by Gill Paul
* * *
Eve had gone to Ascot with the unholy quadrumvirate but as soon as she spotted Brograve, she left them and dashed over to say hello. It was the first time she had seen him since their Christmas meeting in Cairo.
“Evelyn Herbert,” she reminded him, holding out her hand.
“Of course, how could I forget?” He took her hand and gave a little bow.
“I’m very glad to meet you again, especially since our social circles don’t seem to overlap in London.”
“That’s because I don’t have a social circle,” Brograve admitted. “I’m not a fan of balls and soirees.”
Eve was surprised. “How do you ever meet anyone?”
He gave a self-deprecating smile: “I try to avoid it whenever possible. Present company excepted, of course.”
“Goodness, we’re total opposites in that case,” Eve said. “Making new friends is my absolute favorite pastime.” Her voice was drowned out as last bets were called for the King’s Stand Stakes. She smiled. “I know you’re a cavalry man so I hope you can give me a tip for this race that will make my fortune.”
“My money’s on Diadem,” he said. “Odds of seven to three.”
“Perfect! Might I ask you to place the same bet for me?” She opened her purse and handed him a guinea. “I’ll wait here to watch the race with you. You’ve picked rather a good spot.”
As soon as the starting pistol fired, Eve began cheering for Diadem, and Brograve laughed out loud at her exuberance. He was handsome when he laughed, Eve thought. Shame it didn’t happen more often.
Diadem took the lead in the last furlong and when she crossed the line first, Eve couldn’t contain herself. “We won!” she yelled, her voice hoarse from shouting. She beamed at Brograve. “From now on you must be my racing tipster. We’ll make a killing together.”
“I have to confess that the tip came from a friend,” he said. “But I’m glad to be of use.”
Maude, Emily, and Lois found them afterward and Eve made the introductions, feeling a prickle of annoyance when Emily monopolized his attention, even placing her hand on his arm.
Brograve went to fetch Eve’s winnings and brought them to her, but she didn’t get another chance to talk to him alone for the rest of the afternoon. Just before leaving, he issued an invitation and she fancied he was looking at her.
“I don’t suppose you ladies are interested in polo, are you?” he asked, blushing slightly.
Eve smiled encouragement. “We could be, so long as you don’t mind our complete and utter ignorance of the rules.”
“I’m playing at the Hurlingham Club next Saturday. At two o’clock. You’d be welcome to come, but please don’t worry if you have other plans.”
“That sounds fun,” Emily cried. “Count me in.”
“And me,” Maude said.
“I’m afraid I shall have to check with my mother,” Eve said. “She rather rules the social calendar. But if it’s at all possible, I should love to watch you play a . . . a chukka, isn’t it?”
He laughed. “Well done. We’ll make an aficionado of you yet.”
He tipped his hat to the four of them, then Eve watched his back as he left.
“I think Eve has a pash for someone,” Maude told the others in a teasing tone.
“No, it’s not that,” Eve said. “He lost his brother and I like trying to cheer him up.”
The girls exchanged knowing looks. “It’s a slippery slope,” Maude remarked.
When asked, Lady Carnarvon point-blank refused to allow Eve to attend the polo. “It’s not appropriate,” she said. “I’m too busy so who would chaperone you?”
“Oh goodness, Mama, the other girls would be there. And no one bothers about chaperones these days. It’s a positively Victorian concept.”
“Maybe others don’t, but we do.” Her mother had made up her mind and would not be swayed. Eve knew it was because she had mentioned Brograve’s name, and that it would have been another matter entirely if Tommy Russell were playing.
Maude and Emily went to the Hurlingham Club and reported back that Brograve was a talented player, and had been a convivial host after the match finished.
“We gave him your apologies,” Emily said, and Eve felt a curious twinge of jealousy.
* * *
“You said it was ages after meeting Brograve before you got married?” Katie asked. “Why was that?”
