And Only to Deceive

by Tasha Alexander

  I decided to read more, going back to the beginning of the volume. Here I found Philip’s version of our courtship and marriage, the plans for his safaris, comments on Homer, and general musings about the state of the British Empire. I laughed as I read his account of a dreadful evening spent with the Callums, none of the family attempting to hide their desire that he marry Emma, whose flirting had been particularly disgraceful that night. His lament on the pains of being a gentleman was particularly witty.

  Soon came the story Colin had told me of the night Philip fell in love with me. Seeing on paper, in his own handwriting, the description of this event that meant so much to him and went largely unnoticed by me, I felt tears well in my eyes. He considered me his Helen. Of course I had to read more.

  That he despised my mother surprised me; that this feeling began because she never left us alone in the drawing room before our marriage thrilled me. What would he have done had we been left alone? I loved the five pages he wrote planning what to say to my father when he asked for my hand, but not as much as those written in joyous rapture after I accepted his proposal.

  I closed my eyes and tried with all my might to remember the details of that day. I know I had been arguing with my mother when he arrived and that she’d sat in a corner of the room embroidering, shooting menacing glances at me whenever she thought Philip wasn’t looking. I realize now that she must have known he was going to propose; my father would have told her. She was probably terrified I would refuse him.

  Distracted from my social duties by anger, I had wandered over to the window and stood in front of it looking into the street. Philip had walked up beside me.

  “Emily, it cannot have escaped your notice that my feelings for you have grown daily at an astounding rate.” I did not reply. “Never before have I known a woman with such spirit, such grace, and such beauty. When I think of the life I have before me, I cannot bear to imagine it without you.” He took my hand and looked intently into my eyes. “Emily, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  I was utterly shocked. Certainly he had called more often than other gentlemen of my acquaintance, but I had never noticed any particular attachment on his part; I obviously had none. Looking back, I realize that, my primary concern being avoiding marriage, I had never given much consideration to any of my suitors. As I looked at him, and at my mother peering anxiously toward us, I decided I would rather have him than her.

  “Yes, Philip. I will marry you.”

  A bright smile spread across his face, and his light eyes sparkled. “You make me the happiest of men.” He squeezed my hand. “May I kiss you?” I nodded and turned my cheek toward him; sitting in the library now, I remembered the feel of his lips against it and the warmth of his breath as he whispered, “I love you, Emily.”

  I thought I would go mad with desire when she presented that perfect ivory cheek for me to kiss. Had her blasted mother the courtesy to leave us alone for even a moment, I would have taken the opportunity to fully explore every inch of her rosebud lips. For that, I am afraid, I shall have to wait.

  I closed the book and placed it on the table beside me. For a moment it felt as if I had been reading a particularly satisfactory novel in which the heroine had won the love of her hero. But I was the heroine, and the hero was dead, dead before I had even the remotest interest in him. I started to cry, softly at first, then with all-consuming sobs that I could hardly control. I went back to Philip’s desk and opened the drawer from which I had taken his journal. In it I had also placed a photograph he had given to me shortly after our engagement. I pried it out of its elaborate frame, clutched it to my chest, and ran from the library, up the stairs to my bedroom. Meg rushed in from the dressing room, but I waved her away, falling asleep sometime later, still dressed and holding Philip’s picture.

  I SHOULD HAVE SPENT the next morning leaving cards for my friends to alert them to my return to town, but I found the idea of doing so completely unappealing. Instead I took both breakfast and lunch in my room and did not ring for Meg to help me dress until nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. My head ached, and my eyes were red and swollen from crying. By two o’clock I had returned to my place in the library to resume reading Philip’s journal. While I was in the midst of an admittedly tedious account of a grouse hunt, Davis entered the room.

  “Mr. Colin Hargreaves to see you, madam. Shall I show him into the drawing room?”

  I felt myself flush. “Tell him I’m not at home.”

  “Yes, madam.” Davis turned to exit the room, and I called to stop him.

  “Wait! I may as well see him. Bring him here, Davis. I prefer it to the drawing room.”

  I did not rise when Colin entered the library, and I barely glanced up to acknowledge his presence. “What a surprise, Mr. Hargreaves,” I said coolly.

  “I know I’m calling at a beastly hour, but I just saw Arthur Palmer at his club, and he told me what happened in Paris. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”

  “You look truly unwell. Shall I ask Davis to fetch you some tea?”

  “No, please. I want nothing.”

  “This is about more than the break-in, isn’t it, Emily? Palmer said you were utterly composed through all of it, yet—forgive me—you look dreadful now.”

  I gazed at his handsome face and sympathetic eyes and started to cry again.

  He knelt in front of me and took my hands in his. “What is it?”

  “I…I miss Philip, Colin. I really miss him.”

  “Of course you do, especially after going through such a ghastly experience. Had he been with you, you wouldn’t have had to deal with the police yourself or worry about how you would get home.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.” I stood up and walked away from him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.”

  “I hope you consider me a friend, Emily, in spite of the things I said to you in the Louvre. Please believe me when I say that I never meant to offend you.”

