1904
1
Colossal ancient monuments. Azure skies. Desert sunsets. The endless romance of the Nile. That was my vision of travel in Egypt, a vision sadly incongruous with reality. Perhaps that’s not quite fair. Monuments, skies, and sunsets we had in abundance, but my imperious mother-in-law and petulant stepdaughter presented a significant barrier to romance, endless or otherwise. And then there was the matter of violent death at the dinner table.
When Colin first broached the subject of taking a holiday with his mother, Ann Hargreaves, I beseeched all the gods I could think of—Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, ancient Greek—to bring me serenity. One or more of them proving effective, I found it in me to take my husband’s hand, bestow upon him a radiant smile, and tell him I could think of nothing that would bring me better pleasure.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he said, raising my hand to his lips before retreating to sit on the chair across from me, its leather softened by generations of use. We were in the library of our country estate, Anglemore Park, situated in the most beautiful part of Derbyshire, all peaks and glorious moors. “We’d be doing Mother an enormous favor. She’s been invited by an old family friend, Lord Bertram Deeley.”
“Lord Deeley … I seem to recall him from an exhausting dinner party some years ago. Relentlessly cheerful and has all the wrong ideas about politics?”
“That’s the one. His wife suffered from consumption, and as a result, they started wintering in Egypt decades ago. He kept up the habit after she died. Dabbled at excavation, but found he prefers buying antiquities to getting dusty finding them. Still, not the worst bloke I’ve ever met. Terribly fond of Mother. Tended to folly-largesse in his youth, but reined in his worst excesses once he inherited his title.”
“Presumably at the same time his politics took a turn for the worse?”
“Quite right, my dear,” he said, stretching his long legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankle. There was the slightest hint of silver in his dark hair, near the temples, but he was even handsomer than he’d been the first day I met him. My dear friend Cécile du Lac insisted that no man could be interesting before forty, and while I didn’t subscribe to her opinion, I could not deny that Colin’s features—more chiseled than they’d been in his youth—only improved with age. He would still make the perfect model for a Praxiteles sculpture. “Deeley’s of a different generation, so I try not to hold it too much against him.”
I raised an eyebrow; Colin was not ordinarily so generous when it came to politics. “So your mother requires us as reinforcements?”
He shifted in his chair. “Every year, Deeley puts together a party to join him for a leisurely cruise up the Nile and a stay at his house in Luxor. Now that he’s invited her, she doesn’t feel that she can refuse.”
“No doubt she balks at the idea of finding herself trapped on a boat for week after week in limited company.” If that were the case, I wouldn’t blame her. I didn’t like the sound of it, either.
“I’m sure she does, but that’s not what’s stopped her. You know she met Father in Egypt—”
“Halfway up the Great Pyramid at Giza,” I said. “They were engaged by the time they returned to the bottom and married three days later.” The story had endeared his mother to me from the first moment I’d heard it. It was the culmination of nearly two decades during which, with her delightfully eccentric father’s support, she’d steadfastly avoided marriage in favor of exotic travel. I had expected we’d get along famously, but our relationship had a tendency to run from moderately strained to openly hostile. Still, we respected each other—begrudgingly—and had more in common than either of us was likely to admit in public. I had no illusions that traveling together would bring us closer.
“They went back every winter after that until he died, but she hasn’t returned since,” Colin said. “She couldn’t bear to go without him.”
“What changed?”
He shrugged. “She told me I was impertinent when I asked. Presumably Deeley knew going there might be challenging for her and that’s why he hasn’t proffered the invitation until now, after so many years have passed. I think we ought to accompany her as it may prove an emotionally difficult journey. We won’t be alone in offering support. Kat’s agreed to come as well.”
Colin’s nearly grown daughter, Katharina von Lange, was unknown to him until two years ago. His work as an agent of the Crown took him around the globe, securing the interests of the Empire. It was frequently dangerous. Long before we met, he’d had a relationship with an Austrian countess and longtime colleague. Kat was the product of their involvement. The countess had hidden their daughter’s existence from him, fearing that if he were known to be her father, the child could be used to get to him. Such are the ways of covert agents, or so I’m told. I long ago decided not to argue the point; it made for a more peaceful home. Obviously, Colin had no such fears—he did not hesitate to marry me and start a family—yet apparently the countess felt differently. Theirs had been a passionate and tumultuous affair, but Colin had ended it the moment he fell in love with me. That he had adored her I’d never doubted; a dozen years ago I’d seen the pain her death in the line of duty had caused him. Now, I was content to relegate the past to where it belonged. Most of the time, that is. Kat did her best to keep it front and center.