“It was!” Eve shook her head at the memory. “After the w-war, the men who’d fought were all damaged by their experiences, but it came out in different ways. You got the ones like Tommy Russell, who turned to the demon drink, or to drugs, or who took crazy risks as if, having survived the trenches, they were somehow invincible. One man we knew died after diving off Waterloo Bridge, convinced he’d be able to swim the Thames.” She pursed her lips. “Then there were others, like Brograve, who closed in on themselves and were almost impossible to reach.” She laughed. “It’s just as well I relished a challenge.”
“Do you realize you’re not stammering?” Katie said. “I’m sorry to say it, but I’m not sure you need me anymore. Perhaps I need you, though. Can I bring my boyfriends around for you to vet? You can pick out the good guys and tell me which to ditch.”
Eve laughed. “I would adore that. I’ll prepare a q-questionnaire. Come anytime.”
When Brograve arrived that afternoon, Eve looked at him with fresh eyes, remembering the man he had been in his early twenties. His face had had a guarded quality, and his brown eyes were masked and difficult to read. She’d never known where she stood with him right up until they got engaged.
Now she noticed he’d lost weight. His cheeks were gaunt, and there was a grayish tint to his skin. If she knew him, on the nights Mrs. Jarrold didn’t leave supper he would just have cheese and crackers washed down with a whisky. She would telephone Maude and ask her to invite him around for a proper evening meal.
I have to get home, she thought. He needs me.
Christmas was only four weeks away. Come what may, she was determined to be back by then.
Chapter Twelve
London, November 1972
Brograve was worried when Eve started talking about coming home. He missed her terribly; life was miserable without her smile first thing in the morning, her bright chatter around the house forming the accompaniment to his day. After he had retired from work, he often found himself following her from room to room as she tidied and rearranged drawers and chatted on the telephone, happy simply to be in her presence.
But he was concerned that she hadn’t accepted the extent of her disabilities. She was still a long way from being able to walk, and couldn’t even lift herself out of the wheelchair, because her right hand was too weak to be of much use. That meant she couldn’t go to the toilet on her own. She couldn’t get in and out of bed or dress herself without help. She certainly couldn’t have a bath. Was he capable of helping her with those things?
Most alarming of all, she still had the occasional choking fit. It happened without warning. A morsel of food went down the wrong way and suddenly she was coughing and clutching her throat, panic in her expression. When it happened at Pine Trees, she pressed her personal alarm and a nurse rushed in to help. Brograve had watched the way they did it, clutching her around the waist from behind, fist clenched, making her bend forward, then pulling backward in sudden jerky movements until the food dislodged. But what if they were at home alone and he couldn’t manage it? She might choke to death in front of him.
It was Patricia who came up with the solution. She found an agency that hired out private nurses who could either live in or visit for a few hours a day. Eve and Brograve had a large guest room where a nurse could live comfortably, so that might be a solution. He rang the agency, inquired about fees, and asked them to send details of suitable candidates.
Next he spoke to the matron at Pine Trees and asked if she thought it was a workable idea. Between them, they agreed that Sally the Sadist could visit Eve at home t
o continue her physiotherapy. If it didn’t work out, she could always come back to Pine Trees, although there was no guarantee her garden room would still be available.
And finally Brograve told Eve what he had been planning.
She covered her face with her hands and for a moment he thought she was upset. Maybe she wasn’t ready to leave, or felt she should have been consulted. When she looked up, her eyes were glistening with tears.
“That is the best Christmas present I’ve had in my entire life,” she cried. “I like this room but I can’t wait to be back with you, in my own home. Oh, that’s p-perfect.”
A nurse called Sionead was hired, a flame-haired, green-eyed Irish girl, and the date of December fourteenth was set for the move. Brograve had a lot of arrangements to make. He asked Mrs. Jarrold to prepare Eve’s favorite lemon sole for her first dinner at home, taking special care to remove the bones. He bought bunches of chrysanthemums in shades of mauve and gold for every room. He bought a huge box of Terry’s chocolates with mixed centers, a bottle of Gordon’s gin, and another of Eve’s favorite Tio Pepe sherry. Everything had to be perfect.
