entered the chamber.”
Lady Beauchamp gasps. “You went inside that three-thousand-year-old tomb?”
What does she think I do here? I give her a smile that I hope is magnanimous. “I did indeed. Hasn’t your son mentioned that I’m actively involved in all of Papa’s excavations in the Valley of the Kings? I have been for years.”
Lady Beauchamp opens her mouth to answer, but Brograve interjects, “Of course I’ve told her all about your archaeological work, Lady Evelyn. I sing your praises to anyone who will listen—I’m so very proud.”
Lady Beauchamp sniffs, and adds, “I suppose it’s one thing to hear about it, and quite another to see you in your khaki excavation clothes.”
I’m not certain how to take her remark, and I decide to ignore it.
“Your father’s gamble finally paid off,” Lord Beauchamp chimes in with a chuckle. “He’s always been a gambling man with horses and cars, but who would have thought his biggest win would be with ancient Egypt?”
I force myself to smile at this jocular comment. If only Lord Beauchamp knew what an onerous journey this has been for Papa, I don’t think he’d liken archaeology to the Newbury Racecourse.
A strong urge to retreat to my suite overtakes me.
Are the Beauchamps irritating me because they breezed into Luxor unexpectedly—upending my plans with Brograve?
Or are they annoying simply because they are emblematic of the onslaught of family, friends, distant acquaintances, and tourists here for all the wrong reasons?
Either way, I need to bathe, change, and collect myself before dealing with them any further.
Before I can excuse myself to do so, Lady Beauchamp leans toward me. In her most conspiratorial voice, she says, “The best part of our hasty travel is that we’re here just in time.”
“Just in time for what?” I ask.
“For the ceremony, of course”—Lady Beauchamp’s brow furrows in confusion—“when select guests will be allowed to enter the inner sanctum of Tutankhamun’s tomb.”