The Countess of Carnarvon - The Earl and the Pharaoh: From the Real Downton Abbey to the Discovery of Tutankhamun

Highclere Castle Archives.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

L ORD C ARNARVON HAD just requested the footman, Williams, to bring a further screen into the sitting room to make sure his wife, Evelyn, would not suffer from the slightest draught, given it was so intensely cold outside. He was fussing gently but the fire was well built up and Lady Carnarvon was trying to find a comfortable position in which to sit, expecting her fourth child in just two or three weeks.

Lord Carnarvon had removed his wife from Highclere Castle to their house at 16 Bruton Street, Mayfair, London, well before her lying-in, desiring to be near all the best doctors, and he had engaged Sir William Gull and Dr Farre to be in attendance.

It had been such a sad and melancholy Christmas. Poor Mrs Laverick, Highclere Castles housekeeper, had left on Christmas Eve to stay a few days with her mother but there had been a dreadful railway accident near Oxford. About thirty people died and at least seventy were injured. Carnarvon had sent David Thomas, the butler from Highclere, up to Oxford to find out what news there was and, as it emerged, to identify Mrs Lavericks body. It seemed that a pneumatic tyre had failed, and one railway carriage pulled the others down an embankment into the freezing, snowy fields. Despite local brave efforts to assist, there was little to be done and Mrs Laverick had, if it was any comfort, died instantaneously. A week later she was buried at Highclere in the cemetery in the park with many of the estate staff standing by, heads bowed against the weather and the tragic loss.

Evelyn was very much shocked and overcome at the news. She asked her husband to organize a wreath for the coffin as a heartfelt gesture for a much-loved member of the household. Carnarvon noted in his diary that he would write on behalf of them both. I cannot help but feel it very much she was one of those old-fashioned and faithful servants... a heavy shadow seems to have fallen over the whole house. He had then received a letter from Her Majesty Queen Victoria about an entirely different, political matter. It was written in her own hand, and he read it out to Evelyn to offer, as much as anything, a momentary distraction. Looking out of the first-floor window into the grey London dusk, the thawing snow, now turning to liquid mud, was fading into the dark obscurity and he hoped the children were able still to enjoy the winter weather in Devon, where they were staying with his mother.

Ten days before, Lord Carnarvon had travelled down to Pixton Park with Winifred, Porchey and little Margaret, who were to spend Christmas there along with their governess Petit and nurses Emma and Mary. His youngest sister Gwendolen was also staying at Pixton, and, although not in the best of health, kindly ensured their beloved mother was supported. For his own part, he had thoroughly enjoyed some excellent walks and shooting, as well as catching up with his sister Lady Portsmouth who had arrived a couple of days beforehand. Their mother, known to all as Muddy, was giving them occasional cause for anxiety over her health this winter, which he supposed might be expected given she was now 71 years old. Two of her sisters had sadly died but she and her younger sister Charlotte were still flying the flag.

It was a happy household high on Exmoor, a muffled white world with the newly made snowmen and quick shouts of laughter as snowballs thrown by Porchey or Winifred found their mark. Carnarvon spent some precious time away from cares of government, pulling the children across the lawns on a sledge, helping build their snowmen and enjoying their chatter and stories. Porchey seemed stronger for being outside; his parents were often concerned for his health as he was very slight and tended to suffer too readily from chest ailments.

Lady Portsmouth returned home to Eggesford, a large, rambling Gothic house only twenty-five miles away, albeit a challenging journey across the wintery moors. She had, however, her mothers calm practicality, which was much needed as she had twelve children, the youngest of whom was only 4 years old, and a busy and noisy household to run. This very much revolved around her husbands timetable of hunting and shooting, though her eldest girls had reached the stage where they were more intent on attending every local dance. In between, all of them were out riding ponies and playing with dogs or hiding to fire snowballs at unsuspecting family and staff.