The Collector's Daughter

by Gill Paul

  “It was common knowledge,” Porchy said. “They didn’t try to hide it. Mama’s name, Almina, is a combination of their names—Alfred and Mina. It was a huge scandal at the time, and it meant Mama would have struggled to get a husband if Alfred hadn’t offered a vast dowry of hundreds of thousands. And Pups was forced to accept because Highclere needed the money.”

  “Will you have to marry a girl with money?” Eve asked him.

  Porchy made a crude gesture, miming the exaggerated shape of a woman’s figure. “Maybe money will be the secondary consideration,” he sniggered.

  In Eve’s opinion, her parents’ marriage wasn’t an enticing example of matrimony. They spent much of the year apart—her mother in London, her father at Highclere—and when they were together, she frequently heard raised voices behind closed doors. Her mother liked city life: parties and fashion, and running her private hospital. Her father liked the countryside—horses and shooting, motorcars and photography—and he loathed parties. Two more different people was hard to imagine.

  Eve was in her early teens when she made up her mind about the type of man she wanted to marry. Handsome, of course, and cultured, so he was a sparkling conversationalist. He would have to love travel, because she planned to travel widely, and he would have to be willing to let her be a lady archaeologist. That was essential.

  She opened her eyes and saw Brograve asleep on the hospital bed beside her. Thank god she’d married him and not Tommy Russell, the man her mother had selected for her. Tommy had become a drunk, or so she heard. Bad luck for his wife. What was her name again? She couldn’t for the life of her remember. . . .

  A nurse popped her head around the door, and Eve raised a finger to her lips to shush her. Her husband looked as though he needed the sleep.

  Chapter Six

  London, August 1972

  Three weeks after arriving unconscious in an ambulance, Eve confounded her doctors by being ready for discharge from hospital. She couldn’t walk and her right hand was still weak, but her speech had come on by leaps and bounds. As they wheeled her out to the hospital van that would transfer her to a convalescent home, she pleaded with the nurse to stop for a moment and let her feel the breeze on her skin.

  “Thash wunnerful!” she slurred, closing her eyes and breathing in. It was an overcast day but the air still smelled of summer. To her it was heaven after the stuffy room she’d been stuck in, with a window that wouldn’t open and the persistent smells of disinfectant, rubber, and overcooked food. She felt a rush of happiness.

  Brograve had booked her a garden room at the Pine Trees convalescent home, and the first thing she saw when she was wheeled in were French windows opening onto a delightful little terrace. She had her own en suite, a television, two armchairs, and a table, so she would be able to get out of bed and sit with her visitors. Every morning she would have speech therapy and an intensive physiotherapy session but, aside from that, friends could drop by anytime they liked.

  “It’s p-p-erfect,” she told him.

  Once the nurses left her to settle in, Brograve produced a bottle of medium-dry sherry from his briefcase, along with two crystal glasses brought from home, wrapped in an old tea towel.

  “I bet you’ve been missing this,” he said. “Fancy a tipple?”

  “How . . . did . . . you . . . know?” She sighed.

  The sherry was delicious: fruity, full-bodied, and complex, by far the nicest taste she’d had in her mouth for ages.

  “I’ll hide the bottle in your wardrobe,” he said. “We can have a sherry before your dinner every evening.”

  “Don tell the nurshes,” she slurred. “I might get f-frone out.”

  After she ate her dinner—a meal that was a huge leap up the gastronomic scale from hospital food—they watched a television program together: Dad’s Army, a comedy about some bumbling home guards during the war. Brograve pulled an armchair to her bedside and held her hand, the good hand, playing with her fingers idly.

  And then, when the program finished, he said, “Time to go, I suppose. You need your beauty sleep.”

  That was the moment that killed her every time. He kissed her goodbye and turned for the door, his shoulders drooping. Before he was out of sight he turned and tried to give a cheery wave but she could see in his face that he was upset, and knew he could see it in hers too.