The day before the move was to take place, Ana Mansour telephoned him.
“I’m back in London and wondered how Lady Beauchamp is getting along? Did she decide about when I might come to interview her?”
“I’m afraid it’s not convenient this week,” Brograve told her, and explained about the move. “She’ll need time to settle in and get used to being at home. We’re taking each day as it comes.”
“Of course,” Ana said. “I understand. It’s just that I brought her a gift from Egypt. I wonder if I might drop it off today so it’s there to greet her when she gets back? I won’t get in your way.”
Brograve hesitated. “Certainly. If I’m not here, my housekeeper will be able to accept your gift. That’s very kind.”
When he got back from Pine Trees that evening—the last evening he would spend on his own, he hoped—there was an arrangement of exotic pink flowers in a vase on the kitchen table along with a card addressed to Eve. It wasn’t sealed so he opened it.
“Dear Lady Beauchamp,” the card read. “You will remember the beauty of lotus flowers from your time in Egypt. I hope you enjoy these ones, which have survived a plane journey perched on my lap. Wishing you and your husband a wonderful Christmas. Yours sincerely, Ana.”
He felt very touched that she would go to such an effort. It was thoughtful, and made him warm to her.
* * *
Eve was as excited about going home as a kid going to the seaside. She hoped their gardener had kept on top of all the chores without her prompting him. She loved her mature garden, a whole acre of it with different areas: the alpine rockery, the apple orchard, the vegetable patch, the rose garden she had planted herself, the wild strawberries, the rhubarb, the lupines. Their gardener took care of the heavy jobs but she did a lot herself: pottering around with her pruning shears to keep on top of the dead-heading, dealing with greenfly and slugs, watering the beds on summer evenings. Of course, hardly anything would be flowering in December. Sometimes a late rose or two survived the early frost, a defiant blast of color against the backdrop of crisp brown leaves that littered the lawn.
When the day arrived, she was wheeled out to a special van in which her wheelchair could be secured. Brograve sat in the front seat and kept swiveling around to smile encouragement. She gazed out the window, watching a father cycling along with a small child perched in a basket in front of him, then a tramp sitting on the pavement who caught her eye while they were stopped at a traffic light.
The drive should have taken more than an hour, but in less than five minutes, the driver pulled up and Brograve got out of the van.
“Where are we?” Eve asked when the driver began unfastening the straps that held her chair. She turned to Brograve. “I thought we were going to Framfield.”
His face fell. “Pipsqueak, we sold the Framfield house last year, don’t you remember? It got too big for us, and it was too far away from everything. We live here now. It’s a lovely apartment. You’ll remember when you see it.”
She was quiet as they wheeled her into a lift with metal gates, which took them up to the third floor. She missed her Framfield house as if it were a lover; she had an ache in her heart for it. Why had they left?
It was a shock to find she didn’t recognize the apartment at all. She remembered the furniture—her favorite armchair, the bureau that had been her mother’s; she recognized paintings and ornaments, but the layout was unfamiliar. She wheeled herself down the hallway, checking inside rooms and cupboards, getting her bearings. It was spacious at least, and there was a lot of natural light. The windows overlooked a park along one side. Regent’s Park? Hyde Park? She didn’t like to ask. Oh, but she yearned for her Framfield garden. She mustn’t let Brograve see how disappointed she was.
“I have a new trick to show you,” she told him, wheeling herself into the sitting room. “Come and watch.” She’d been practicing with Sally the Sadist, saving it up to surprise him. She drew up alongside an armchair, put the wheelchair’s brake on, and lifted herself slowly, leaning her weight on her left hand, before stepping sideways and lowering herself into the chair.
Brograve cheered. “Hooray! I didn’t know you could do that! You are clever, Pipsqueak!”
“It seems they were wrong about old dogs and new tricks,” she said, pleased with herself.
