And Only to Deceive

by Tasha Alexander

  “I don’t think they meant to be cruel.”

  “Believe what you will, but I know Emma well enough to see her game. She doesn’t like being one of the last of us to marry. But she’ll be engaged before long, and woe to the poor man she accepts. He’ll find no happiness in his bride.”

  “You really aren’t yourself, Emily. Do you need more tea?”

  “No, Ivy, I’m fine. I have just realized that I am now in a position to voice opinions that would have been outrageous for an unmarried woman. Don’t worry, I’ll send perfect notes apologizing for my behavior and beg them both to forgive me. No one can resist a grief-stricken widow.”

  “You are awful.”

  “I think I’m going to rather enjoy sitting with the other widows at balls, machinating the futures of young ladies and gossiping excessively.”

  “When you return fully to society, I don’t imagine you’ll stay with the other widows.”

  “Perhaps you are right, but I do not intend to relinquish my newfound freedom in the foreseeable future. What were we discussing before those harpies interrupted us? I’m sure it was much more pleasant than our present topic of conversation. Did I tell you that I’ve started to read the Iliad?”

  “No, you hadn’t. How terribly clever you’re becoming,” Ivy said, laughing. “But in all seriousness, Em, is what you said true?”

  “Everything I say is true.”

  “I mean about what Philip told you,” she pressed, unable to meet my eyes.

  “It is true, Ivy. Now that I think about it, I should perhaps have listened better when Philip talked to me. He gave very good advice.”

  THAT NIGHT I DREAMED about Philip for the first time. He looked very lovely, right off a Greek vase. He was storming the walls of Troy, his sandy hair blowing in the wind as he called out, “Kallista! Kallista!”

  The next morning I decided that I would definitely continue reading Homer.

  25 MARCH 1887

  SHEPHERD’S HOTEL, CAIRO

  Have spent past week playing tourist in Egypt; sights are spectacular, but seeing anything ancient makes me long for Greece. Hargreaves is back exploring pyramids today—I declined the invitation to join him and instead combed the shops in search of Ptolemaic pieces. Most I found were singularly uninteresting, caught somewhere between the Greek and Egyptian styles, doing justice to neither. Had hoped to locate a nice image of the great Alexander, but all I found were hoards of unremarkable coins being offered at outrageous prices.

  After less thought than the topic likely deserved, I have decided to acquiesce to my family’s wish that I marry. I recognize that doing so is inevitable and see little point in arguing the timing of the event, although embarking on serious courtship will ensure a bloody tiresome Season.

  3

  I WAS SURPRISED TO FIND HOW GREATLY I ENJOYED MY readings in classical literature and soon began spending a considerable amount of time visiting the British Museum. Not entirely certain how to approach these new interests of mine, I decided to let my husband be my guide and set myself to the task of studying the objects he had donated to the museum. Mr. Murray was pleased to see me in the galleries so often, and I was delighted to show him that I now had the beginnings of at least an elementary knowledge of Homer.

  “Hard at work again, Lady Ashton?” he asked, coming upon me as I sat sketching the Judgment of Paris vase.

  “I don’t know that something described as work could bring such pleasure.”

  “How are you finding Homer?”

  “‘Achilles’ banefull wrath resound, O Goddesse, that imposd / Infinite sorrowes on the Greekes…,’” I quoted, smiling at him.

  “Chapman, eh?” In his library Philip had a multitude of copies of Homer’s great work: four different English translations and one in the original Greek. The latter, obviously, was far out of my realm, so I chose Chapman’s, the most familiar of the rest, which I knew only from Keats’s poem. The bold lines inspired me immediately and vigorously; I pored over it daily.

  “Seemed as good a place to start as any, and it certainly has not disappointed.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. A bit fanciful for my taste, though.”

  “Too Elizabethan perhaps?”

  “Quite. Pope suits me better. ‘Achilles’ wrath, to Greece the direful spring / Of woes unnumber’d, heav’nly Goddess, sing!’”

