The Collector's Daughter

by Gill Paul

  She was delighted to see her uncle Mervyn with his new wife, Mary. Mervyn, her father’s younger half brother, had recently been appointed first secretary at the British Embassy in Cairo. He had been a fun uncle when Eve was growing up, always arriving at Highclere with imaginative presents: cat’s-eye marbles, board games, and a slingshot that their mother confiscated as soon as he left. He had Eve in stitches with his repertoire of jokes and funny faces, and she was pleased he had married a woman who seemed to share his sense of fun. Mervyn and Mary whispered and giggled like children, and were clearly very much in love.

  A footman announced that the carol singing would begin shortly, and everyone shuffled toward a grand piano. Eve took the song sheet she was handed and stood between her father and Uncle Mervyn. Her view of the pianist was entirely blocked by a tall soldier in a scarlet tunic directly in front of her.

  When the singing began, Eve caught eyes with Pups and almost chortled out loud because the man was tone deaf; he sang every word of “Silent Night” on the same flat note. What’s more, he didn’t seem aware of his shortcoming because he sang along with enthusiasm. Eve pinched her nose to contain her mirth and saw Uncle Mervyn doing the same.

  Once the carols were done, Eve’s mother led her to the front of the crowd to introduce her to Lady Allenby, wife of the British high commissioner.

  “So this is your girl,” she exclaimed. “What a beauty! That dark hair and amber eyes—just like yours, Almina. She’ll certainly be a hit with the young men.”

  Eve had absolutely no idea whether she was pretty or how young men would react to her. She’d spent an isolated childhood at Highclere with Nanny Moss and a succession of tutors who coached her in French, mathematics, music, and literature, but never told her anything about the world outside. She hadn’t yet “come out” as a debutante; that had to wait till the following year because there was a backlog of girls waiting to be presented at court after the war.

  A buffet was laid out in the Residency’s dining room and Eve’s mother stood at her elbow instructing her which foods to select: “Have a cucumber sandwich—salmon will make your breath smell. No cake—you don’t want to get porky. And don’t think of touching the champagne; men flirt with drunk women but they never marry them.”

  Once her mother was ensconced with a group of older women friends, Eve was at last free to wander around. She couldn’t see any girls her own age, but she spotted the tall soldier in the red tunic standing on his own by some potted palms. He was younger than she’d imagined from his back view, and looked uncomfortable, as if he would rather be anywhere but there. Eve felt the urge to talk to him, but knew from her mother’s strict instructions, as well as the romance novels she read, that it was frowned upon for women to initiate conversation with a stranger.

  Around her wrist she wore a slim diamond bracelet with a safety catch, and earlier the lace of her sleeve had become caught in the catch. Her mother had freed it without tearing the lace but it gave Eve an idea. She pulled back the safety catch until it caught the lace again, and gave a little twist to secure it. Then she wandered toward the potted palms, pretending to be so absorbed in disentangling her sleeve that she nearly walked straight into the man.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon!” she cried. “This blasted bracelet will keep getting caught . . .” She smiled up at him. “I don’t suppose I could prevail on you . . .”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said, putting his drink down on a side table. “I hope I don’t make matters worse.” He stooped to peer at the delicate cream lace.

  “It’s most awfully kind of you,” Eve said, at the same moment that he exclaimed, “That’s it!” and freed the bracelet. His hair oil had a spicy scent.

  “Evelyn Herbert,” she said, thrusting out her hand and tilting her face toward his with a grin. “Can you hear me all the way up there? Exactly how tall are you?”

  “I’m six foot four.”

  “Five foot one,” she said. “But I have three-inch heels, which help somewhat.” She lifted a foot to show him. “I’m so small that I get lost in a crowd without them, like a Chihuahua in a cornfield. Which bit of the army are you in? Is it an especially tall brigade?” His scarlet jacket was trimmed with gold epaulettes and buttons, and worn with slim-fitting dark trousers that had a red stripe down the outer leg. She should probably have known what that signified but regimental dress held no interest for her.

