I interrupted him. “Not at all,” I said. Clearly, our searching his rooms had left him ill at ease. He was back to bouncing on his heels and his eyes, bloodshot, showed signs of strain.
A maid came to fetch Ivy, telling her that the cook had run into some sort of problem and wished to consult her, leaving me alone with the young American. He sidled over to me.
“Lady Emily, I hope to take this opportunity to speak to you privately,” he said. “I know you don’t entirely trust me—that much became clear yesterday—and I cannot claim your suspicions are entirely without merit, but I must assure you that they are not—” He stopped.
I waited for him to say more, but nothing came. “Yes, Benjamin? What is it you wish to tell me?”
A ragged sigh escaped from his lips as he looked around nervously. “I ought not speak of it now. Tonight, after the banquet, would be preferable. Will you come to me then? We could meet below the terrace at midnight.”
“You can tell me now. No one will disturb us.”
As if he had been born with the sole purpose of proving me a liar, Jeremy burst into the courtyard, his voice booming. “Look at this toga! Is it not the most spectacular thing you’ve ever seen?” Yards of heavy white fabric with wide purple borders were half-wrapped around him, the rest of it dragging in his wake. “All I need now is a laurel crown.”
Colin, six paces behind, called out greetings. I ignored them both. “Let’s slip away for a moment. I can fend them off.”
“No, no, Lady Emily. This is not the right time,” Benjamin said. “This evening, under the cover of night. That will be preferable in every regard.”
“Tonight, then, at the first possible opportunity.”
He swallowed hard and nodded. “I am more grateful than you can know. This burden—”
“You, Carter, you’re an artist. Can you make me a crown?” Jeremy was upon us now, tripping on his toga, Colin laughing at his antics. I ordered my friend to stand still, crossed to him, unwound the cloth, brushed it off, and folded it over my arm.
“I’m certain I can come up with something,” Benjamin said. His cheeks were bright crimson. “There’s a bay tree not far from the house. Why don’t we see what state its leaves are in and take it from there.”
“Capital, my boy, capital. Let’s be off at once,” Jeremy said.
“You look perturbed,” Colin said after they had left. “What happened?”
“Benjamin was about to confide in me. He admits to … well, I don’t know precisely what, yet—Jeremy is a master of the art of interruption—but he made it clear that we are correct to be suspicious of him. Benjamin, that is, not Jeremy.”
“I have many, many suspicions about Bainbridge, my dear, but don’t like to discuss them in polite company.” He slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Would it help if I intervened? I could take our friend to find his ridiculous crown so that you and Carter might speak now?”
“He’s awfully skittish,” I said. “I told him I’ll seek him out this evening. There are too many people bustling around here at the moment. He lost his nerve.”
“Let’s hope he can regain it.”
* * *
By the time the sun was slipping below the horizon, its fiery fingers splashing the bay with shades of vermillion and bronze, and the sky had turned inky, Ivy’s transformation of the villa was complete. Oil lamps in the ancient style glittered from every corner and candles floated in the courtyard’s central pool. The scent of jasmine and roses filled the air and strains of harp music greeted our hostess’s guests. (Ivy had lamented being unable to find someone who could play the lyre.)
I’d had my hair styled in appropriate fashion, parted in the center and waved around my face, with ringlets behind my ears, and donned a simple, elegant tunic fashioned from fine silk of the palest shade of blue, with a single, darker band around the bottom hem. Unlike nearly every gown I’d worn from the moment I was out of short skirts, it required neither a corset nor any other stiff, binding, or heavy undergarment.
Ivy was resplendent in fringed silk the color of the setting sun. “For once we ladies get the better end of things and the gentlemen are left to suffer,” she said, adjusting the heavy gold bracelets she wore on her wrists. “The toga is an absolute nightmare. Difficult to manage and dreadful for the posture.”
“Yet not nearly so bad as the corsets we suffer daily,” I said, relishing the novelty of being able to draw a full breath while wearing evening dress. “I don’t know how I shall go back to my usual clothes.”