Brograve lifted the lotus flower arrangement that Ana had left and placed it on the table beside her. She stared at it for a long time, sniffing the delicate scent and examining the intricate design of the pink petals curled around yellow stamens.
“There were many lotus flower carvings in Tutankhamun’s tomb,” she said. “It was believed they gave strength and power. Perhaps that’s why Ana brought them for me.” And then she remembered something: that gold box she had taken from the tomb had a lotus flower carved on the lid. She shuddered involuntarily.
The nurse, Sionead, came into the room holding a cake with a candle burning on top, one hand cupped around the flame. “Welcome home, Lady Beauchamp,” she said. “I know it’s not your birthday but I thought we should celebrate all the same.”
“What a pretty cake!” Eve cried. “Thank you.” It had lemon icing and slices of sugared lemon on top.
“Make a wish!” Sionead urged, holding it in front of her.
Eve closed her eyes. Lots of wishes flooded her mind: to see her Framfield garden again, to get the rest of her memories back, but one was foremost. She wanted to walk by Christmas. That’s what she wished for as she blew. The flame sputtered for a moment, then vanished in a puff of smoke.
Chapter Thirteen
London, December 1972
Christmas was around the corner, so Eve threw herself into the arrangements. Maude very kindly agreed to do her shopping at Harrods from a long list she’d handwritten—fifty-four gifts for friends and family, including a bottle of Rive Gauche perfume for Sionead, a new Barbour jacket for Brograve, and a box of cigars for Porchy, which would be delivered direct to Highclere. She managed to gift-wrap everything herself, sitting at the dining-room table, and she scribbled her wobbly signature on dozens of Christmas cards but left Brograve to address and stamp them and stick them in the postbox. They had a tree in the corner that Sionead festooned with the mismatching decorations they’d collected over the years, and Brograve nailed a festive holly wreath on the front door.
She invited Maude and Cuthbert for dinner on the twenty-third to thank them for all their help during her illness. Mrs. Jarrold rose to the occasion and produced a spectacular menu of coquille Saint Jacques, beef Wellington, and a bread and butter pudding. There was champagne to start, a different wine for each course, and Napoléon brandy, which always reminded Eve of the smell of Pups when she sat on his lap as a child.
Cuthbert and Brograve had served in the war together, so their friendship went back even further than Eve and Maude’s: fifty-six years as o
pposed to their fifty-two. Brograve had retired long ago but Cuthbert was working for the British Council and had just returned from a trip to Cairo.
“Did they have Christmas decorations everywhere?” Eve asked. “I remember finding that very odd when I was in Cairo one Christmas.”
“None that I noticed,” Cuthbert said. “Fifteen percent of the population is Christian, but they fast in November and December and celebrate on the seventh of January.”
“It’s a sensitive time for Anwar Sadat in the aftermath of the Israeli war,” Brograve said. “Did you encounter any problems?”
Cuthbert made a face. “It’s frightfully difficult politically, but we steered well clear. We were there on a cultural mission, to reach out the hand of friendship and invite collaborations.”
Maude chipped in: “Yes, and to persuade them to educate their children at British universities, while refusing to send back any of the Ancient Egyptian treasures our ancestors stole from them.”
The men laughed. “That’s my job in a nutshell,” Cuthbert agreed.
Eve knew there was a school of thought that they should hand back antiquities to the countries they had come from during the colonial era, but it wasn’t straightforward. Some of these countries didn’t actually exist anymore because maps had been redrawn; others didn’t have the facilities to care for antiquities properly. She would be sad to see everything returned. The British Museum was an extraordinary archive of world culture, and she loved to hear the gasps of schoolchildren seeing a mummy for the first time, or a haunting Easter Island statue, or the Rosetta Stone, which had made it possible for scholars to translate hieroglyphics. She didn’t say anything though; it was too hard to get her thoughts in order.
Mrs. Jarrold called them to the dining room, where she was serving the first course. Brograve wheeled Eve through in her chair, while Maude took Cuthbert’s arm to help him stand up. He was stooped from a spinal condition and Eve noticed him wincing.