  “It all seems rather irrelevant now at any rate,” I said with a sigh. “You should be the last person I would trust with this information.”

  “You can depend on me, Emily. I would never deceive you.”

  “But you were my husband’s best friend.”

  “Whatever he did, Emily, I can help you.”

  “Whatever he did? I would say that he never did anything; I was the one entirely at fault.”

  “You? How are you involved? Did it begin on your wedding trip?”

  “No, it started as soon as I met him.” His dark eyes fixed on my own, and I felt rather confused. “I don’t think we are discussing the same subject. To what are you referring?”

  “No—please, go ahead. I must be confused. What is troubling you?”

  “I never loved Philip. I never even tried to get to know him; I only married him to get away from my mother.” I paused and looked at Colin, who stood immobile, his mouth slightly open, as if he were unable to speak. “I see that you are shocked.”

  “Yes, I am,” he said quietly.

  “But now, now that he is dead, I have spent more than a year hearing from every person I meet how wonderful he was. I have read his journal, learned of his interests, his passions, and I find myself quite desperately in love with him.” Having said it out loud, the statement seemed ridiculous even to me.

  Colin moved closer to me, his eyes locked on mine. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Please don’t think me coldhearted. I don’t believe I knew myself well enough when he courted me to love anyone. I would give anything to go back and begin again.”

  “Thank God he never knew. He loved you completely and thought you kept a distance from him because you were innocent.”

  “I can tell from your tone that you are angry with me.”

  “Not angry. Maybe disappointed.”

  “Then you are unfair. My mother raised me, with the express purpose of marrying me off to the richest, hig
hest-ranking peer possible. I never had any say in the matter. I could not study what I wished, could not pursue any interests other than those she thought I should have, and learned years and years ago that romantic feelings would have nothing to do with my marriage. Can you blame me for distancing myself from my suitors?”

  “Perhaps not, but one might hope that the woman who has accepted one’s proposal would at least try to make the marriage a happy one.”

  “I never said we were not happy. Quite the contrary. I should never have told you any of this.” I stormed across the room.

  “I have always thought the upbringing of young ladies to be significantly lacking. Now I have my proof.”

  “Can you not at least give me credit for recognizing the man he was, even if I have done so belatedly? It is not as if I married him and loved someone else. And believe me, realizing that I love him now, after his death, is punishment enough for anything I have done.” Colin stared at the floor and said nothing. “I know I made him happy, Colin.” I picked up the journal and shoved it toward him. “Read this if you don’t believe me. He was utterly satisfied; pity me for missing my chance to share in his bliss.”

  “I know better than anyone how happy you made him. He told me daily.” His eyes met mine again. “I suppose I am disappointed that you have shattered the myth of the perfect marriage for me.”

  “Really, Colin,” I said.

  “I am truly sorry for you that you could fail to see such love when it was in front of you.” I found the intensity with which he looked at me irritating.

  “Thank you. You’re an excellent confidant, Colin,” I snapped. “I feel much better now.”

  “You were right. You never should have told me any of this. I am at a loss for what to say.”

  “Perhaps you could change the subject. When you came in, you thought I wanted to talk about something else. What was it?”

  “Nothing, really. I thought it concerned business Ashton conducted on your wedding trip. Clearly I was mistaken.”

  “Clearly.” Evidently I would have to change the subject. “I do have a matter of business of my own with which I could use your assistance. I would like to set up some sort of memorial to Philip, maybe something at the British Museum, I’m not really certain.”

  “I believe it would be best if you took it up with your solicitor, Emily.” I opened my mouth to speak, but he raised his hand and continued before I could form a single word. “Do not imagine I am angry with you. I think, though, that I should like the remainder of my involvement with you to be completely severed from your involvement with Ashton.”

  “What precisely should I take that to mean?”

  “I have a difficult time reconciling the woman before me with the naïve girl my best friend married, and I fancy I should like to keep the two images separate.”

  “You have completely confused me.”

  “Then perhaps the two are not as different as I had hoped.” I said nothing in response. “Please do not imagine I think less of you after hearing your confession. On the contrary, I admire your honesty.” He put his hand lightly on my cheek and left.

  I remained standing for a moment after he departed, and placed my hand where his had rested on my cheek; it was as if I could still feel his touch. I dropped onto the nearest chair, wondering why I had spoken to him about such things. Why had I not written a tearful letter to Cécile instead? She would chastise me for falling in love with Philip. If only Ivy weren’t so newly married, she might have been a good audience for my grievances. Funny that before her wedding I never minded telling her that I didn’t love Philip. Now that she was happily settled, I must have feared she would judge me more harshly than she had as a single woman. I sighed. What Colin Hargreaves thought of me really did not matter in the least, and I did feel better for having told someone the truth.

  Soon after Colin’s departure, I went to the British Museum; I wanted to look at the Judgment of Paris vase. On my way through the Greco-Roman collection, I saw something that seemed familiar. When I stood before the case, I recognized it as the Praxiteles bust of Apollo. Philip must have succeeded in finding it, a realization that brought me no small measure of satisfaction. I looked at the card next to the object, expecting to see my husband’s name listed as the donor. Instead a Thomas Barrett was given credit for the gift. Obviously this was not the bust to which Monsieur Fournier had referred; I must have been confused by the Frenchman’s description.

