And Only to Deceive

by Tasha Alexander

  “Yes, something like that, Ivy.” I looked back at Mr. Palmer. “I admit to not remembering the particulars, but it did have something to do with elephants.”

  He laughed. “You are charming! I wonder that he left at all. Don’t worry your pretty head with details, Lady Ashton. Suffice it to say that, as always, your husband fulfilled his commitment to his friends, proving himself to be the most admirable of all of us. None of the rest of the bunch could communicate particularly well with the guides. We would have been lost without him.”

  “He was very dependable,” I said, hoping to sound authoritative.

  “Do you like Paris?” Mr. Palmer asked.

  “I adore it.”

  “Nothing like London, is it? Much more fun to be had here. Have you been to the theater?”

  “No, it doesn’t seem appropriate. I’m still in mourning.”

  “Yes, I noticed your hideous dress,” he said, with such a pleasant smile that I could take no offense. “My brother and I are planning to attend a play Thursday night with a merry group of friends. You must join us.”

  “Don’t insist on ruining the girl,” Robert interjected with the slightest touch of humor.

  “I don’t think there’s any reason she cannot attend a respectable performance,” Ivy said. “It might be fun, Emily. You should go.” Robert looked at his wife severely but said nothing.

  “I shall consider your invitation, Mr. Palmer.”

  “I can ask for nothing more,” he replied, giving me an exaggerated bow.

  “Look, Emily, there is Colin Hargreaves. He looks fine tonight,” Ivy confided to me in a low whisper. I had not had the opportunity to tell her of my recent exchange with Colin.

  “I’d rather not speak to him,” I whispered back. I spotted an acquaintance on the other side of the room and excused myself from the group, but not before Colin reached us.

  “Good evening, Lady Ashton.”

  “Mr. Hargreaves.” I could not bring myself to meet his eyes. “Please excuse me.” I saw Mr. Palmer grin and raise his eyebrows as I walked away.

  When dinner was announced, I, by some misfortune, found myself near Colin, who took my arm and guided me to the dining room.

  “Please forgive me,” he said in a low voice.

  “I have nothing to say on the matter,” I replied, trying to ignore the feeling of his arm on mine.

  “May I call on you tomorrow?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Was I so awful?”

  “I already have one father, Mr. Hargreaves. I would prefer not to have a surrogate looking over my shoulder and judging my every move.”

  “Be fair. I’ve done nothing of the sort. I only suggested—”

  “Yes, suggested that you know better than I whom I should consider an acquaintance.”

  “You completely misunderstand me.”

  “Can you explain yourself?”

  “Suffice it to say that not everyone you meet here is what he seems to be.”

  “Should that mean something to me?” I let my eyes meet his.

  “Perhaps you could just consider it the advice of a friend.”

  “I think I can take care of myself.”

  “I think you are overreacting.” We reached the table, and I removed my hand from his arm without speaking, hoping I would not find that he was my dinner partner. I was pleased to see Mr. Palmer appear beside me.

  “Hargreaves! Looks like you still don’t know how to handle a lady. Has he been torturing you, Lady Ashton?”

  “Yes, he has,” I replied, enjoying my newfound compatriot’s allegiance.

  “I assure you my intentions are the best,” Colin said. He bowed smartly and went to find his own place at the large table.

  “Hargreaves is so handsome that he can get away with any sort of behavior,” Mr. Palmer said. “Many have been fooled by his initial show of good manners.”

  “Fear not that I shall succumb to his wiles.” I sat as the footman behind me pushed my chair toward the table. “How lucky that you are seated next to me.”

  “I’ve been a bit devious, Lady Ashton, and switched place cards. Will you forgive my blatant dishonesty? I hoped to have the opportunity to speak with you again in order to plead my case concerning young widows attending the theater.”

  We chatted effortlessly for the entire first part of dinner. Then, not wanting to be rude, I turned my attention to the elderly gentleman seated on my other side.