  “Wonderfully direct,” I agreed. “But for the moment I shall stay with Chapman.”

  “No reason not to, Lady Ashton. I shall leave you to your drawing.”

  I returned my attention to the vase in front of me, keen to accurately capture Aphrodite’s graceful pose. Some minutes later, while pausing to compare my work to the original, I had the sensation of being watched and turned to look behind me, half expecting to find Mr. Murray. Instead I saw an unfamiliar man. His position suggested he was studying the frieze that occupied the wall beyond the Judgment of Paris vase, but his eyes were fixed on me. I was not accustomed to encountering the sort of individual who would stare in such a way, and I must admit to having been somewhat unnerved. He did not look away when our eyes met but moved his face slightly, revealing a long dueling scar on his right cheek. I tried to return my focus to my sketchbook but found my gaze periodically drawn to the stranger, who continued to lurk in the back of the gallery. When I heard footsteps approaching me, I nearly jumped.

  “I hope I didn’t startle you, Lady Ashton,” Mr. Murray said, smiling broadly as he walked toward me.

  “Not at all, I—” I glanced behind me. The man was gone. “I’m pleased to see you again so soon.”

  “I’ve no intention of pulling you away from your work, but I would like to present you with this.” He handed me a copy of a book he had written, Manual of Mythology I smiled and thanked him, happily distracted from the unwanted observer.

  Time passed quickly while I was engrossed in my intellectual pursuits. Ivy’s wedding came and went with little incident. I attended, of course, suitably attired in a dreary gray gown. It was the happiest of occasions, but I must confess to feeling a slight melancholy when I realized how vaguely I remembered my own wedding day. At the time I had merely gone through the motions and done what was expected of me, all the while giving scant thought to what I was doing. Robert’s eyes had shone when he saw Ivy approach him at the altar; I don’t think I even looked at Philip as I walked toward him. Had his eyes brightened at the sight of his bride?

  Within a week of Ivy’s nuptials, Emma’s engagement to the son of Lord Haverill was announced—the younger son of Lord Haverill. Hoping for something better, she had refused him until her parents insisted upon the engagement. I was immensely happy to see her get what she deserved.

  Ivy and her new husband were spending their honeymoon on a grand European tour, with Paris as one of their stops. I was in the midst of reading a delightful letter from her when, once again, my mother descended upon me.

  “Emily, Mrs. Callum tells me in the strictest confidence that you said some very pointed things to Emma about marriage. The poor girl is terrified now and is begging to be released from her engagement.”

  “I can assure you that I told her nothing that would bring her anything but comfort, Mother. She is disappointed at only catching a younger son.”

  “I think you are right. Luckily, she comes to the match with a fortune of her own, so they will live well.”

  “As long as her husband doesn’t spend all her money,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t be so cynical, my dear. It’s most unbecoming. I don’t know what has happened to you lately.” She sniffed in the direction of my windows, curtains thrown open to let in the sun. “At any rate, I have just come from Lady Elliott’s. She is hosting a small dinner Wednesday next and would like to include you in the party. It will be a suitable occasion for you to begin your gradual return to society.”

  The thought of Lady Elliott’s party was only slightly less hideous to me than crossing the Channel on a stormy day. Lady Elliott, my mother’s closest f
riend, would be certain to join in hounding me the entire time, criticizing my clothing (too light-colored), my house (too much light), and my new reading habits (not light enough). I checked to see that I had covered Philip’s beautifully bound copy of the Iliad with Ivy’s letter and sighed.

  “I don’t think I’m ready, Mother.”

  “You cannot hide in your grief forever.”

  “I thought you wanted me to emulate our queen.”

  “Not literally, child. Your idea of mourning is very odd to me. Liberal with your clothing, conservative with social engagements. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

  “You needn’t make anything of it. My clothing is perfectly appropriate. Mr. Worth handled the details himself, and I wore nothing but bombazine for an entire year. As for society…” I hesitated, not sure what I wanted to say. I certainly didn’t want to imprison myself but also did not want to be cornered into accepting invitations from all of my mother’s ghastly friends. “I’m afraid it is too painful for me to return to society in London. It only reminds me of Philip.”