  “The Life Guards,” he said. “And no, height is not a particular requirement because we are a cavalry regiment.”

  “I love horses,” she said. “My father has a stud farm and I could ride almost before I could walk.”

  “You’re lucky. Mine is a banker and a politician who tried his best to groom my brother and me for life in the House.”

  “Is your brother here today?” Eve asked. “Or is he stationed elsewhere? Mine is still in India with the Seventh Hussars.” She stopped, sensing a change of mood. “Have I said something tactless?”

  He shook his head, but his expression was stiff. “My brother died in 1914. At Givenchy-lès-la-Bassée.” He spoke as if it were a name she should recognize.

  Eve’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh no, I’m so dreadfully sorry. How awful for your family. Was he an older brother?”

  “Yes, there were just the two of us.”

  She blinked hard. “I feel a total idiot for speaking so thoughtlessly. Many families here must have suffered losses, but I blundered on regardless.”

  “Please don’t apologize,” he said, but Eve still felt clumsy. Her mother had warned her to avoid speaking about the war, saying that those who had fought did not want to talk about it, but she couldn’t just drop the subject, not now.

  “I suppose I feel a sense of unreality because I was stuck safely at home for four and a half years being bored to distraction. My mother ran a hospital at our house for a few months and I helped there, but I never saw the trenches, never heard a shell explode. Men just left for France and some didn’t come back.”

  He nodded as if he understood. “I was on the Western Front and saw men dying all around me, but I still find it hard to accept that Edward won’t turn up at our door one day. My parents and I went to France to find his grave last summer, in the hope that would bring some kind of acceptance. But it’s just a wooden cross with his name on it, in the middle of a muddy field with thousands of wooden crosses as far as the eye can see. It’s very difficult to believe he’s there . . .” He shook his head as if to clear the image. “Forgive me. This is not a suitable conversation for a Christmas gathering.”

  A dance band struck up in the next room and when Eve turned she saw a few couples traipsing onto the floor. It felt incongruous and disrespectful given their conversation.

  “Tell me about your brother,” she asked. “What were his interests?”

  Brograve smiled with pursed lips. “Motorcars. He was passionate about them. He knew the details of every make and model. I think, had he lived, he would have worked in the automobile industry.”

  “I can drive,” Eve couldn’t resist telling him. “My father taught me. It’s a wonderful feeling. But please don’t mention it to my mother. She’d be horrified. Not ladylike, don’t you know.”

  He seemed impressed. “You must be rather a daring sort.”

  Eve considered. “I don’t particularly know what ‘sort’ I am yet. I led such a sheltered childhood that I feel as if I am only just starting to live, and finding out who I am along the way. Whereas you—you’ve been to war. You’ve lived through the worst thing imaginable. Losing a brother must be like losing a part of yourself.”

  Brograve was about to answer when Eve’s mother suddenly appeared and interrupted them. “There you are, Evelyn. I’ve been looking everywhere. There is someone you simply must meet.” She tugged on Eve’s elbow.

  “Might I finish my conversation first, Mama?” she asked. It felt rude to abandon Brograve at such a sensitive moment.

  “I’m afraid he’s just leaving. My apologies
, Lieutenant, but I must drag her away.” She smiled politely, but with steel in her gaze.

  Eve held out her gloved hand to Brograve, and he bowed his head as he took it. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said.

  “Likewise.”

  As they walked through to the ballroom, Almina hissed to Eve: “I know him and he won’t do. His father is a Liberal and his mother is American.” Both, in her view, were unforgivable.

  * * *

  “L-long . . . time . . . till . . . we . . . m-m-m . . .” Eve struggled over the word married and Brograve leaped in to explain to Katie.

  “There were dozens of other men who were crazy about Eve, some of them much richer and more deserving than me, so I never thought I stood a chance.” He looked at her fondly.

  Eve rolled her eyes. That wasn’t the real story and Brograve knew it, but she was too tired to say more. Everything was an effort: thinking of the words she wanted to say, shaping her lips into each syllable, shifting her tongue, which felt too big and heavy for her mouth, then finding the air in her throat to push the sounds out in the right order. All the muscle strength had gone.