Ivy had provided crisp linen tunics and soft leather sandals for the servants, who were making sure none of her guests were without honeyed wine. Mr. Stirling chose to dress as a Greek philosopher and sported a perfectly dreadful false beard, explaining that was the fashion, even in Rome, for scholars. Mr. Taylor was fully kitted out as a general, complete with plumed helmet, leather skirt, and reddish-purple cloak. I could not help but think how much better Colin would have looked in the ensemble, with his well-developed muscles and strong legs, but such digressions have no place in this narrative.
Instead of military garb—which he insisted no one would have worn to dinner—my husband was wearing a synthesis, the Roman equivalent of evening dress for men. To my eyes, it looked no different from an ordinary belted tunic.
I had expected Kat would take the occasion to make full use of her talent for disguise, but she had chosen a simple dark green tunic with only a pair of pearl earrings as an accessory. She looked very young, shockingly so.
Callie and her brother arrived late, Benjamin rather disheveled in a nondescript rumpled tunic, keeping a careful distance from me. His sister, instead of dressing as a Roman, had hired a costume maker to create for her a delicious concoction meant to evoke Cleopatra, but not the Cleopatra ignorant persons imagine today, with a heavy Egyptian wig and eyes rimmed with kohl. Instead, she was draped in white silk, her gown cut in the style of a Greek queen—which, as a descendant of Alexander the Great’s general and friend Ptolemy, was exactly what Cleopatra had been. A thin golden diadem circled her head.
“If I am Cleopatra,” she said, gliding over to Mr. Taylor, “you must surely be Caesar.”
“Better him than Antony,” Mr. Taylor replied.
“I wouldn’t be so quick to say that.” Callie poked his arm. “Personally, I prefer Antony, which I mean as a compliment to him rather than an insult to Caesar. But tonight is not a time for argument.”
“Then I won’t beg you to call me Caesar,” Jeremy said. With the assistance of his valet, he had managed to get his toga properly folded and draped and had a neat wreath fashioned from bay leaves and floral wire on his head. Ivy gave Mr. Stirling her arm and ushered us into her makeshift triclinium.
“Tell me the number of guests, and at what price you wish to dine. / Don’t add another word: dinner is ready for you,” he said. “The poet Martial.”
Servants helped us remove our sandals before guiding all of us save Mr. Stirling onto the elegant couches—he alone had no trouble situating himself. The rest of us found reclining to dine not so easy as it looks, and quite a bit of chaos ensued as we tried to make ourselves comfortable. Jeremy, hopelessly tangled in his toga, jumped up, flung it off, and then dropped back onto his couch.
“I understand, now, why they didn’t wear these bloody—blooming—things—forgive me, Ivy—to dinner parties,” he said, straightening his laurel wreath. “I should’ve listened to you when you tried to tell me that, Hargreaves. The tunic beneath is far preferable, even if it doesn’t look so noble.”
“Your aristocratic nature, Bainbridge, shines through regardless of what you wear,” Mr. Taylor said. “Clothing does not make the man.”
“Cheers,” Jeremy said, raising his beaker of wine in response and then glancing toward Callie. “I do hope you can ignore any references to things aristocratic that are directed at me.”
“What would be the point?” Callie asked. “If nature, not clothing, makes the ma
n?”
“You are bent on tormenting me,” he said, but she smiled at him, her hazel eyes flashing.
Having a quiet word with Benjamin during dinner would have been impossible. Mr. Stirling lay on our couch between me and the young man, regaling us with pertinent epigrams from Martial and quotes from Ovid. He was a delightful dinner partner. I had never before seen him quite so animated, but I could not decide whether to credit the wine or the fact that he so enjoyed poetry.
The servants brought out tray after tray of scrumptious dishes: herbed cheese, dried apricots in honey, mussels seasoned with wine and cumin, fried anchovies, melon dressed in a vinaigrette, and grilled lobster. The flavors were unusual—particularly the melon—but delicious all the same. Exotic and delightful.
