"I go to those places because I am Egyptian and most Egyptians cannot."

"But who knows that is why you do it? No one knows apart from yourself-and me," she added, aware that she was the only person to whom he ever revealed his feelings.

He swerved to avoid a group of black-garbed women carrying large baskets on their heads.

"People are going to know soon enough." The handsome planes of his face were nearly as harsh as his voice. "I've had enough of Wafd's hope for change through political negotiation. The only way Egypt is going to free itself of the British is by taking far more extreme measures."

The car swooped up onto the bridge and a breeze from the river cooled her face.

She looked across at him. His jaw was clenched so tightly a nerve was pulsing.

Stifling her growing anxiety, she said, "Your father is one of King Fuad's key ministers. If you came out as a revolutionary he would disown you. He'd have no choice."

"And d'you think I'd care?" A lock of hair fell over his forehead as he swung his head toward her. "D'you know how long it is since Britain promised to get out of Egypt? It was in 1883-2883/ And you're still here!"

"I won't be for much longer if you don't keep your eyes on the road. Mind the bullock cart, Darius. You're going to clip its load."

Driving with only one hand, he swerved past it.

"And it isn't only the British who have to go," he said, speeding off the bridge and onto the straight dusty road leading to Giza. "Fuad and Abd al-Fattah Yahya Pasha have to go, too."

Abd al-Fattah Yahya Pasha was the prime minister and, having been appointed to office only recently, was not a man Davina knew much about.

"He's a Whitehall puppet." Darius almost spat out the words. "He and the King both dance to a British tune. And our new high commissioner, Sir Percy Loraine, is a man who reminds me very strongly of your father."

Davina remained silent. She'd briefly met Sir Miles Lampson, the new high commissioner, when he had visited Nile House. She thought Darius's opinion rather astute. "Lampson's going to be far more heavy-handed on student demonstrators," her father had said after Sir Miles had left.

It wasn't a snippet of gossip she felt inclined to share with Darius. Neither did she think it wise to ask him what he intended doing for polo ponies and sports cars if his father did disown him.

The road was flanked on either side by fields of alfalfa and maize. They made a brilliant checkerboard of green and gold, interspersed occasionally by narrow irrigation ditches. As she looked out at them, her arm resting on the top of the car's low-slung door, Davina sympathized with his anger and impatience over Britain's refusal to give Egypt unconditional independence, and worried where his anger and frustration might lead him.

If he supported terrorism his father would disown him. Her own father-if he were to find out-would ensure that Darius was arrested. His career in one of the city's most prestigious law firms would be at an end. Yet he was right about Britain's intention.

"The Foreign Office doesn't think the time is right for Egyptian independence," her father had said when she had questioned him. "Egypt is incapable of governing herself without British help."

If that was what her father thought, she knew there was no chance at all of the government thinking differently.

"Not one British minister would take the slightest interest in Egypt if it weren't for the Suez Ca.n.a.l," Darius said, breaking in on her thoughts. "Sometimes I wish the b.l.o.o.d.y thing had never been built!"

He swerved through the gates of the Mena House Hotel where the stables were within easy walking distance. Once he was out of the car, his mood changed.

"D'you fancy riding to the Step Pyramid?" he asked. "On the off-chance of you saying yes I've brought fruit and water with me."

The Step Pyramid of Djoser, at Saqqara, was ten miles south of Giza and was where he had taken her on their first ride together.

"As long as there's no chance of a dust storm," she said equably.

"No chance at all. It's the wrong time of year."

As they walked into the stables, he said, "You haven't talked about London. What did you do there?"

"I met two of the nicest people in the world. People I will be friends with for the rest of my life."

And while they rode into the vast expanse of shimmering desert she told him all about Toynbee Hall, the Sinclairs, and Sir Oswald Mosley's rally.

For the next year she spent most of her time at the newly opened Old War Horse Memorial Hospital in Bayram el-Tonsi Street. And when she wasn't at the hospital with another volunteer, she was out on the streets, buying broken-down horses in order that they could spend their last days being lovingly cared for.

"The cruelty isn't always maliciously intended," one of the senior workers said to her. "You have to remember that an ex-cavalry horse needs far more food than a donkey or a mule and that their owners are so poor they aren't even able to feed their children. Another thing to take into account is that the owners often don't realize that animals feel pain."

She did her best to educate all her friends.

"Never use a gharry when the horse looks half dead," she said fiercely. "Never ask a gharry driver to hurry, no matter how late you may be. The horse will only get whipped. Never ever tip anyone who wears out his horse and never travel more than four to a cab. The weight is just too much for the horse."

Before long even her mother's acquaintances were paying attention to the condition of the gharry horses and Davina remembered Fergus telling her that to effect social change, education was essential.