  * * *

  Brograve felt as if he was smothered in a cloak of sadness, and it only lifted slightly during the hours he was with Eve. He knew from her previous strokes that most progress was made in the early weeks, and after that it tended to stall. Last time and the time before, she had been walking within a week or so, but this time she couldn’t seem to take her weight in her legs, even when supported by a walker. Her speech was still slurred as if she were drunk, and her memory gaps concerned him. She was adept at covering up when she didn’t remember something, but he knew her well enough to spot the momentary hesitation, the blank look that flashed across her eyes.

  The hospital doctors had discharged her because there was nothing more they could do. As far as they were concerned, she was a seventy-one-year-old woman and if she never walked again, that was a shame but not the end of the world. They didn’t realize how desperately Brograve needed her home. He’d moved back to their London flat but it was dark and echoey. He couldn’t see the point in opening the curtains in the morning because he’d only have to close them again when he got home from visiting Eve. Despite the best efforts of Mrs. Jarrold, it smelled of neglect.

  The morning after she was installed at Pine Trees, another letter arrived for Eve from Dr. Ana Mansour, the Egyptian archaeologist. In it, she said she had telephoned the new owners of the Framfield house and been given the London address.

  “Perhaps you didn’t receive my last letter?” she wrote. “I am most anxious to speak to you about your memories of the opening of Tutankhamun’s tomb. Might we set a date for me to visit? I’m sure you will understand the importance of making the historical record as accurate as it can possibly be.”

  Brograve wondered whether to mention it to Eve. Maybe setting a date to meet Dr. Mansour in, say, a month’s time would give her a goal to work toward. But he wasn’t sure if she even remembered the discovery of the tomb. Perhaps he should take some photographs and newspaper cuttings to nudge her before replying to the letter. Then again, he hated to upset her by asking something she didn’t know and he couldn’t imagine what Dr. Mansour wanted from her. That phrase about “anomalies” came back to him. What was she getting at?

  He wavered for a moment, then put the letter on a pile by the kettle.

  The telephone rang, and he recognized the cheery tones of Eve’s best friend, Maude.

  “How is she enjoying Pine Trees?” she asked. “I’m simply dying to see her. When can I visit?”

  “She’s . . .” He hesitated, trying to think of a tactful way of saying it. “She’s not fully herself yet. Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said firmly, and he knew that of all Eve’s friends, Maude was the steadiest, the least prone to overreaction. She was also discreet.

  “Alright. Would you like to go this afternoon? Around two? I’ll leave you to chat together in peace and delay my visit till three.”

  “Thanks, Bro. I want to see you too, of course. I miss you both terribly.”

  When he hung up, Brograve felt pleased that Eve would have someone new to chat to. She’d enjoy that. But it gave him another hour to fill till he saw her, and the morning stretched ahead like a vast cavern.

  * * *

  One of the great joys of Pine Trees was that a nurse bathed Eve and dressed her in her own clothes every morning. It felt wonderful after weeks stuck in a nightdress. Brograve had brought some elasticized-waist skirts and button-up blouses that were easy to slip on, as well as her favorite pearl necklace, and it made her feel a lot more human.

  She was sitting in an armchair by the window, trying to squeeze a physio ball in her right hand,
when there was a knock on the door and a familiar face peeked in.

  “Yoohoo!” a voice called. “Guess who?”

  Eve looked up, startled. “My goodnesh, how . . . kine . . . you . . . come.”

  The woman had short silver hair and she wore an eccentric combination of colors—olive green, magenta, and orange—that somehow worked. Eve knew this person, knew her well, but the name escaped her. Hopefully it would spring to mind soon.

  The visitor hurried over to hug her. “You look wonderful, Eve darling. Good as new.”

  “Can’t . . . walk,” Eve replied. “Soon . . . I . . . ope.”

  The visitor sat down and took Eve’s left hand in hers. “You are an inspiration to us all. The way you fight back is incredible. I’m proud to be your friend.”

  Tears came to Eve’s eyes. She kept getting emotional over the littlest of things. “How’s . . . you . . . famly?” she asked, to distract attention from herself.