  “I could not help but notice your ring, Monsieur Fournier,” I said. “Is it Greek?”

  “It is a Mycenaean seal, Lady Ashton,” he replied, fingering its gold surface as he spoke. “Found in one of the shaft graves Schliemann excavated. I like to think it belonged to Agamemnon.”

  “I understand that you have a considerable collection of antiquities?”

  “You are correct. Your late husband and I shared a passion for things ancient.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “No, not particularly, but we met with some frequency, usually when trying to outbid each other for a Greek vase.”

  “They are exquisite, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. Do you have a favorite?”

  “I do,” I replied, smiling broadly. “It’s in the British Museum and shows the Judgment of Paris.”

  “I believe I know the one to which you refer. It’s by a very famous painter.”

  “Yes. It astounds me that we are able to so well identify the works of artists who left no signatures.”

  “An artist’s style is often as recognizable as his signature.”

  “I know you are correct, but I would never have thought such a thing could be said about Greek vases before I began to study them. To the untrained eye, the painting on them appears rather formulaic.”

  “Until you begin to notice the details.”

  “Precisely. And it is just those details that make the Judgment of Paris vase so spectacular. I almost wish Philip hadn’t donated it.”

  “I understand he felt very strongly that the best pieces should be in museums, a sentiment with which I do not entirely agree.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I spend much of my fortune funding archaeological digs. Museums cannot afford the patronage I give. I see nothing wrong with reaping the benefits of my investment.” He pulled the ring from his finger and held it in front of me. “Which do you prefer? Looking at it or feeling it on your hand?”

  “It is magnificent,” I murmured, gently touching its decorated bezel. The scene depicted was one of a group of Greek soldiers pulling the Trojan horse. “But shouldn’t scholars have access to pieces like this?”

  “I’m happy to allow them to visit my private collection.”

  “I think that having them in museums ensures that we shall have another generation of scholars. People are inspired by seeing them. I know I am. How is one to develop a significant interest in an ancient civilization without viewing artifacts?”

  “That’s what books are for. And I do not say that museums should have nothing—just that I should have my pick of the lot. They’d have nothing without my kind, after all.”

  “Of course you should have something, but perhaps the most significant finds should belong to the museum.”

  “Your enthusiasm is invigorating, my child.”

  “Please do not think me impertinent.”

  “Not at all. Tell me, did Lord Ashton ever locate that bust of Apollo?”

  “I’m not sure that I’m familiar with it.”

  “Fantastic thing, to judge from his description. Said it was attributed to Praxiteles, one of the finest masters of Greek sculpture. You know of Praxiteles?”

  “It is impossible to have even a moderate interest in Greek art without becoming immediately familiar with him.”

  “It would be quite a coup to have anything by such a master in any collection. Lord Ashton was searching for that Apollo everywhere when I last saw him in Paris. Must have been well over a year ago no
w. Well, if he found it, you’ve got quite an excellent piece; and if you ever want to sell it, please let me know immediately.”

  Mr. Palmer leaned toward me. “Tell me you’re not interested in those crusty old pots, too.”

  “I think they’re lovely.”

  “You are too sweet,” he murmured. “You simply must come to the theater with me.”

  6 MAY 1887

  BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON

  Regret to say that today marked only the second visit to my desk in the Reading Room. Impossible to accomplish anything during the Season, even after adopting a firm policy of accepting only every fifth invitation. Did read the Duke of Buckinghamshire Sheffield’s “Essay on Poetry,” so all is not lost: “Read Homer once, and you can read no more; / For all books else appear so mean, so poor, / Verse will seem prose; but still persist to read, / And Homer will be all the books you need.” Brilliant thought.

  Saw Lady Emily Bromley on Rotten Row this morning. She is a fine horsewoman—anyone who rides so well must enjoy the hunt.

  8

  “YOU’RE MORE FOND OF HIM THAN I WOULD HAVE EXPECTED!” Ivy exclaimed.