“She can afford to take the time away from her studies?” I asked.
He scowled, not an expression he pulled often while discussing his daughter. When it came to his children, he had a tendency toward overindulgence. “I haven’t managed to convince her to continue at Oxford. She explained she prefers the world as classroom.”
The countess had settled upon Kat a significant fortune that, until she turned twenty-five, Colin would manage on her behalf. Even so, her generous allowance enabled her to do nearly anything she wanted. Any father would worry, but Colin had no stomach for controlling her by tugging purse strings. He was wise enough to recognize that would only cause longer-term problems.
“Better that she come to Egypt with us than go on her own and meet someone halfway up the Great Pyramid,” I said.
“I doubt our presence would stop her.”
If anything, it might encourage her, and I doubted marriage would be the outcome. Kat was a very modern girl. There was no imperative to say it out loud. I could see in his dark eyes that my husband shared my concerns.
* * *
The sublime difference between a cold, wet English winter and Egypt’s golden sun cannot be overstated. Snow fell at Anglemore over Christmas, but it turned to rain soon after the turn of the new year, when we set off on our journey. Egypt was a wholly different world. It’s always a bit shocking how quickly the damp that settles into one’s bones on a wet island can be eroded. Colin’s mother had set off in advance in order to prepare a boat for our journey, unwilling to leave the arrangements to anyone else. Lord Deeley owned one of the finest private steamers on the Nile, but she refused to travel on it. She wanted to see Egypt as she had on her first trip there: from the deck of a dahabiya. These elegant boats, direct descendants of those that glided along the river in antiquity, relied on two large sails for propulsion—backed up by the strong arms of a crew of rowers. The wind was not always favorable, especially when traveling against the current upstream to Luxor.
I will forever be grateful to her for insisting on this mode of transportation. The Timsah—Arabic for crocodile—our floating home, was perfectly appointed. A spacious saloon at the stern contained a long oak dining table and bookshelves teeming with volumes about Egypt, among them a complete set of Description de l’Égypte, the monumental work produced by the scholars in Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt; Wilkinson’s The Manners and Customs of the Ancient Egyptians; Murray’s Handbook for Travellers in Egypt; and Amelia Edwards’s remarkable A Thousand Miles up the Nile. Most interesting to me was Adolf Erman’s Egyptian Grammar, translated into English by his former student James Breasted, an American affiliated with the University of Chicago and the head of their Haskell Oriental Museum. As an amateur linguist, I’d long been impressed with the value the ancient Egyptians placed on the written word—every ship that docked in Alexandria was required to turn over all the books on board so they could be copied and placed in the city’s famous library. I relished the idea of taking up the study of hieroglyphs, particularly now, when I had the opportunity to put the work to use at the monuments we visited.
Beyond the boat’s saloon, four cabins lined the sides of a narrow central passage. They were small, but adequate for sleeping. As we only required three, Mrs. Hargreaves had one converted into a study, replete with reference books, a desk, and writing supplies. Above, on the quarterdeck, a navy and white striped awning covered a lovely open-air lounge. Comfortable settees and chairs were arranged to best take in the view of the villages, temples, and tamarisk trees that dotted the emerald green strip along the bank. We had tea there every afternoon. It was bliss.
Lord Deeley’s boat made far better time than ours, but I wouldn’t have traded those quiet hours on the Nile for anything. The rumble of a steamer was intolerable compared to the sound of the breeze filling our sails. The weeks we spent making our way up the river, stopping to explore ruins and admire the local wildlife, were some of the most pleasant of my life. We stood on the barren desert plateau at Amarna, where the heretic pharaoh, Akhenaten, had built a new capital city in the fourteenth century BC. He (temporarily) revolutionized Egyptian religion, insisting his people worship only the sun god Aten. This did not win him supporters among the powerful priests who served other gods, and, after his death, his son brought back the old religion, abandoned his father’s city, and returned to Thebes. We visited every pyramid we could find, from those at Giza to Djoser’s step pyramid at Saqqara and the red and bent pyramids at Dahshur. Whenever I found hieroglyphic inscriptions, I copied them into a notebook and, back on board the boat, did my best to puzzle out reasonable translations. The language was a trial and a delight: a perfect challenge. The entire journey was spectacular. Even Kat refrained from her usual peevishness. She taught her grandmother how to use her prized Brownie camera. The four of us got along shockingly well, despite the cramped quarters.