  “I’m sure you feel it keenly,” my mother answered, giving me more sympathy than she ever had before in her life. “It puts me in mind of the depth of emotion our queen still shows to her dear, departed husband.” I thought it best to ignore this sentiment.

  “Therefore, I have decided to go to Paris,” I said, surprising even myself.

  “Paris?”

  “Yes. Philip and I did not stop there on our wedding trip, so there will be no bittersweet memories.” I paused for effect. “I have had a letter from Ivy today. She and Robert will be there for the next few weeks, and I mean to visit them. I shall also see Mr. Worth about some new dresses and perhaps go to the Louvre. Philip wanted to take me there.” I watched my mother’s face.

  “You cannot think of traveling alone,” she began, and then stopped suddenly. “I do not like this, Emily. It doesn’t seem appropriate in the least.”

  “Why not?” I countered, feeling slightly guilty for inventing stories about my deceased spouse. “It would make Philip happy.”

  “Philip would be happy to know that you are being cared for by family. If you are not comfortable in London, which I admit is somewhat understandable, why don’t you go see his sister? She would be delighted to have you.”

  The thought of a prolonged stay with any of Philip’s family was insupportable. They, who really grieved his loss, and I, who would have to pretend that I knew him: a disastrous combination.

  “No. I am going to Paris. It’s already decided. I shall have you and Father to dinner before I leave.”

  “Who will be your chaperone? I cannot make the trip on such short notice.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief, not having had time to even consider a response to the possibility of her wanting to join me. “I shall bring my maid. I am no longer an unmarried woman, Mother, and am quite capable of traveling on my own. Besides, Ivy will be there, and loads of people go after the Season. I’m sure I won’t be lonely.”

  “I didn’t imagine you would be gone so long. Surely you will return to England before Christmas?” She shook her head. “I don’t think I should allow it.”

  “Happily, the decision is mine, Mother. I am a widow and in sole control of my actions.” Not sure of how to respond to such a statement from her daughter, my mother retreated into the safe world of society gossip. I had left cards for several people that week and hoped violently that one, if not all, of them would interrupt us before I went mad listening to the usual litany of wedding plans, broken engagements, and suggestions for improving my home’s décor. Fortunately, the butler announced a visitor.

  “Lord Palmer to see you, madam,” Davis stated regally. I told him to send the gentleman in, and soon we were laughing in the company of a truly delightful old man. He was one of the few people my husband and I had entertained in the days we spent together in London before his final trip to Africa. Eventually, as I knew it must, the conversation turned to Philip.

  “Such a tragic loss,” Lord Palmer said. “But we shall move on, and you, young lady, have a bright future before you.” I began to wonder if I should reconsider my opinion of my guest.

  “This is exactly what I’ve been telling her,” my mother said. “She cannot sit in this house forever. We must get her back into society.”

  “Philip was as dear to me as my own sons,” Lord Palmer continued, as I silently thanked him for ignoring my mother’s comment. “We spent many pleasant afternoons in the British Museum.”

  “Are you interested in Greece, Lord Palmer?”

  “More so even than Philip, my dear. I dabbled in archaeology in my younger years, but that story shall have to wait until another day.”

  “I’ve been reading the Iliad. It’s marvelous.”

  “Capital. Whose side do you take? Achilles or Hector?”

  “Hector, without question. Achilles is far too arrogant.”

  “It is so difficult to occupy oneself while in mourning,” my mother said, glaring at me.

  “I must admit to being surprised by the poem. I would not have thought the tale of a war would so engross me. Yet I cannot help but wonder if I should have read an overview of Greek mythology before jumping straight into Homer?”

  “I’m sure Philip has The Age of Fable in the library. You may find it helpful to familiarize yourself with it.”

  “Is that Thomas Bulfinch? Yes, I’ve seen it on a shelf.”

  “Emily is a great reader,” my mother said.