  “He’s loads of fun, Ivy. It’s refreshing,” I said, refilling our teacups.

  “I admit that I liked his idea of going to the theater, but he was terribly blunt about Philip, didn’t you think?”

  “He meant no harm. He’s the first person I’ve met in years who simply wants to see me enjoy myself. Imagine that!”

  “We all want that, Emily. You know that I agree with you completely when it comes to society and its rules, but I’m afraid that Mr. Palmer flouts them rather too much.”

  “He’s high-spirited and says what he thinks. I see nothing wrong with that.”

  “You don’t extend the same courtesy to Mr. Hargreaves when he speaks his mind.”

  “That is unfair, Ivy. The situations are completely different. Mr. Palmer is trying to expand my horizons, not constrict them.”

  “Robert says he’s a decent man.”

  “He is amusing and doesn’t expect me to play the part of grieving widow.”

  “I can understand that he has a certain appeal.”

  “How generous you are,” I said, smiling. “He’s taking me for a drive in the Bois de Boulogne this afternoon.”

  “Perhaps I should join you as a chaperone,” Ivy teased.

  “Widows don’t need chaperones, my dear. What a pity it’s Meg’s afternoon off. She’d be pleased to see me with the son of an English peer.

  She’s frightfully biased against the French.” A sharp knock on the door announced Margaret Seward’s arrival; she entered, her arms filled with books.

  “I’m sorry I’m so late,” she said, depositing the books on a table. “You will forgive me when you see what I’ve brought.”

  “It’s lovely to see you, Miss Seward,” Ivy said.

  “You must call me Margaret, as I have no intention of calling you Mrs. Brandon.”

  “I’d be delighted,” Ivy said, and joined me at the table to examine the newly arrived books.

  “Greek grammar, history, and philosophy,” Margaret announced, holding up individual volumes. “My own notes on lectures I’ve attended and, should your interests take you even further, an introductory Latin grammar. Greek is magnificent, of course, but you should not overlook Latin.”

  “This is wonderful, Margaret. Thank you,” I said.

  “I’m sure you have much of this in your library at home, but I have a terrible habit of making notes in my books and thought you might appreciate the marginalia.”

  “This makes me wish I hadn’t agreed to go out with Mr. Palmer. I’d much rather stay here and read.”

  “Then stay,” Margaret said, slouching into a comfortable chair. “I’d be happy to tell him you’re unavailable.”

  “No, I couldn’t,” I sighed.

  “Is this Andrew Palmer?” Margaret asked. I nodded; she wrinkled her nose and turned to Ivy. “Do you like him?”

  “He’s from a very good family.”

  “He doesn’t seem particularly interesting.”

  “Mr. Palmer is the rare sort of man who does not expect a lady to be completely at the mercy of society. I like him very much.”

  “I will bow to your superior judgment, Emily,” Margaret said, grinning. “I suppose there are many stupider men.”

  “I must be off,” Ivy said, glancing at her watch. “If we are to leave Paris tomorrow morning, I must oversee my packing. I’m so sorry not to have the chance to visit with you, Margaret, but I know that you and Emily want to discuss Homer, and that is a subject on which I would have very little to say.”

  “You should read him, Ivy,” Margaret said.

  “He’s marvelous,” I added.

  “I shall leave him to the two of you with little regret.”

  “She is a sweet, simple thing, isn’t she?” Margaret observed after Ivy’s departure.

  “The dearest person I’ve ever met.”

  “Well—on to the task at hand. I think you should start by reading this series of lectures given by Matthew Arnold, the first professor at Oxford to lecture in English instead of Latin.” She handed a monograph to me as she spoke. “He discusses the merits and shortcomings of various translations of Homer. How long are you going to be in Paris?”

  “I have no fixed plan.”

  “I’m leaving for London at the end of the week to attend a series of lectures at University College. You should consider coming with me.”

  “I do not want to return to London yet.”