Just before Christmas she was accepted as a nurse in training at the Anglo-American Hospital. "I start after Easter," she said to her mother. "Do please try and look a little happier about it."

Her irritation more pretend than real, Delia said, "I'd be more pleased if you were engaged to marry one of the eligible young men you met in London. Twice your father has gone to the expense of a London season, only to have Petra a glorified secretary and you about to empty bedpans all day."

"All that matters is that we're happy. Or at least I'm happy," she said, not at all sure that Petra was.

Her mother made a sound that could have meant anything and continued with the letter she was writing to Wallis Simpson.

At the end of January her mother announced she was returning to London for three months, King George died peacefully at Sandringham, and a spate of anti-British demonstrations rocked Cairo.

"There was a battle between students and police in Ezbekiya Gardens," her father said. "Twenty youths have been arrested. All university students."

An hour or so later Adjo asked Davina if he could have a word with her.

"I was there when the trouble started, Missy Davina," he said, keeping his voice low. "One of the leaders of the demonstration was Zubair Pasha's son."

"Darius?"

He nodded, and something small and tight turned over in her stomach.

"You could have made a mistake, Adjo. There were a lot of people and it must have been chaotic ..."

Adjo shook his shiny head. "It was Darius, Missy Davina. I have known him since he was a small child. I could not have made a mistake."

"Well I think it best that no one else is told, Adjo. It would cause great distress to Zubair Pasha. Darius could be arrested. He might even go to jail. And the students were just expressing what many Egyptians feel."

Adjo's face was grave. "People could have been hurt. The police could have started shooting."

"But they didn't." Her mouth was dry. "I'll speak to Darius. I'm sure it won't happen again."

Three days later Darius told her that it would most certainly happen again; that demonstrating was his democratic right.

"If he was in love with me," she had written to Aileen, "there's a chance he would listen when I say that being a member of Wafd is one thing and inciting acts of violence is quite another. But since I am not his girlfriend, I don't have that kind of influence."

"Dear Davina," Aileen had written back. "Who is his girlfriend? From everything you've told me, there must be one. He doesn't sound the sort of man to live like a monk."

Davina had written back, hardly able to believe the pain it cost her. "He dates lots of girls and they are nearly always members of what Cairo calls the 'fishing fleet.' Debs who come out from England in the hope of snaring a wealthy husband. They are glamorous and sophisticated and I'm not. And as I've no desire to date anyone else, it looks as if I'm on the way to becoming an old maid."

Davina was also in constant touch with her mother, whose main topic, now that David was King, was his love affair with Wallis.

"Things are moving ahead fast," her mother wrote at the end of February. "Gossip is now rife within the palace circle. The King now never holds a party without Wallis acting as his hostess. She's such a straight-forward kind of gal she doesn't realize the animosity this is causing at court. And if David realizes, he obviously doesn't care. As far as he is concerned, Wallis is his sun, moon, and stars."

"I cannot understand your mother sharing such t.i.ttle-tattle," her father said when Davina told him her mother's news. "She seems to forget you're still only nineteen."

"Lots of girls are married at nineteen."

It was late evening and she had come into his study to say good night.

"Well, I'm glad you're not. I like having you and Petra around."

"That's not the impression Mummy gives. She seems to think that not ending our season with an engagement was a crushing disappointment."

He chuckled. "No, she doesn't. She just wants to keep abreast with her London friends. And of course she likes to have her daughters close by."

"It's you she wants living back in London, Papa. She thought you would be home last year and yet here you are, still in Cairo."

"Yes... and the odd thing is, after years of hoping to be recalled to London, I no longer want to leave Egypt. So many of my best friends in London are dead-George Curzon, Herbert Asquith, Cuthbert Digby. And your mother has a whole new circle all her own age. I can't see me fitting into the King's playboy set, can you?"

She slid her arm around his shoulders and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. His hair had receded at the temples, but it was still the same pale-gold color as her own.

"No," she said with a giggle, "but not all your closest friends are dead. Uncle Jerome is very much alive and kicking."

"Jerome?" He looked startled, as if the thought of Jerome being in London hadn't occurred to him. After a pause, he said, "Jerome is actually far more your mother's friend than mine, Davina. He's a good bit younger than me, you know." He frowned. "I feel sorry for him. If he hadn't taken the blame for his divorce he would be in the cabinet. Instead he's languishing on the back benches."

Since becoming a d.u.c.h.ess, Sylvia's name had never been mentioned at Nile House. Remembering seeing her at Olympia, Davina was grateful for her father's silence.

The doorbell rang and moments later Adjo announced Kate Gunn.

"Ah, yes." Ivor rose to his feet. "I was expecting her."