  She lay back on her pillows. A quick nap, then she would try more talking later.

  “You’re doing so well,” Katie said. “I can tell how hard you’re working. Keep it up and you’ll be chatting away in no time.”

  Damn right I will, Eve thought before she drifted into sleep.

  Chapter Five

  London, July 1972

  Brograve rested his elbow on the edge of the bed and laid his head on his hand as he watched Eve sleep. Thinking back to the girl he’d met in Cairo at Christmas 1919 made him melancholy. She’d been so effervescent, those amber eyes sparking, and she’d looked at him intensely, as if she wanted to know everything about him. He scarcely ever talked about Edward back then—he was a reserved person by nature, and the grief was still raw—but somehow he had found himself blurting out to her that his brother had died even though it was only their first meeting. And when her eyes filled with tears in response, he felt the early stirrings of what would gradually become love.

  Almina had made it very clear she didn’t consider him worthy of her daughter. Her curtness spoke for itself. He had become heir to a baronetcy on his brother’s death but that obviously wasn’t good enough for her precious Eve, who was the daughter of an earl.

  Brograve had followed them to the doorway of the ballroom and watched Almina introduce Eve to Lord Tommy Russell, son of an earl who was at least as wealthy as her father, Lord Carnarvon. Tommy had the reputation of a hard-living, untrustworthy cad, and Brograve’s stomach gave a twist as he watched him cling to Eve’s hand far longer than was customary. There’s no question he would fall for her, but would she for him? Brograve turned and left the party rather than wait to find out.

  He looked at her now, head resting on the pillows, snoring very faintly. She would be horrified if she could see herself in a mirror. Her hair was usually immaculately set and tinted a rich mahogany shade, but now it was unruly and there was a hint of gray at the roots. Her skin was pale and dry as parchment. Perhaps he should bring her face cream next time he visited. He liked the creases at the corners of her eyes that had been earned with laughter, the faint lines scored across her brow, the deeper grooves like parentheses around her mouth. She had such a narrow nose that her reading glasses often slid down. The long neck was hardly wrinkled at all and he knew she was proud of that. She liked to wear a pearl necklace he had given her one birthday, which drew attention to her neck.

  Can you feel how much I love you? he wondered. Have I told you often enough?

  Was it luck that they chose each other? Or fate? Suddenly he could hear Eve’s voice in his head: “No, you dunderhead. It was all down to me. I chose you early on, but I couldn’t get you to realize it. You were so blinkered that it took me four years to get you down the blooming aisle.” He chuckled. He had a memory of her saying that one time.

  Brograve closed his eyes and drifted off. He hadn’t been sleeping well at Patricia’s, unused to a single bed, unused to being without Eve.

  * * *

  Eve dreamed that she was driving an old-fashioned car with open sides. It was a left-hand drive, like the Panhard & Levassor in which her father had taught her. He’d given her her first-ever lesson on Armistice Day, the eleventh of November 1918, as their own particular form of celebration.

  She had been upstairs in the schoolroom at Highclere, with Nanny Moss, when they heard the church bells ringing in the village and knew it meant that the war had ended. It gave her a shivery feeling. She hoped Porchy would be home soon. Several estate workers had died in the fighting, including the two Harrys—Harry Ilot and Harry Garrett—teenage boys who had worked on the grounds, and used to mumble shyly if Eve addressed them. It was wonderful to think the killing was over now and life could go back to normal.

  The Times that morning had said that ships would be honking their horns at eleven a.m. and huge crowds were expected to gather at Trafalgar Square, but at Highclere it felt like any other day: remote, silent, and tedious.

  Eve rushed down the red staircase to her father’s library, to make sure he had heard the bells. He was sitting at his Napoleon desk, the one that an ancestor had purchased from the estate of the French emperor. His hands were resting on the eagles’ heads that decorated the arms of the matching chair, and the racing pages of the paper were spread in front of him.

  “I heard,” he said. “Thank god.”