  “As you wish. If only I knew someone in Paris who could begin to teach you Greek.”

  “There is no urgency. For the moment I am content with Homer in translation, despite its deficiencies. The poetry captivates me absolutely.”

  “Understandable.”

  “I am so grateful for your guidance. We have a little time before Mr. Palmer will call for me, and I fully intend to keep you occupied for every moment I can.”

  “‘The beauteous warrior now arrays for fight, / In gilded arms magnificently bright,’” Margaret quoted. “Let us begin.”

  Because our time was so limited, she suggested that we read aloud from Pope’s translation of the Iliad. Although of the two of us she alone possessed any academic knowledge of Homer’s great work, I surprised us both by being able to read it with a remarkably dramatic flair. Margaret was delighted and urged me to stand on a chair, book in hand. I quickly warmed to my subject and found myself speaking in as noble a voice as I could muster:

  Declare, O Muse! in what ill-fated hour

  Sprung the fierce strife, from what offended power?

  Latona’s son a dire contagion spread,

  And heap’d the camp with mountains of the dead;

  The King of Men his rev’rend priest defied,

  And for the King’s offence, the people died.

  So engrossed was I in the poem that I did not notice Mr. Palmer enter the room until he was directly in front of me. The look of amazement on his face made me start to laugh; I lost my balance and tripped off the chair but managed not to fall completely, no small accomplishment in a corset.

  “We will have to continue this tomorrow, Emily,” Margaret said, laughing.

  “I shall have read Mr. Arnold’s lectures by then,” I replied.

  As she departed, Mr. Palmer turned to me. “Dare I ask what was going on here?”

  “Best not to.” I smiled, taking the arm he offered me.

  We went downstairs and set off in his hired carriage. The late-afternoon light is lovely in Paris; I was contemplating its soft tone against the old stone of the city’s buildings when my companion interrupted my thoughts.

  “You’ll excuse my forthrightness, Lady Ashton, but I am struck by your beauty.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  “I am pleased that you agreed to accompany me today, even though I suspect you did so primarily to soften the blow of turning down my invitation to the the
ater.”

  “Imagine no such thing, Mr. Palmer. I accept and decline invitations as I choose, neither to soothe ruffled feathers nor out of a sense of obligation.”

  “Excellent. That must be the luxury of being a widow.”

  “I would hardly consider it a luxury. Had I better sense, I would have adopted the policy while I still lived in my mother’s house.”

  “I see I have found a kindred spirit of rebellion in you.”

  “I am not a rebel.”

  “Believe what you want; I will hold my own opinions.” We arrived at the Bois and joined the parade of carriages traveling through the park next to footpaths filled with fashionable ladies and gentlemen. Many acquaintances passed us; we waved to all and paused to speak to a few of them.

  “There’s Lady Elliott. Please don’t stop for her,” I begged. “She’s a great friend of my mother’s who has recently arrived in Paris. I haven’t responded to her note and would prefer not to see her.”

  “Are you a poor correspondent?”

  “I should say not. Generally I am quite good at replying to letters.”

  “You mentioned that you and Ashton exchanged letters when he was in Africa.”

  “Well, as much as was possible. I heard from him more frequently before he actually reached the Dark Continent. I imagine mail service is somewhat lacking in the bush.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “He sent me letters almost daily on the journey from London to Cairo. After that I did not hear from him again.”

  “Those letters must have brought you great comfort.”

  “I suppose they did. I’ve often thought of reading them again. Maybe I shall when I return to London.”

  “You did not bring them to Paris?”

  “No, why would I?”

  “No reason. I just thought you might like to have them with you.” He was quiet for a while and then laughed.

  I looked at him quizzically. “What?”

  “I am laughing at myself for being jealous of your dead husband. It pleases me to know that you don’t read his letters and journal nightly to console yourself.”

  “It never occurred to me to consider reading his journal. Really, Mr. Palmer, this is a strange conversation. I’d rather not speak of Philip.”