  I continued on to my favorite vase and stared at it for a considerable length of time, wishing that my husband were at my side. How I longed to hear his expert opinions on the artifacts surrounding me in the gallery. I vacillated between sorrow and a bittersweet joy at the thought that studying the things he loved could make me know him better than I did before his death. At the same time, I felt a terrible guilt for never having opened my heart to a man so deserving of my love. As I was contemplating my morose situation, Mr. Murray approached me.

  “Lady Ashton! I am delighted to see that you have returned from France. Did you enjoy the City of Light?”

  “Immensely, thank you. I’m so glad to see you, Mr. Murray.”

  “You look melancholy today,” he said, hesitating slightly.

  “I’m feeling rather sorry for poor Paris. I don’t think that marrying Helen turned out to be much of a reward.”

  “I don’t think he would have agreed. ‘But let the business of our life be love: / These softer moments let delights employ, / And kind embraces snatch the hasty joy.’”

  I continued for him. “‘Not thus I loved thee, when from Sparta’s shore / My forced, my willing heavenly prize I bore, / When first entranced in Cranae’s isle I lay, Mix’d with thy soul, and all dissolved away!’” I smiled.

  “Most impressive, Lady Ashton. You have embraced Pope.”

  “I have begun a study of several translations of Homer. Are you familiar with Matthew Arnold’s lectures on the topic?”

  “I was there when he delivered them at Oxford. Brilliant man.”

  “While I think it must be true that Homer can never be completely captured in translation, I am quite interested in whether an English poet can bring to us an experience—emotionally, that is—similar to that felt by the ancient Greeks upon hearing the poem in their native tongue.”

  “A question that, unfortunately, can never be adequately answered.”

  “Perhaps, but marvelous to contemplate, don’t you think?” I stood silently for a moment, imagining an evening at home with Philip, discussing the topic. Could he have recited some of the poem for me in Greek? That would have been spectacular, although I would not have understood what he was saying. The thought of him doing so, particularly some of the more touching scenes between Hector and Andromache, was surprisingly titillating, and I had to willfully force my attention back to the present.

  “Mr. Murray, I have been considering for some time making a significant donation to the museum in memory of my husband. How would I go about arranging the details?”

  “I would be honored to assist you in any way I could. Perhaps I could set up a meeting with the director of the museum? You could share with us your ideas and let the solicitors handle the rest.”

  “Excellent. I shall look at my calendar and send you a note.”

  “And, Lady Ashton, if you are as interested in Homer as you appear to be, you might want to attend a lecture being given at University College next week by a young scholar, Mr. Jeremy Pratt. I believe he plans to address the differences in translations of the Iliad.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Murray. In fact, I am planning to go with a friend of mine. Perhaps I will see you there.”

  Back at home that evening, I found that a decanter filled with port had replaced the sherry in the library. Davis, it seemed, had decided to accept my new eccentricities. I rang the bell, and he entered the room almost immediately.

  “Thank you, Davis. I appreciate your consideration.”

  He smiled at me. “I draw the line at th
e viscount’s cigars, madam. Ask for them and I shall give my notice.”

  31 MAY 1887

  BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON

  “What winning graces! what majestic mien! / She moves a goddess, and she looks a queen!”

  The future Lady Ashton is found, although I am afraid she is, as yet, not much impressed with me. Expect to have a capital time changing this. I watched her at the ball tonight, every eligible peer in Britain vying for her attention. She danced all night—and how she moves!—but took little notice of her partners, regardless of their titles or fortunes. Had the sublime pleasure of waltzing with her and am convinced that somewhere beneath her demure smile is the only woman I shall ever love. Aphrodite be damned! Paris should have given the apple to Lady Emily Bromley, who forevermore shall be known to me as Kallista.

  11

  I ALLOWED MYSELF THE LUXURY OF BEING THE DISTRAUGHT widow for several more days before returning to the realities of life. As I made the requisite round of calls, I realized that I had begun to look forward to my friends’ mentioning Philip; talking about him brought me great pleasure now that I genuinely mourned him. I went so far as to invite his sister, Anne, to stay with me for a few days, and I found her a great comfort. She regaled me with stories of their childhood and his years at university, uncovering another facet of him to me. Philip had confided in her and wrote to her frequently when he was not at home. After hearing her stories and continuing to read his journal, I felt that I had a nearly complete knowledge of my late husband’s character.

  Eventually I decided the time had come to go through the rest of Philip’s possessions. Soon after his death, my mother, in a rare moment of helpfulness, had assisted me in selecting those things he possessed of sentimental value and setting them aside. Now I needed to remove his clothing and toiletries from his dressing room. I asked Davis to coordinate this, telling him to dispose of the items in any way he felt appropriate. Before he set Baines and one of the other footmen to their task, I went into the dressing room myself.