Chapter Sixty
LUXOR, EGYPT
Palm trees sway against the backdrop of the ocher hills of the Valley of the Kings at the Luxor station.
Steam rises from the gleaming train heading to Cairo, as well-wishers say farewell to loved ones about to board.
To an outside observer the scene might appear idyllic.
Yet Brograve and I know it is anything but.
There had been no celebratory dinner at Castle Carter last night.
There had been no celebration at all, in fact, never mind that we’d just revealed the biggest archaeological discovery of all time.
Instead, I’d spent the evening at the Winter Palace, darting between Brograve and his flustered parents in the hotel dining room and the concierge desk making dahabiya arrangements for me and Papa, while he sulked in his suite.
Nothing about Brograve’s visit or the unveiling of Tutankhamun’s inner sanctum has gone as planned.
Now, with the situation in Luxor tense and unwelcoming, Brograve has been pressed into service escorting his parents to Cairo and the pyramids and then back home to England.
His parents had received the experience for which they’d come, after all: the ability to boast to their friends in England that they’d been among the first to peer inside the ancient, now famous tomb of Tutankhamun.
Upset at this turn of events, I feel as though I stand on shifting sand and can get no purchase.
“This is not the Egyptian trip you’d been promised,” I say, looking up at Brograve. Even though his face is in shadow—shielded from the relentless sun by the wide brim of his hat—his eyes shine and his smile is visible.
“No,” he replies, his tone as genial as always, “but that doesn’t matter. I got to see you in your element.”
“But this was meant to be your chance to experience the world of archaeology. To get your hands dirty in the work of the past,” I add, sidestepping my real concern about our failed plans.
That, without the experience of excavating Tutankhamun’s tomb alongside me and Howard, he might not want to make these digs part of our future.
“I’m sorry it turned out the way it did.
With Papa and Mr. Carter fighting and the excavation on temporary hold and Papa and I heading out of town, it’s been awful. ”
“Eve, please don’t apologize. I don’t need to shovel a pharaoh’s sarcophagus out of an ancient chamber to know that I want to be at your side if that’s what you are doing,” he says, his smile unwavering.
It’s as if he heard my unspoken worries.
“If you want to spend the winters excavating in Egypt, then that’s where I will be.
Shovel in hand, up to my elbows in dirt, and blissfully happy because I’ll be with you, discovering the world through your eyes. ”
I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. The failure of Brograve’s trip to Luxor doesn’t matter. His unconditional support was never dependent on the outcome of one excavation. “Really?” I ask, incredulous at this display of unequivocal encouragement. I’ve never experienced its like before.
“Really,” he insists. He reaches for me, and just as he’s about to wrap me in his arms, he freezes. I follow his gaze, and I see Lord and Lady Beauchamp staring out of the train window at us.
For the first time, his smile fades. “Propriety be damned,” he says and takes me by the hand.
He leads me off the train platform, past men on donkeys, travelers, a stationmaster, and vendors hawking their wares at stalls, toward the station proper.
There, in an empty corner under the shade of an awning, he kisses me.
For a moment, Egypt and Tutankhamun and the Zaghlouls and Papa and Howard are forgotten, and all I can think and feel is Brograve.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you in the lobby of the Winter Palace,” he whispers into my ear, when we finally break for a breath.
“Me too,” I whisper back.
“I love you, Eve. I’d hoped for a romantic pronouncement in the Valley of the Kings, but that was not meant to be.” He gestures around the noisy, hot, crowded train station. “This will have to do.”
“This is perfect,” I assure him. And it is. “I love you too.”
Brograve whoops and then swings me around in delight.
When he gently places me back down on the packed dirt ground, he says, “No time like the present. I’d planned on asking your father for permission and then creating an elaborate gesture, but for now, it will just have to be for us two.
” He takes a deep breath. “Evelyn Herbert, will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”
“Brograve Beauchamp, of course I will marry you.” I almost cannot get the words out before he swoops me up again, this time for another kiss.
“You’ve made me the happiest man in the world, Eve,” he says, as the train whistle signals the final boardings for Cairo. “Perhaps the next time we are in Egypt together it will be for our honeymoon.”
My heart flutters as my hopes soar with his words. It seems that the answer to the question that has been bedeviling me—can I really have both marriage and archaeology?—is yes.