  “He discusses the Iliad. Having a rudimentary knowledge of the story will allow you to focus more on the poetry.”

  “An excellent point, Lord Palmer. I shall take your advice and look at Bulfinch this afternoon.”

  “Do your sons enjoy classics, too?” my mother asked. As always, she amazed me with her ability to stay focused on her never-wavering goal of marrying me off to whatever eligible person she could. I knew what stirred her interest in Lord Palmer’s sons. I could see her counting the months until I would be out of mourning.

  “Unfortunately, not.”

  “Are they married now, Lord Palmer?” My mother looked directly at me as she spoke; we both knew she was fully cognizant of the marital status of every English nobleman over the age of twenty-five.

  “Not yet,” he replied. “This talk of antiquities reminds me of a question I wanted to ask you, Lady Ashton. Before his death Philip showed me a monograph he was writing.”

  “I must say, Lord Palmer,” my mother began, “I never knew that Philip was such an intellectual man.”

  “He was much deeper than many people knew, Lady Bromley.” Lord Palmer turned to me again. “I returned the manuscript to him with some comments. Do you think I could have it back? I should so much like to have it published. Make it a bit of a memorial to him.”

  “That would be lovely.” My mother smiled. I wasn’t sure what to think. “Emily would be so grateful for your assistance. She would never be capable of putting such a thing together herself.”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where to begin to find any of his papers.”

  “I’d be happy to take a quick look through his library. They’re certain to be there. Not now, of course. Think about it and send me a note. I don’t wish to inconvenience you in the slightest.” Lord Palmer rubbed his bald head as he spoke.

  The conversation turned general again, and I listened halfheartedly, preferring to consider instead what I was going to do in Paris. By the time I found myself alone, I realized I would need a considerable amount of assistance in arranging the details and promptly wrote a note to the only man I knew who had suggested to me that he was adept at making travel arrangements. After putting it in the hands of one of my footmen, I found a copy of Baedeker’s guide to Paris and retired with it to the window seat in the library, quite pleased with myself. Glancing up from the book, I looked outside. Directly across from the window, staring at the façade of my house from a bench in Berkeley Square, sat the man who had
watched me in the British Museum.

  “I BELIEVE THAT TAKES care of everything. I’ve given you your tickets, and your suite at the Hôtel Meurice will be ready when you arrive in Paris. It is not so large an establishment as the Continental, but I think you will find it much more elegant. Monsieur Beaulieu, the manager, will meet you at the station himself.” Four days had passed, and I found myself once again in the library with Colin Hargreaves, who had responded immediately to my plea for help.

  “I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Hargreaves,” I said, smiling at him.

  “I confess your note surprised me. I didn’t think you would want to leave London so soon.” He had a way of maintaining eye contact during conversation that was almost unnerving.

  “Neither did I.” I watched him brush his hand through his tousled hair. “To be quite honest, I decided to go purely out of desire to avoid social obligations.” He laughed. “Please don’t misunderstand,” I continued. “There are many excellent diversions to be found in society, but at the moment I find myself unequal to—I’m not ready to—” I stammered on in this incoherent manner for several moments, until his laughter became too loud to ignore.

  “Do I amuse you, Mr. Hargreaves?” I asked severely.

  “Yes, you do, Lady Ashton. You are trying too hard to be polite. Why would you want to spend the rest of the year attending the somber, boring dinners and teas acceptable for a widow newly out of deep mourning? I believe I share your view of society.”

  “Of course one couldn’t do without it,” I said.

  “No, I suppose not. It does provide us with a set of arcane rules of behavior and, as Trollope so aptly called it, a marriage market. And I will admit to finding great pleasure in a ball, so I imagine we shouldn’t abolish the entire system.”

  “Quite right. What would you men do if there were no ladies to watch riding on Rotten Row in the morning?”

  “I am certain it could lead to nothing good,” he replied, leaning toward me conspiratorially. I offered him a drink, which he accepted gratefully, crossing the room to pour it himself rather than making me get up from my comfortable seat.