For our final course, Ivy gave us a pudding made from pears poached in white wine, pureed and baked with honey, spices, eggs, and milk. There was also a silver bowl filled with nuts and a matching tray heaped with fruit: dates and figs, pomegranates, and sweet oranges.
All in all, I am confident I could have adapted nicely to ancient life, with its comfortable clothing and surprisingly good food. I had quite taken to honeyed wine, as had Ivy. In the end, we all managed nicely on the couches; the wine helped. Sated, we climbed down from them, slipped our sandals back on, and retreated to the courtyard, where I motioned to Benjamin to follow me to the terrace, walking all the way to the far end, so that our conversation could not be overheard.
He closed his eyes, his breath shallow. “I can delay no longer,” he said, “but I hardly know where to start.”
I directed him to sit on one of the comfortable chairs placed to take advantage of the view of the bay. It was dark, but the moon was nearly full, bathing us in its silvery light. “I find going back to the beginning often simplifies things.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said. “It is so very difficult. There are things that once said, cannot be unheard. Pandora could not put all those evils back in her box, could she?”
“Some stories, no matter how painful, must be told, Benjamin.”
“Even when uttering them will destroy lives?” He had a horrible glint in his eyes, and for an instant I wondered if I should be afraid of him.
“There can be more evil in keeping secrets than telling them.”
He started. “Oh, not evil, this isn’t quite so bad. Shocking, yes. Appalling, even. And sure to cause more harm than good, I’m afraid. Unless…”
“Unless what?” I asked.
“Well, things change when there’s been a murder, don’t they? What once could have gone unsaid—”
I had begun to worry that he would never get it out, whatever it was. “Tell me now, Benjamin. No matter how bad it is, I promise I will do everything in my power to minimize the aftermath.” Granted, if he had killed Mr. Walker, there wasn’t much I could do for him, but I could lend support to Callie.
He did not reply for some time, and as I have found considerable persuasive power in silence, I did not prod him further. Instead, I thought about Callie, wondering if Mr. Taylor could be persuaded to let her keep her position, even if her brother was a vicious killer. I was weighing the possibilities when at last Benjamin spoke.
“Callie is not my sister.”
AD 79
36
Praise be to Apollo and all the Muses, Calliope in particular!
Silvanus’s sacrifice worked. No sooner had I returned from the temple than inspiration struck. All the problems that had tormented me vanished, leaving my mind once again clear and agile. I had bought three honey cakes on my way home and left them as offerings at our lararium, raising my hands and giving thanks to the household gods. And then, I remembered having told Lepida of my devotion to Isis. I promised myself I would go to her temple tomorrow. No pig this time, but I had some very fine olive oil I was certain the goddess would appreciate.
I retreated to my room, pausing only to give my father a kiss hello, closed myself in, and started to write. After so many days had passed without a single coherent phrase entering my head, I now could not move my stylus across the tablet fast enough. Ideas swarmed like the Furies.
I brought three scrolls the next time I saw Silvanus and noticed that the wine at the bar no longer tasted so sour to me, which probably meant I’d been spending too much time there. I didn’t linger, wanting to get back home to write more. As I rose to leave, he grabbed me, tight around the wrist.
“I have enough now that I can start to introduce your work to my friends.”
1902
37
“Callie is not my sister.” Benjamin repeated the words.
Shock had prevented me from replying at once, but now, I shook my head (as if the act might render me capable of sensible speech) and stared at him, my mouth hanging open. “Not your sister?”
“No.”
I could hardly gather my thoughts. “Yet you are living together, sharing—”
“Yes, I realize how bad it looks.”
This news would come as a dreadful blow to Jeremy. He might not care much for society’s opinion of him, but continuing to believe oneself in love with a lady who is living with another man would be hard to do, no matter how modern one’s morals may be. “Why haven’t you married her?”
He laughed, and the sound, almost maniacal, bounced across the water of the bay in front of us. “Callie? Marry? That would never happen. But you misunderstand the situation. We’re not lovers—that is, not anymore. We were close, long ago, when she was studying at Radcliffe and I was living in Boston, but we’ve been friends, and only that, for more than two years.”