  The woman began chatting about her children, her husband, Cuthbert, and then a friend of theirs called Lois, who had recently come to visit from the country.

  Suddenly a phrase came to Eve and she struggled to pronounce it: “Un-ho-lee . . . quad-rum-v . . . v . . . vir-ate.”

  Maude laughed. “Goodness, I had completely forgotten we used to call ourselves that, way back in the nineteen twenties. The four of us had a blast, didn’t we? All those wild parties, and then—equally important—the forensic analysis of the parties the next day. Do you remember we used to give men marks out of five? You gave Brograve low marks. How wrong could you be?” She chuckled.

  “You . . . like . . . his fren . . .” Eve had a clear memory of this woman falling for a friend of Brograve’s, someone who had been in the war with him. And then the name came to her in a flash. This was Maude. Maude Richardson. Of course. Her best friend in the world. The one who had coined the term unholy quadrumvirate in the first place.

  Chapter Seven

  London, May 1920

  Queen Charlotte’s Ball was Eve’s first formal dance as a debutante. There were oodles of rules to remember and strict etiquette to follow, and she felt as though there was a swarm of bees in her tummy when she arrived and contemplated the crowded room.

  She had only come out the week before, at Buckingham Palace. The whole uninspiring event consisted of one queue after another. First of all, her car crawled in a line waiting to get into the Palace forecourt. Hundreds of girls queued up the steps inside, all wearing the obligatory ankle-length white evening dress with a long train, and ostrich feathers secured in half-veils.

  “We look like brides-in-waiting,” she remarked to the girl next to her. “I suppose that’s what we are.”

  Next they queued to have their formal photographs taken, posing on a gilt-backed sofa. And then there was another queue in the antechamber before they were led into the throne room to curtsey to Queen Mary.

  Eve repeated the instructions in her head, nerves knotting: step, step, deep curtsey, reverse without turning your back on Her Majesty. Afterward, she was grateful to have gotten through it without being sick on the Queen’s pearl-encrusted shoes.

  At Queen Charlotte’s Ball, once again dozens of girls dressed in white had to line up and parade into the ballroom. Eve felt self-conscious because the ones in front and behind her were several inches taller, making her look like a child dressed as a grown-up who had wandered in by mistake.

  After the parade, she was handed a dance card. She stared in dismay at the blank spaces alongside the twenty dances of the evening. It looked as though she would be sitting them out, because the men huddled on the opposite side of the room were not paying her the slightest bit of attention.

  “You look as though you need to borrow my brother,” a voice remarked over her shoulder, and Eve turned to see a girl with short dark hair and a glint in her eyes that signaled amusement at their predicament. Straightaway Eve knew she wanted to be her friend.

  “Oh, yes please!” She extended her gloved hand. “I’m Evelyn Herbert.”

  “Maude Richardson. Stay there and I’ll fetch him.”

  Maude dashed off and returned only moments later dragging a thin lad with a toothy smile. “This is Charlie. Charlie—fill in three of her dances, won’t you? And ask your friends too.”

  “Won’t you take the first dance?” Eve begged, handing over her card. “I’m terribly nervous and want to get it out of the way so I can start to enjoy myself.”

  The card was signed, the orchestra struck up a foxtrot, and they took to the floor. Charlie wasn’t a proficient dancer—Eve would have a bruised toe the following morning—but he was chatty and natural and she enjoyed herself.

  As the dance finished, a girl with sandy blond curls and pretty doll-like features approached and asked, “May I poach him? Maude said it was alright.”

  “Of course,” Eve agreed. “He’s all yours.”

  Charlie was good-natured about it: “I don’t mind being passed on like a used book. Maude tells me that’s what little brothers are for.”

  “Emily Bramwell,” the girl called by way of introduction, before swinging him onto the dance floor. It rather looked as if she was leading, but Charlie gamely did his best to keep step.

  Maude joined Eve, followed by a girl with wide green eyes, auburn hair, and perfectly shaped eyebrows. “This is Lois Sturt,” she explained, “and she has a cousin James who has promised to dance with all of us. Give me your card and I’ll get him to sign.”