Thoroughly enchanted and relaxed, we at last—and too soon—came around a curve and saw Luxor before us. We had all gathered on the upper deck to watch as the town rose from the eastern bank of the river, a jumble of modern buildings that gave way to the ruins of the ancient temples of Luxor and Karnak. To the west, green fields, fertilized with the rich silt left by the annual inundation, stretched to the desert and the Valley of the Kings, where looming cliffs were still bathed rose gold by the last remnants of the sunrise.
Lord Deeley met us when we docked, waving with such enthusiasm that he nearly tripped as he crossed the gangplank. He’d brought with him a bottle of champagne to celebrate our arrival.
“I’m afraid it won’t have stayed cold, but that shan’t stop us.” He handed it to one of the crew to open. “Now, if I may be rather cheeky, may I take a peek inside? There’s something I must check.” He disappeared down the stairs and into the saloon below where we were, only to reappear a moment later. “I ought not be surprised, but it’s a crushing disappointment nonetheless. I’d tried to arrange to have flowers delivered to you last night, but I see my efforts were in vain. Never fear, I’ll send some over posthaste.”
His mood was so jovial we couldn’t help but adopt it as our own. We drank the champagne and told him about our trip. All the while, he sat across from Mrs. Hargreaves, beaming.
“Truly, Ann, it is good to see you. I’m glad we shall have this time together. It’s been far too long.”
“You did visit me in France not long ago,” she said.
“Yes, but for so few days it hardly counts.” He had been tall and wiry in his youth; now he was just wiry, having started to lose some of his height. His hair had turned bright white, with no hint of silver in it, but was still thick and luxurious. He tapped tapered fingers on the arm of his chair. “Now we can settle in for a long catch-up. I can’t think when I’ve so looked forward to something.”
She smiled. “Nor can I, Bertram.”
“I’ll leave you now, but look forward to seeing you for dinner. I’ve quite a feast planned and promise it shall be the most unforgettable evening you’ve ever experienced. Take the day to recover from your travels. I’ll send the carriage for you later, but have the wagon with me now to take your luggage. Is it still only you, Ann, who plans to stay at the house? I truly believe you’d all be more comfortable there than on the boat.”
Nothing could have made me happier than him convincing Kat to take the room he offered her. Colin and I were desperate for privacy; that was why we planned to stay on the Timsah. However, once Kat had learned this, she, too, determined to remain, no doubt specifically to prevent us from being alone. Alas, she still—ever so politely—refused his hospitality. I was disappointed, but not surprised.
The day stretched before us. Mrs. Hargreaves went to her cabin to pack, not planning to leave the boat until it was time to set off for dinner. Colin wanted to send the boys a telegram so they’d know we had reached our destination. I was eager to start exploring Luxor’s ruins and, although there wasn’t time to do the site justice, decided to make a preliminary visit to the enormous temple complex at Karnak. Kat offered to join me, and we spent the afternoon there, marveling at the sprawling collection of temples, chapels, obelisks, statues, a sacred lake, and more columns than I could fathom. It was to the latter that the Greeks referred when calling the city Hundred-Gated Thebes. Even Homer was impressed. To the ancient Egyptians, Karnak was Ipet-isut: the Most Privileged of Seats. I was extremely pleased to be able to translate some hieroglyphs for Kat. It was nothing extraordinary, just a date from the reign of Ramses II.
“This”—I pointed to a group of signs—“indicates the second year of the pharaoh’s reign. They weren’t interested in a dating system that covered all of time, or all of their history. The pharaoh mattered above everything, so it made sense for the calendar to reflect that. Each year was divided into three seasons, corresponding to agriculture: inundation, planting, and harvest. The last was when the water from the annual flood receded. So when you see a date, it will generally tell you what number day in which month of a particular year in the king’s reign.”
Kat shook her head. “I’m more interested in the fact that it looks beautiful.” She had taken countless photographs, raising her camera every few feet. It was an astonishing place. We hardly managed to tear ourselves away in time to dress for dinner.
But tear ourselves away we did, and before long, Lord Deeley’s carriage—gleaming black, with the family crest painted on the side—pulled by a gorgeous pair of perfectly matched black Friesians, their coats brushed until they shone, collected us from the Timsah. Lord Deeley resided across the Nile from Luxor, so we had docked on the same side. Now, we drove along the river until we reached the gates of his house, which was called Per Maʽat—the House of Justice or Truth, depending on how one translated it. Carved into the arched stone gate at the front of the estate were hieroglyphs.
