piece of Egypt’s past. Although admittedly, there might have been a piece or two, or several dozen, that they had obtained for the British Museum in recent years through questionable and possibly less than legitimate means. Not as much fun—or profitable—as their earlier days but fairly satisfying all in all.
But then Walter died of a fever that probably would have been a minor ailment in England. Logically and rationally, Harry knew it was no one’s fault but knew as well that Ben blamed himself just as Harry did. Perhaps it was indeed Walter’s death, or perhaps they had overstayed their welcome, or perhaps the passion they’d had for the excitement and adventure to be found in the land of the pharaohs had run its course. Or possibly they had at last grown up. No doubt the death of a close friend would do that to a man. Walter had been gone for more than a year when Harry received notice of his inheritance and decided to return to England permanently. Ben too was ready to turn toward home.
Harry wasn’t quite sure what he had expected but his first few months in England had been filled with documents to be signed, legalities to be attended to and endless details regarding his new position in life. He’d had to hire a secretary to oversee his affairs and found himself not only with a country estate but an estate manager and tenants as well. He and his father had resided at Brenton Hall, a few hours by train from London, for several months while Jeffries was charged with moving Arthur’s possessions and readying the London house.
Jeffries had been his father’s butler for as long as Harry could remember and he was as much his father’s best friend and a second father to Harry as he was servant. Theirs had always been a bachelor household. Harry had installed him, as well as the rest of their modest staff, in the new residence. The Mayfair house itself was apparently little used as the previous earl was somewhat reclusive and had preferred to reside at the country estate. It had then sat vacant for over a year due to the complexities of inheritance as well as identification and location of the new earl and the previous staff had moved on to other positions. Jeffries had been hard-pressed to hide his glee in overseeing setting the grand house to rights as well as hiring the additional staff the new abode required.
The frantic pace of the first few months did not prepare Harry for the tedium that followed. He had always been a man of action. His predecessor had retained competent employees—solicitors, estate managers and various other agents—who had been in their respective positions for years and from Harry’s assessment no changes were necessary. His new secretary managed his correspondence, business and social obligations—invitations had virtually flooded the house since his arrival—and he had no particular interest in politics. All of which led him to wonder if perhaps he and Ben had made a mistake in deciding to return home permanently. Life now was rather dull and he feared he’d become somewhat dull as well. But upon further reflection—and God knew he had plenty of time for reflection—he realized his heart was simply no longer in the life of adventure he’d once savored. The past was the past and it was time to forge ahead.
Still, why waste a lifetime of experience? He was intelligent and capable. Why not take his almost twenty years of exploits and share them with the world? Why not write of his adventures? And not his alone but his and Ben’s and Walter’s. If H. Rider Haggard—who hadn’t nearly the background Harry and his friends had—could become successful at it, so could Harry. He no longer needed the money but the fame—or rather—the acknowledgment of their deeds, validation of their life’s work and recognition of their efforts in furthering the field of Egyptology as well as a modicum of respect would be rather nice. And didn’t Walter deserve at least that?
“I think Mrs. Gordon’s stories are remarkably well done,” Ben said, bringing the topic back to the object of Harry’s ire. “I find the Tales of a Lady Adventurer in Egypt most entertaining.”
“You have no taste.”
“And you have no tolerance.” Ben picked up the latest copy of the Daily Messenger with Mrs. Gordon’s newest offering from the table between the chairs. “The lady’s stories are great fun, Harry. They have adventure, a touch of romance, even a bit of mystery. I quite enjoy them.”
“They’re inaccurate.”
“Certainly she has left off some of the more unpleasant aspects of life in Egypt—”
“Some?” Harry scoffed. “You won’t find so much as a mention of sand fleas or vermin in any of her stories.”
“Perhaps because people don’t really want to read about sand fleas and vermin. I know I don’t.”
“Details,” Harry said firmly, “are important. You cannot go about leaving out particulars simply because they’re disagreeable.”
Still, upon the kind of deliberation one can only have in hindsight, too much accuracy might well have been Harry’s problem. He had written several stories, and indeed had nearly an entire book completed, before submitting anything for publication. Each and every submission was met with polite but firm rejection and nicely phrased, yet still unflattering, comments about his ability to relate a story in an interesting manner. It made no sense to him whatsoever. Even worse, he was tactfully told that as long as Mrs. Gordon was writing stories about Egypt that were adored by the public, there was no place for his less-than-entertaining work. But he wasn’t merely writing stories—his were true. Harry could only surmise that those who never stepped foot outside of London could not possibly be expected to appreciate the gritty realism of his work, ignoring the fact that his readership was likely to be made up of those very same people. He then asked his father—a man as well-read as ever there was—and Ben—who had lived Harry’s adventures by his side—to read his work.
Their reactions were less enthusiastic than Harry had hoped. Father was evasive over the quality of Harry’s writing while swearing he wouldn’t have had a peaceful night’s rest if he had known all that Harry was engaged in during his years in Egypt, while Ben had simply muttered how it was all rather duller than he remembered.
Apparently, Harry Armstrong, who had never lacked in confidence about anything and had mastered very nearly everything he had ever attempted could write a grammatically accurate sentence that was of no interest whatsoever. He intended to work on that.
“Regardless of what people want, or think they want, if one purports to be detailing factual experiences one cannot leave off the less than pleasant aspects. Details are what brings a story to life and facts are indisputable,” Harry said in a lofty manner.
Ben laughed.
“This isn’t funny.” Harry scowled. “This is how I intend to spend the rest of my days. I am of an age where squandering my time and money in a futile pursuit of pleasure seems absurd and, oddly enough, has no particular appeal—”
“Who would have thought?” Ben shook his head in a mournful manner.
“And I’m far too young to do nothing at all. But no one is interested in my writing, which is based on unvarnished truth and unsentimental reality, because this woman—” he grabbed the paper from Ben’s hand and shook it at him “—has fed them frothy tales of gallant desert chieftains, bandits more dashing than deadly, virtuous treasure hunters interested only in uncovering the grandeur of the ancients—”
“I’d say that’s a fairly accurate description of us.” Ben grinned. “Although I would add handsome and daring as well.”
“The stories she spins are of a land of illusion and fantasy with no more substance to them than fairy tales. They’re full of feelings rather than facts.”
“There’s nothing wrong with feelings and she does say she has taken occasional liberty