  “We should do something to celebrate, Pups,” Eve said. “In London people will be taking to the streets and here we are, stuck at home as if nothing’s changed.”

  “What do you suggest?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps drive into Newbury to see if anything’s happening there?”

  Pups regarded her for a moment. “I suppose fresh air is a good idea. . . . Tell you what: how do you fancy your first driving lesson?”

  Eve shrieked. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought she would be allowed to drive. “Are you serious? That’s too exciting for words! I can’t think of anything I’d like more. Can we start now? Straightaway?”

  Pups sat beside Eve in the Panhard, pointing out the gear pedals, throttle, and brakes, and positioning her hands on the steering wheel. They had to adjust the seat as far forward as it would go so her legs could reach the pedals. One of the old men who worked in the stable came out to hand-crank the engine and it juddered to life, the vibrations traveling up her arms and down through her whole body. She released the brake and the car lurched forward, like a greyhound let off the leash. Lord Carnarvon reached across to straighten the wheel, then left Eve to get the feel of it for herself.

  They were on private estate roads with no traffic, but she had to be wary of grazing cows that could suddenly wander out from among the ancient cedars of Lebanon. She found that the slightest pressure on the steering wheel caused the car to veer left or right, and that she had to be very gentle with the pedals or it bounced erratically. It wasn’t long before she was cornering, gliding, and braking with confidence. It felt natural, as if the car were an extension of her body. She adored the wind in her face, the sensation of speed, and the feeling of being in control.

  “I love driving!” she yelled over the rumble of the engine, and her father grinned.

  “I rather thought you would. But whatever you do, don’t tell your mother. Let’s keep it our little secret, eh?”

  It was the dichotomy of her teenage years: her father offering her freedom while her mother tried to rein her in and teach her the rules of “polite society.” Each wanted a different daughter, and while she struggled to please both, it was her father’s vision that appealed the most.

  * * *

  Almina’s main goal as a parent was to turn her tomboyish, horse-loving daughter into a young lady worthy of a great match. When they traveled to Paris to purchase Eve’s coming-out wardrobe, it was their first trip alone together. Eve would have l
iked to wander around taking in the sights but instead they spent most of their time in fashion-house ateliers. It was a serious business. Everything from the length of her neck to the circumference of her ankles was measured by the elegant ladies who bustled around them. Her mother chatted knowledgeably about the Empire waistline, the flounced and draped skirts, and the above-the-ankle hem, while Eve flitted in and out of curtained cubicles, trying on gowns of taffeta and satin, crêpe de chine and Chantilly lace, along with soft kid shoes with high heels and jeweled decorations. The ladies told her she would have to return daily for fittings until each garment was like a second skin. She felt exhilarated and terribly grown-up, but at the same time there was a twinge of loss for the carefree childhood she had spent in cream serge smocks, with comfortable lace-up boots that were perfect for running around.

  Over dinner at the Paris Ritz, Almina suggested, almost offhand, that she should pick Eve’s husband for her.

  “Girls your age have no common sense when it comes to men: a few fancy compliments and you’re all a-flutter. But it is the most important decision of your life, and will affect everything that comes after: the home you are able to provide for your children, your social standing, and thus your happiness.”

  Eve was horrified. “What about love, Mama? What about passion? Goodness, would you have me marry someone I don’t have anything in common with, so we will struggle to make conversation over the breakfast table?”

  “Conversation over breakfast is not the most challenging aspect of a marriage by any means.” Almina scrutinized her daughter. “And I can’t imagine you ever being lost for subjects to talk about. But of course your feelings will be taken into account—so long as you recognize that I am a better judge of what will work long-term.”

  Eve knew her parents’ marriage had been arranged. Porchy had told her. The family’s not-so-secret skeleton in the closet was that their mother was the illegitimate daughter of Alfred de Rothschild, a stern Victorian gent with a bushy walrus moustache who Eve had previously been told was her mother’s godfather. She looked at him with new respect once she heard he’d had an affair with her grandmother. At least there must be passion in his soul.