To Davina, he said, "I have a report that needs typing up pretty urgently and Kate will make short work of it."

She nodded, well aware of how reliant on Kate he had become. Nearly everywhere he went, Kate went with him.

"If Delia doesn't mind, I don't see why you should," Petra said dismissively when she had voiced her concern. "And our mother is very, very fond of Kate. She's become family."

It was true. She had been part of their lives since they were small.

All the same, Davina couldn't help but wonder if Kate was one of the reasons her father wanted to stay in Cairo.

A week later Davina received another letter from Aileen. She was sitting on a bench in the Citadel, near the Muhammad Ali Mosque. To the right of her the Citadel's ramparts fell away with dizzying steepness, affording a view she loved more than any other.

Cairo in all its turbulent, noisy density lay spread out before her. Amid the jumble of narrow streets and bazaars she could see the roof of the orphanage where she had done so much volunteer work and, farther away, the roofs of the Coptic churches of Babylon. Everywhere else there was a sea of domes and minarets spreading down to the broad glitter of the Nile. Though the heat haze was heavy she could see Garden City, the Kasr el-Nil Bridge, and Gezira Island. Most wonderful of all was the sight of Giza's three pyramids in the far distance. The most substantial, enduring monuments of all time, they looked ethereally insubstantial in the heat haze, almost as if they were floating in the air.

She rested her eyes on them for a few moments and then withdrew the envelope from her pocket.

Dearest Davina, Prepare yourself for a big surprise! The Free Clinic is finally up and running in Whitechapel! It's been a long haul and we wouldn't have achieved it without the financial support of your mother and her friends. Having it as a goal has helped Fergus's recovery enormously. He still limps, but that he is walking at all is a miracle we are deeply grateful for. I've enclosed a photograph of baby Andrew-though I shouldn't refer to him as a baby now that he is a toddler and running about all over the place. He's an absolute delight-the light of my life.

Deeply happy for her friend, Davina rested the letter on her knee, wishing that Cairo was closer to Britain and that she could give Andrew Fergus a hug and a kiss; wondering if the day would ever come when she, too, would have a son.

NINETEEN.

At Easter Davina began nursing training.

Her way of life and Petra's couldn't have been more different. When she came home from the hospital, Petra's social life was just beginning. Swimming parties at the Mena House Hotel were followed by picnics in the shadow of the Saqqara pyramid. There were tea dances at Shepheard's and evening dances at the Continental. She never missed a polo match at the Gezira Sporting Club and played tennis there several times week.

The tidbits of gossip she brought home were often political. In early summer Petra said with unusual seriousness, "You must end your friendship with Darius, Davvy. He's joined an anti-British group that are little more than terrorists. Even Fawzia has given up on him."

"I know."

"How?" They were sharing a quick breakfast together. "You hardly ever see Fawzia these days. You're always either at the hospital or at Bayram el-Tonsi Street."

"Jack mentioned it in his last letter to me." She poured herself a gla.s.s of mango juice. "And Darius told me that he's no longer speaking to his father."

Petra picked up a slice of toast. "How," she asked with a different expression in her voice, "does Jack know?"

"Because Fawzia writes to him all the time."

"Oh!" Petra said frowning, and then, ignoring her toast, she hastily pushed her chair away from the table. "I must get off. I'm going to be late. Bye, Davvy."

Petra began mentioning the name of Sholto Monck, a diplomat recently stationed in Cairo.

"He's Anglo-Irish. Very dishy. I rather like him, Davvy," she said, looking happier than Davina had seen her in a long time.

In August, they were married in London, at St. Margaret's.

Davina, Fawzia, and Sholto's younger sister were bridesmaids.

Though the Conisboroughs were short on close relatives, her father had done his best to see that their side of the church was impressively represented with an army of distinguished friends.

Walking down the aisle, Davina recognized the aged figure of Lady Asquith, swathed in her perpetual black; Winston Churchill and Clementine; Sir John Simon; and-to her surprise-Wallis Simpson.

With difficulty she tore her eyes away from Wallis's beautifully dressed figure. From being a woman whom only a few royal insiders had known about, Wallis had become a woman the whole of high society now gossiped about.

"Which wouldn't be the case if King George were alive," her mother had said. "Now that David is king, he keeps Wallis in the public eye every chance he gets. Insisting she act as hostess for an official function was sheer stupidity. Poor Wallis's nerves are in shreds. She doesn't particularly want to divorce Ernest, but that is what the King is pushing her to do. And when that becomes public knowledge the jig really will be up!"

Aware that nearly as many eyes were on Wallis as on Petra, Davina continued walking to the strains of Mendelssohn. She pa.s.sed Aunt Gwen, Pugh, and her mother in the front row and wondered if Delia was already crying.