And Only to Deceive

by Tasha Alexander

  “Thank you,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Do you think he will continue his habit of prolonged hunting trips? It hardly seems fair to you.”

  “I admit that is a subject that has given me some cause for concern, but there is no use speculating. I shall discuss it with him after we return home.”

  “I do wish you had chosen a husband who did not enjoy such an odious activity,” Cécile said, returning the table to its place in a lovely little receiving room.

  “Yes, I know. I secretly hope that he will be put off the entire business after his last safari.”

  “Somehow I doubt that is likely. But I will try to withhold judgment of the man until I have met him. In the meantime I do have a fine surprise for you this afternoon. I told Renoir that we will bring lunch to his studio.”

  “That will be marvelous. You haven’t told him about Philip, have you?” Brutus and Caesar had followed us and engaged themselves in a battle with the hem of my skirt. Having tired of the skirmish, I removed them one at a time and handed them to Cécile, who put them on a wide windowsill. They seemed to enjoy the view and did not trouble me further.

  “No, I have told no one. I did not think it would be prudent until you produced the man himself. You say your evidence that he is alive is good, and I do agree with you, but”—she tapped my arm with her fan—“I am not convinced, Kallista. It all is too fantastical. Do not be angry with me, but I agree with your handsome friend Monsieur Hargreaves.”

  “Colin! But, Cécile, I am almost certain that he is behind all this forgery trouble. How could you take his side?”

  “I would welcome a criminal with his face into any room of my house,” she said slyly.

  “You are trying to shock me but shall not succeed,” I said, smiling and shaking my head. “But really, Cécile, I am afraid we were completely deceived by him.”

  “I am not sure that it matters,” she said, shrugging. “Forget about these forgeries. Leave it to Philip, if you really think he is alive.”

  “If I did not think he were alive, I would not be traveling to Africa.”

  “I am not sure that is true, Kallista. Whatever the outcome, I hope that you are not disappointed.” She finished rearranging the furniture in one of her tiny dollhouse bedrooms and turned to face me. “Let’s speak of something more interesting. Did you know that our infamous cat burglar is still at large? Madame Bouchard, who lives just three houses from me, lost a diamond necklace that had been in her family for generations. It seems the thief will never be caught.”

  “I hope you are careful about locking your windows, Cécile. I’d hate to see any of your jewelry go missing.”

  “It would take more than locks to keep out such a clever criminal.”

  10 JANUARY 1888

  EN ROUTE TO CAIRO

  After stopping in Paris for several days to complete some unexpected business transactions, I have at last caught up with my friends. We will reach Cairo the day after tomorrow, where Kimathi, our guide, will meet us to start our journey south.

  Palmer outdid himself in arranging the trip, although I fear our porters will suffer carrying the array of comforts he insisted on bringing. Hargreaves gave him a grilling over it, preferring a simpler camp, but I doubt he will refuse to share our friend’s hospitality once he has tired of Masai cuisine.

  K promised to write me regularly in care of Shepherd’s—am anticipating reading her letters as soon as we arrive.

  26

  CÉCILE SENT THREE FOOTMEN TO ARRANGE HER LUNCHEON at Renoir’s, with spectacular results. They created an indoor picnic, spreading thick blankets over the floor and placing vase after vase of hothouse flowers around the room. These blossoms combined with a blazing fire in the stove to give the effect of a lovely midsummer day. Renoir suffered greatly from arthritis and did not have the money to heat his studio to a temperature warm enough to ease his symptoms; Cécile had concocted her picnic in order to give him an afternoon of relief from the damp autumn day. I had no doubt that her footmen had also left sufficient wood to keep the stove burning hot for several more weeks. We sat on the blankets and shared an elegant feast: mousse de foie gras, pâtisseries génoises, saumon à la zingari, a variety of chaud-froids, and countless other dishes.

  “I am delighted to see your work again, Monsieur Renoir,” I observed, looking at the canvases that filled the studio. “Your paintings are like the music of Mozart: perfectly pleasing.”

  “Merci, Kallista,” he replied, beaming. “I have the most beautiful model; all I must do is imitate her.” Aline, who had spent the morning sitting for him, did not blush but instead leaned over and kissed her husband full on the mouth.

  “How are Monet and the others?” I asked.

  “Fine, fine,” Monsieur Renoir answered. “Will you be in Paris long enough to travel to Giverny?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “Kallista has merely stopped over on her way to Africa.” Apparently Cécile had decided to reveal my secret.

  “Mon Dieu!” Aline rolled her eyes. “What will you see there?”

  “Egypt, Aline. I shall not be satisfied until I have laid eyes on the Great Pyramid.” I glared at Cécile, not sure if I wanted to tell Renoir that Philip still lived. “Autumn is a lovely time to go, you know.”

  “I would imagine so,” Aline said. “Seems a hopeless place. Desolate. I suppose a person might recognize a sort of stark beauty in it.”

  “I should like to go,” her husband interjected. “If only to see the sunlight in the desert. The light must bring out a myriad of colors in the sand.”

  “Well, I shall stay home.” Aline shrugged. “Paris is far superior.”

  “No one questions that,” Renoir replied.

  “I suppose you could persuade me to join you.” Aline stroked Renoir’s face. I averted my eyes, not wanting to intrude on a private moment.

  “You see, Kallista—that is what marriage should be,” Cécile commented. “Will you have it with Philip?” Thankfully, Renoir and Aline, utterly captivated by each other, appeared not to hear her.