“So how is it, then, that you are sharing rooms in Pompeii?” I asked.
“She wanted the job, didn’t she? And she knew—or at least had good reason to believe—that Mr. Taylor would not hire an unaccompanied lady. She’d been turned down for seven positions, all because of her gender. When I met Mr. Taylor in New York, and he offered me a job, she begged me to pretend to be her brother and ask him to take her on as well. It was not difficult for her to convince me—nor was it difficult to convince Mr. Taylor. One conversation with Callie and he could see how supremely qualified she is. As for me, I was in love with her; there was nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”
“If your feelings are of such a tender nature, you might, perhaps, have given better consideration to her reputation.”
“I deserve your censure,” Benjamin said. “But, truly, neither of us believed we were risking anything. My heart, perhaps, but I had no illusions in that department. Callie never loved me and never would. I accepted that and was grateful to at least have her friendship. I don’t have such a high opinion of myself that I believe I could change her feelings on the matter. At any rate, we knew we would not be recognized here, and as soon as Mr. Taylor comes to consider her an essential member of his staff, I will be able to leave to pursue my own work. I only agreed to a single season of this charade.”
“This explains the disparity in your educations and your possessions,” I said. “I couldn’t help but notice when I searched your rooms.”
“Yes, I’d begun to worry that you were harboring deep suspicions of our relationship, and then I realized that my own behavior was only making matters worse. I was tense and uneasy, and probably couldn’t have looked guiltier if I tried. You are kind, Lady Emily, and have an understanding of life that goes beyond most ladies of your station. I knew I’d be safe making my confession to you. Much as I hate to betray Callie, it would be worse if your investigations had uncovered the situation in a more public way.”
“You cannot expect me to keep your secret,” I said. “You and your—er, friend—have both lied to your employer, taking advantage of his good nature, not to mention that you have practiced a grievous betrayal on all your friends.”
He lowered his head. “I know. Your accusations are all true; I can offer no defense. I have proven myself unworthy of your friendship, but all the same, you cannot—cannot—tell anyone. C
allie will lose her position and it will all have been for naught.”
“Mr. Taylor isn’t wholly unreasonable. There is a possibility—slim, I admit—that he will overlook her scandalous behavior and allow her to remain in her job. However, that decision must be his to make.”
Benjamin rose from his chair, fell to his knees in front of me, and clutched my hands in his. “Please, please give me a little time. Let me tell Callie you know our secret and, together, we can come up with a way to make the situation more palatable to Mr. Taylor.”
I pried my hands from his. “Stand up,” I said. “You are debasing yourself, Mr. Carter. I shall give the circumstances careful consideration and speak to Mr. Taylor myself. It would be best if you and Miss Carter—or whatever her true name is—left me to handle the matter. I see no reason, however, that we have to do this at once. I would like a few days”—I was being deliberately vague—“to consider how to proceed.”
“You are kindness itself, Lady Emily,” he said. “I will never be able to adequately thank you.”
“Does anyone else know of your deception?”
“No one, I swear. We wanted to keep it quiet.”
“You’d best return to the party,” I said. “I want some time to think and if we’re here much longer, your absence will be noted.”
I watched him all but dance away, back toward the others in the courtyard, and was glad to be rid of him. What an outrageous story! On balance, I believed much of what he said, despite the fact that he was a proven liar, yet I doubted he had told me everything. There was too much glee in his relief, as if he knew he had got away with something more than hiding Callie’s true identity.
He and Callie had encountered Mr. Walker as they crossed the Atlantic. Had the journalist uncovered the truth about them, and, learning of their plans to work in Pompeii, decided to come to the site and expose them to Mr. Taylor? Benjamin had admitted to a passionate and unrequited love for the girl. Had he killed the man who stood in the way of his would-be sweetheart’s dreams and aspirations? Did he think that eliminating Mr. Walker would endear him to Callie, making her understand how much he loved her?
In the Shadow of Vesuvius Page 20