  Eve handed it over and Maude dashed off. “She’s terribly efficient,” Eve commented to Lois. “I should have been sitting out the entire evening without her.”

  “Goodness, I’m sure you wouldn’t, not with your looks,” Lois said.

  “I was about to say the same about you,” Eve replied. “I love the way you’ve done your eyebrows. I saw it in a magazine and didn’t dare try in case I made a fearful mess, but it’s very fetching.”

  “Come for tea and I’ll show you how it’s done,” Lois promised. “We need to keep in touch.”

  At the end of the evening—which Eve found exhausting and exhilarating in equal measure—Lois presented her “at home” card to Maude, Emily, and Eve, and invited them for tea at four o’clock on Friday.

  Eve was beside herself with excitement. She had always longed for female friends. None of the men she had danced with had made much of an impression, but she already knew she was going to adore these girls.

  * * *

  Two days later, her mother’s chauffeur took Eve to Lois’s family home in South Kensington, where tea was set out in a formal drawing room decorated in shades of rose pink and gold.

  “We’ve survived our first ball,” Maude said, helping herself to a scone. “But this Season could prove tricky, given the ratio of about four girls to each eligible man. We need to stick together and pool our resources.”

  “Is your mother putting pressure on you to find a husband?” Eve asked. “Mine has said she will consider me an abject failure if I’m not engaged by Christmas. Frankly, I intend to put off the dreaded decision for as long as I can.”

  “My mother wants me to marry the son of some family friends,” Lois said. “We’ve known each other since we were children and I like him a lot, but I’m not sure I feel about him the way one should about a husband.”

  “Try kissing him,” Maude advised. “That’s the crucial test. You’ll either feel ‘it’ or you won’t.”

  Eve wondered if Maude had experience of this test. What must it be like to kiss a man? Wouldn’t his moustache prickle against your lip?

  “My mother died when I was a baby,” Emily said. “And my aunt doesn’t have the first clue about the Season. I’m relying on you girls to advise me on etiquette, dress codes, the whole kit and caboodle.”

  “We will,” said Maude. “Although it seems the dress codes our mothers swear by are changing. Hems are creeping ever higher and gloves are no longer the be-all and end-all of civilized life.”

  They talked a
bout the new fashions—coat dresses were said to be au courant but it was hard to think when you might wear them. Lois lent Eve a magazine that described how to pluck the eyebrows into inverted V shapes that made the eyes look much bigger, and Eve announced she would try as soon as she got home.

  “If I’m wearing a low-brimmed hat next time you see me, you’ll know why!” she said. “The style makes you look intriguing, Lois, but I may just appear startled.”

  It wasn’t all fashion and frivolity. Their conversations roamed through the topics of the day: the Spanish flu, which had caused mass panic the previous year but now seemed to have tailed off; the Paris Peace Conference setting terms for the war’s end; and Sherlock Holmes author Arthur Conan Doyle’s new book, The Vital Message, in which he claimed that human beings were on the verge of discovering an entirely new way of understanding life and death.

  “Sir Arthur is a friend of my father’s,” Emily said. “He told us he has absolutely no doubt that he communicates with his son Kingsley, who died in 1918 at the Somme, as well as his brother Innes, who passed last year. He thinks God has sent us new revelations about the afterlife at precisely this moment to comfort those who lost loved ones in the war.”

  “My mother’s a believer,” said Lois. “She’s forever attending séances.”

  “My father too,” Eve admitted. “He has a Romany woman called Sirenia who holds séances at Highclere. I’ve been to a couple but I have to admit I’m skeptical.” She described to them a night when she watched Sirenia surreptitiously tug on a string to make a vase of flowers topple over. And she had seen her stuff gauze into her mouth, then regurgitate it, pretending it was ectoplasm. “But my father is utterly convinced he’s communicating with his late mother, so it would be cruel to contradict him.”

  They agreed there were charlatans in every trade, and it seemed especially far-fetched that so many self-proclaimed “clairvoyants” were appearing out of the woodwork.