"No, I would prefer to avoid that for as long as possible. Do you suppose if my husband turns out to have really been a thief, I should be obligated to expose him?"
"I don't see how you could not," Margaret said.
"Perhaps if we determine that to be the case, we can concoct some way to return the original pieces to the museum and no one will be the wiser. Why tarnish his memory now?" Ivy suggested.
"I am going to consult with Mr. Aldwin Attewater. He should be able to tell me what is authentic."
"Can you trust him?" Ivy asked.
"I think I can. He spoke to me quite candidly in Paris. At any rate, I don't have to reveal to him why I suspect the museum is displaying reproductions." I paused. "You know that Colin Hargreaves very strongly warned me off the acquaintance. I do wonder about him. His behavior has been so strange at times. Did I ever tell you that Andrew actually told me to keep away from him? Said his charm could be deadly."
"What on earth could that mean?" Margaret asked.
"At the time I assumed he meant that he would trifle with my emotions; now I question that conclusion. Perhaps Andrew knows that Colin has connections to these forgers. He also told me that he has never felt he could trust Colin. It is almost as if he were warning me," I said, remembering the note I had found. "I wonder if he also warned Philip?"
For several hours after Ivy and Margaret had gone to bed, I sifted through every paper I could find in the library, hoping to locate some documentation of the antiquities. Philip's files were carefully organized, and I quickly found records of those objects displayed in his stunning gallery. There was no mention anywhere of the objects currently in the library, nor any suggestion that he knew of or suspected forgers at work in the museum.
Eventually I retired but still did not sleep. Finding myself alone in Philip's bed overwhelmed me, and I spent much of the night searching through the contents of the master bedroom. Philip had not been to the house since our marriage, and I felt that the room was a vestige of his bachelor life. His dressing room contained nothing of particular interest; the same could not be said of the bedroom itself. A low shelf standing below the windows across from the heavy four-poster bed held a surprising collection of books, among them Lady Audley's Secret, the edition of Beeton's Christmas Annual that contained A Study in Scarlet, a catalog of objects from the British Museum, and Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida, as well as a few volumes on the subject of big-game hunting. The selection of books kept in one's bedroom is highly personal and indicative of one's character, and after looking at these, I felt that I knew Philip more intimately than before. I loved the idea that he might have read Lady Audley on a blustery evening during which sleep eluded him, and I wished for the chance to nestle beside him with a novel of my own. How delightful it would have been to spend an evening in bed with him, reading and exchanging comments.
Ivy had told me about Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, but I had never read either of the novels. I picked up A Study in Scarlet to bring back to London and then noticed a series of leather volumes with unmarked spines identical to Philip's journal. As I suspected, they contained records of previous years of his life. I immediately opened the first book and began to read but stopped before I finished a page. Much though I wanted to know my husband better, I didn't feel entirely right reading his private thoughts, especially those written years before he ever knew me. I opened the book again.
Truly, she is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen and cannot imagine finding more beauty in a single being.
Who was this trollop tempting my future husband? I ground my teeth as I skimmed ahead, jealously hoping that she had died of consumption before the relationship grew serious. No, not consumption; that would take too long and almost certainly ensure the formation of the dreaded attachment. I sighed when I realized I was reading the musings of a fifteen-year-old Philip on the subject of a horse. I replaced the volume on the shelf. It would be naïve to think that Philip had not loved before he met me. The former object or objects of his affection were likely to have had the good sense to return his feelings; reading about it would serve only to remind me of the foolishness of my own behavior toward him.
When Mrs. Henley had unpacked my valise, she put on the nightstand next to the bed the photograph of Philip I now always carried with me. I looked at it and wondered how I could ever doubt his character. No matter what I had found in the library, how could I believe that Philip would knowingly purchase artifacts that belonged to a museum?
Even as I thought this, the seeds of doubt were forming deep in my mind. I never knew him; all I knew now was what others wanted me to believe. I blocked these thoughts, not wanting reality to crush the romantic fantasy I so desperately longed to be true. I tried to imagine Philip dealing in the black market, skulking around with forgers. All this accomplished was to show me that I had a great difficulty imagining him doing much of anything; I didn't know him well enough to improvise his speech, mannerisms, or expressions. Once again the feeling of lost opportunity rushed over me, and I spent the remainder of this restless night crying, clutching the picture of the man over whom I suffered an unbearable feeling of regret.
18 AUGUST 1887
BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
As always, it is a great relief to escape from the Season in London, although for the first time, doing so has meant leaving behind someone more dear to me than I could ever have expected. Perhaps next year will have K join me here.
Fournier's discus thrower more exquisite than I imagined. Retaliated by acquiring two more vases-one depicts the Judgment of Paris and is perhaps the finest work of its kind. Don't know that I shall be able to give it up, although there is no question that it belongs in the British Museum. Also saw Renoir et al. in Paris-bought six more pictures for the villa. Something in the informality of my friends' paintings fits beautifully on this unspoiled island. Must convince Monet to come here and paint for me-his views of the caldera would be incomparable. How I would love to see him attack with bold brushstrokes the light bouncing on the Aegean.