They were enclosed in an elaborate cartouche, which even my brief study of hieroglyphs taught me ought to have been reserved for royal names. Lord Deeley was more concerned with style than substance. His family crest was displayed on either side of the cartouche, a mingling of the two cultures to which he was devoted. Beyond the gates stood the villa. Ancient designs inspired the building’s architecture, with rooms arranged around a lush central courtyard brimming with palms, jasmine, and a riot of vines climbing artfully placed trellises. It was here that we gathered for predinner drinks with Lord Deeley’s other guests, English footmen in stiff livery filling our glasses with champagne.
Because our little group had traveled separately, we had not met the others en route. They had little interest in the ancient sites beyond mullocking about, while we preferred a more careful examination of the ruins. Hence, the difference in the speeds of our boats worked to everyone’s advantage. They could rush up the Nile, while we lingered. Our host, eager to make the requisite introductions, clinked the side of his glass with something that looked like a tuning fork.
“Right, now I don’t want to spend hours on this, so I’ll keep it short. At my side this evening is Mrs. Ann Hargreaves, dearest friend of my youth, and a force of nature. Mr. Caspian Troubridge”—he pointed to each guest as he named them—“typically describes himself as a man of no distinction, but is endlessly amusing. As a result, one must forgive all his faults. Mr. Inigo Granard and his delightful wife, Adelaide, have long been my closest political counterparts.”
Colin leaned down to whisper to me. “We shall avoid them like the plague.”
Lord Deeley continued. “I can’t think of anyone more in need of a winter in Egypt than Lady Wilona Bestwick.” Lady Wilona nodded her head, looking very grave. I assumed we were meant to draw the appropriate conclusions about her health. “Her companion, Miss Pandora Evans, has surprised us all with her skill as an artist.”
The young woman must have been only a few years older than Kat, but her appearance was so unremarkable that she might have been any age between twenty and forty. Gray is the only word that could describe her.
“I lured Dr. Oliver Rockley away from the Harley Street practice he was about to open in order to have a physician round out our party. So essential in this part of the world. Sanitation is not what it ought to be, although I assure you every facility in my home is the equal—if not the better—of any you could find in Britain. I’ve invited Mr. Tristan McLeod to join us this evening. He’s a cracking archaeologist who can hold the attention of even the most hopeless philistine with tales of his excavations in the Valley of the Kings. Finally, we have the rest of Mrs. Hargreaves’s party: her son Colin; his wife, Lady Emily; and Mr. Hargreaves’s daughter, Katharina von Lange. Clearly there’s a story there. I do hope they can be persuaded to share it.”
His direct reference to Kat’s parentage shocked me, and my face must have shown it. “There, there, Lady Emily, no need to fret,” our host said. “It’s better to have these things out in the open from the beginning. Keeps the rabble from imagining the worst.”
Kat grinned. “I admire your audacity, Lord Deeley, and will happily explain.” Her recounting was rather too enthusiastic, but accurate. When she was done, we all stood silent for a moment and then the manners instilled in us since birth took over. We descended into harmless chitchat.
The stars hung bright in the inky blue sky, mirroring the flickering torches in the courtyard below. The moon, a slim waning crescent, provided little additional illumination. Jasmine scented the air. Dotted around the garden were smooth wooden benches, perfectly suited for more intimate conversation. Kat headed straight for Mr. Troubridge, a dazzling smile on her face. Although I suspected he was vaguely middle-aged, he looked more vibrant than most of the rest of the party and had a welcoming glimmer in his eyes. Before long, he was steering her to one of those secluded benches. Colin frowned and set off toward them. Left alone, I surveyed the group and decided to approach Mr. McLeod, who seemed the most interesting of the lot. He spoke before I did.
“So, Lady Emily, have you come to Egypt with the goal of penning your own version of Mrs. Edwards’s famous memoir?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I said. “I would never claim to be a writer of Mrs. Edwards’s caliber. Upon embarking on this trip, I harbored no intention other than immersing myself in history and ruins. Then I found a Middle Egyptian grammar on our boat. I’m now thoroughly engrossed in the study of hieroglyphs.”
“An ambitious pursuit, but a noble one. Which grammar is it? Not the one written by Budge, I hope.”
“No, Erman’s.”
“Excellent. Budge may be beloved by the British Museum, but the man’s an absolute scandal. I’ll say no more as I ought not insult your fellow countryman so early in our acquaintance.”
Copyright © 2022 by Tasha Alexander
Copyright © 1972 by Yale University. Copyright © 1973 by Yale University