18
Aside from his copy of A Study in Scarlet, The only thing I took from Philip's bedroom at Ashton Hall was a notebook in which he had recorded information on each of the objects in his collection of antiquities as well as observations on some of his favorite pieces in the British Museum. Back in London, comfortably ensconced in a large chair in the library (no corset for me that evening), I armed myself with the notebook and Philip's journal, resolved that a lively exchange of ideas about ancient Greece could be adequately replaced with reading my dear husband's thoughts on the subject.
Like me, he seemed to prefer red-figure vases to black, finding the detail superior on the former. He mused for several pages about the white lekythoi that Mr. Murray had mentioned to me when he first showed me the Judgment of Paris vase. Philip was struck by the humanity of these pieces, many of which he believed had been made as funerary objects, and wondered about the identity of the figures represented on them. I determined to take a closer look at them the very next day at the museum.
Not surprisingly, he adored any vase that depicted scenes of the hunt. I paused for a moment, considering their appeal, but could not bring myself to reach Philip's level of appreciation and decided to skim through the rest of his thoughts concerning them. Unfortunately, much of the rest of the notebook was filled with notes he had written about hunting in ancient times. I sighed, flipping through pages until I came across a draft of an essay of sorts that he had written about the Iliad.
In it I found no mention of the things I loved about the poem: its humanity, its energy, the heroic ideals of its characters. Most unsettling to me was his excessive praise of Achilles.
I had already admitted to Margaret that Achilles' strength on the battlefield was unparalleled. That this impressed Philip did not shock me. However, it overshadowed for him everything else in Homer's great work. He used it to justify Achilles' egotistical fits and could not praise the hero enough for h
is unwavering sense of morality. While it is true that Achilles' straightforward approach to his world could be considered admirable, I found it immature and overly simplistic. And in all these pages of writing, Philip never once mentioned Hector, except as Achilles' enemy. How could he have so overlooked Homer's most human character? A man who painfully realizes that his best will never be enough, whose heart-wrenching decision to fight Achilles nearly brought me to tears?
Dissatisfied, I put down the book, irritated that Philip was not there. I desperately wanted the chance to argue about these things with him. As I sat there, I slowly began to realize that my own opinions were quite different from those of my husband. Until then I had attributed all my interest in classical antiquity to Philip and had assumed that his own studies would serve as an adequate guide for mine. I no longer felt driven to study as a way to know Philip; I wanted to study because I loved the poetry, because the beauty of Greek sculpture moved me, because I was touched by the sight of tiny details on a vase. Suddenly Philip became one in a series of people whose academic opinions might or might not matter to me.
The culmination of these thoughts did not make me lose any love for my husband, nor did it make me grieve less for his loss. Instead it made me miss him all the more, because it revealed conversations I would never have with him. I could, and would, continue my studies, this time allowing only my own interests to serve as my guide. What I would never have, however, was the chance to end an infuriating argument on the merits of Hector versus Achilles with a series of soft kisses that gradually became more passionate as the topic at hand faded from memory.
As soon as I had returned to town, I sent notes to two gentlemen. The moment their replies arrived, I rushed to compare their handwriting with that in the missives now locked in my desk drawer. I was not surprised in the least that Colin's did not match but found myself mildly disappointed when I realized they were not written in Andrew's hand either. My idea about Andrew and warnings had not proved sound.
Before closing the drawer, I removed the glove and placed it on the table in my entrance hall. I told Davis that someone had dropped it in the library and that he should leave it on the table to be claimed.
Nearly a fortnight passed before I was able to find Mr. Attewater. As usual, Davis proved himself indispensable, taking on the task of tracking him down, locating him at last through one of the rather less exclusive gentlemen's clubs in town. In the meantime I found myself once again spending a considerable amount of time with Andrew, who continued his habit of calling almost every day.
"What shall we do? Are you planning to ride?"
"I'm awfully tired, Andrew, and intend to stay in all day. I have a great deal of work to do before Mr. Moore comes tomorrow."
"Capital. Then now is as good a time as any to present you with this." He held a small parcel out to me; I did not take it.
"Andrew, you know I cannot accept a gift from you."
"Don't be ridiculous, Emily. It's as much from my father as it is from me, to thank you for those terribly boring papers of Ashton's."
"Oh! Did you find them?" I asked, trying to sound surprised. I knew he had spent nearly an hour in the library while I was in the country. At my request, Davis had stood over Andrew's shoulders the entire time, carefully observing what he was doing. I did not want Andrew to know that I had already received a full report on his visit.
"Yes, yes, though I cannot imagine what my father is going to do with them. At any rate, you must take this," he said, handing me the package.
I hesitated, knowing that I should not accept anything from a man to whom I was not engaged. But surely Andrew, who had such a sporadic respect for the rules of society, would not consider my taking his gift to mean more than it did. I opened the paper and gasped. Inside was an ancient bronze coin bearing a portrait of Alexander the Great.
"Where on earth did you get this? It's fascinating," I said, looking at it closely.
"Some dusty old shop in Bloomsbury. I thought you might like it and knew my father would approve."
"It's lovely, Andrew. I shall treasure it."
After accepting the coin, I began to consider more seriously my relationship with Andrew. I did not love him and wondered if I ever could. I thought of the passages in Philip's journal relating to the early days of our engagement. It would be terrible to love someone so much who did not return the feeling. Although I did not believe that Andrew loved me, I did not want to do anything to increase his attachment to me. If I were ever to love a man, I wanted to do so completely; nothing less would satisfy me, and clearly Andrew would not be the man. It would be best if he considered me nothing more than a good friend; I would not allow him to kiss me again.
I started seeing him less frequently, turning down most of his invitations. When I was with him, I tried to make sure it was in a large group of friends or with other members of our families. One evening I invited him and his brother to dine with me, anxious to see if Arthur planned to propose to Arabella anytime soon. Unable to broach the subject during dinner, when the conversation kept to the usual sort of polite nonsense, I brought it up after we retired to the library.
"I saw Arabella yesterday, Arthur. She spoke highly of you."
"She is an excellent lady." I did not like his tone; it suggested that she was a fine piece of livestock.
"Do you see her often?" I asked, not feeling the need to inquire delicately to such a man.
"Yes, quite as often as I can." He was pacing around the perimeter of the room, vaguely looking at the titles of books on the shelves in an attempt to find something to read aloud.
"I wonder if I should encourage her feelings for you?" I continued. "I would not like to see her hurt."
"I assure you my intentions are honorable, Lady Ashton." He opened a volume of Ovid. "Are all his Greek books in this section?"
"Ovid was Roman, Mr. Palmer," I said, disliking the easy manner with which he dismissed the subject of Arabella. "The Greeks are on the next shelf."
"Shall we have port tonight, Arthur? Emily tells me Ashton left quite a stash." Andrew turned to me. "You don't mind, do you?"
"Of course not." I rang for Davis and was shocked that when he arrived, Andrew directed him to bring the port rather than letting me do so. Davis nodded to him politely, as he always did, and turned to me.
"You would like me to bring port to the gentlemen, Lady Ashton? And for you?"
"Port for all of us, please." I waited until the butler had left the room to turn my attention to Andrew. "I don't like you directing my servants."
His blue eyes laughed. "Don't you realize that I will persist in taking whatever liberties I can with you, Emily? You have been very cold to me lately. If I cannot kiss you, I shall have to resort to playing man of the house with your butler."
"Don't do it again," I snapped, shocked that he would say such a thing in front of his brother. I was about to say so when Davis returned.
"How did you like Ashton Hall, Emily? I never inquired after the trip you took there." Andrew laced his long, thin fingers together and laid them in his lap.
"It's a remarkable place. Have you been there?" I asked coldly.
"Now, don't hold me in contempt, Emily. It doesn't suit you, and you shall break my heart if you continue." He looked around the room as he spoke. "What a shame my brother is relentless in his pursuit of literature.
I should like to go to the drawing room so that you could play for us." Arthur was continuing his tour of the shelves, pulling books down occasionally and leafing through them.
"I have no desire to play the piano," I replied. "Are you looking for something in particular, Mr. Palmer?"
"No, Lady Ashton, just at a loss to choose something. I apologize if I seem distracted. My mind is elsewhere this evening."
"My brother has been rather elusive on the subject of Miss Dunleigh, don't you think? I happen to know, Emily, that there is more to the story than he has revealed."
"I'm sure that if Mr. Palmer wants
me to know, he'll tell me himself."
"You persist in punishing me!" Andrew cried. "Dreadful girl! What shall I do to return to your good graces?"
Truth be told, Andrew was beginning to tire me, and I doubted that I should want to remain even his friend for much longer. His disrespectful attitude, which initially I found amusing and even a bit exhilarating, had begun to grate on my nerves. Happy though I was to escape from some of the bonds of society and its elaborate rules of behavior, I did not desire to remove myself completely. I did not want to embark on a lengthy discussion with Andrew concerning his faults, nor did I want to be subjected to one of his drawn-out apologies. I decided to be charming for the rest of the evening and subsequently distance myself from him.
"I shall reprimand you no further, Mr. Palmer," I said, bestowing on him my most attractive smile. "Tell me, have you any further news of Emma Callum and her Italian count?"
"I'm afraid that I must disappoint you on that subject. Her family has closed ranks and is revealing very little."
"Too bad. Perhaps I shall call on them the next time I'm in Italy. I wonder where the count lives."
"Venice, I think. Do you plan to travel there soon?"
"No, not at all. I shall most likely stay in England for the winter and then go to Greece in the spring."
"Ah-to the villa."
"Yes. Have you been there?" I asked, watching Arthur continue his perusal of my husband's books.
"Of course. I would be happy to arrange for your trip. I'm quite familiar with Santorini."
"Thank you for the kind offer, Andrew, but Mr. Hargreaves promised Philip he would take care of everything."
"Really? I'm stunned to know that Ashton would consider Hargreaves qualified to do such a thing."
"Especially after that screaming argument they had in Africa," Arthur said, wrinkling his nose.
"I didn't know they argued," I said.
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