  “I shall not discuss it, Cécile. Please do not insist upon bringing up the subject,” I retorted, quite certain that Philip would emphatically disapprove of such a public display of affection. His behavior in such matters had always been perfectly proper. Unless his near-death experience had changed him significantly, I anticipated that any displays of his devotion would be limited to our bedroom, where they would be warmly returned.

  “It is something you should consider, chérie, before it is too late.” Cécile waved her hand in the air as if fending off an irritating insect and sighed loudly.

  “You are surprisingly melancholy today, Cécile,” Renoir observed. “Have you been crossed in love?”

  Cecile laughed. “Hardly. I am only hoping that our chère Kallista is not about to be.”

  “Ah!” Aline gasped, grabbing my hand. “Have you fallen in love? How delightful! Who is he? I hope he is French?”

  “No, no, please, you misunderstand. Cécile, you will force me to address the topic I am trying so hard to avoid.” My friend threw her hands in the air as if to indicate that she had no control over the matter.

  “Let the child have her secret if she wishes,” Aline said. Then, in a tone of close confidence she whispered to me, “There is nothing more glorious than passionate love. When you find it, nothing will compare.”

  “Thank you, Aline.” I did not know how to respond. Truly, I hoped I was passionately in love with Philip, although such a judgment proved difficult to make after having had no contact with the object of my affections for nearly two years. I knew that seeing him again would be exquisite, but I did have some lingering doubts as the moment of our reunion grew nearer by the day. His hunting bothered me, the forgery business plagued me, and I continued to worry that he would not appreciate the changes in my character since his disappearance. I did not question for a moment that he loved me very dearly; his journal proved that. But how pass
ionate could that love have been if he left me so easily after an abbreviated wedding trip? Clearly he preferred the idea of a safari with his friends to the company and comforts of his wife.

  “I have found that in love everything falls into place when you least expect it. When you are convinced there is no hope, your heart is saved,” Aline said.

  “Unless, of course, it is broken instead,” Renoir said, sitting behind his wife. “Aline likes to speak in absolutes that are not always reasonable. It is one of the most charming things about her.” He hugged her.

  “In matters of love, it is preferable to be hopeful rather than a pessimist,” Cécile stated matter-of-factly. “I think you are trying admirably to do that, Kallista, even if I do not always agree with your choice of lover.”

  “I have no lover, Cécile!” I cried with mock indignation.

  “Speaking of lovers, Kallista.” Renoir turned to me. “I have meant for some time to return this to you.” He opened the drawer in a small table standing near him. After rummaging through the contents, he looked a bit confused. “I was certain it was there.”

  “What is it?” I asked, curious.

  He walked over to a chest and lifted its lid. “Not here either.” He sighed. “Where on earth could I have put it?” He dug through several painting cases and a large bag, each time coming up empty-handed. He shook his head. “I just had it. I showed it to Monsieur Palmer when he came here not three weeks ago.”

  “What, Monsieur Renoir?” I asked, my voice growing more urgent. “What is it you seek?”

  “The lovely photograph from your wedding day that I used when I painted your portrait. Lord Ashton left it with me when he departed for his safari.”

  4 FEBRUARY 1888

  EAST AFRICA

  Hunting this season so extraordinary—have already made plans to repeat the trip this fall, with sights set on an elephant—the only prey that has had the audacity to evade me. Tracked a great kudu today—an exceptionally large male. Led me through miles of woodlands before at last I found him. I was careful not to alert him to my presence, but he must have sensed something—he stood absolutely still, nearly invisible in the bush as I aimed my rifle. I felled him quickly with one perfect shot. What an animal! Immense twisting horns make it more handsome than any other antelope. Kimathi says mine has the longest horns he has ever seen—more than seventy inches. Between them a spider had woven the most enormous web that shone in the sunlight like a crown, leading Hargreaves to suggest that I had got the greatest of the great kudu.

  Tonight Masai guides prepared a feast for us—must confess to preferring English roast beef—but we dined like African royalty. To be among such friends, in such a place—what could be the equal of such an experience? Our camp, in the midst of the flat-topped mimosa trees, lighted by a blazing fire, is as fine a home as any I have known. “Thus the blest Gods the genial day prolong, / In feasts ambrosial, and celestial in song.”

  27

  I EXCUSED MYSELF FROM MY FRIENDS, TELLING THEM that I wanted to be alone, and shot out of Renoir’s studio. They followed me to the door, obviously concerned, and I could hear Cécile calling for me to come back as I ran down the rue Saint-Georges, pulling my cape close around me. Although I did not know precisely where I was, I remembered Renoir’s saying that the Opéra was only a short distance from him. When I reached the rue La Fayette, I asked the first person I saw which way to turn and soon found myself in front of the grand building. Seeking refuge under its curved arches, I leaned against the wall, my chest heaving from exertion. My heart pounded so forcefully that I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, and I felt as if I would faint. I knew that something had gone deeply, deeply wrong. I opened my reticule and pulled out two pictures from it: the first my portrait of Philip; the second the one for which Renoir had searched.

  Clearly Philip could not have sent my wedding picture to England with Mr. Prescott if he had left it in Renoir’s possession. Renoir certainly had no cause to deceive me in the matter; if anything, it made perfect sense that the photograph remained with him when Philip left for Africa. It would have taken Renoir longer to paint the portrait than the brief time my husband had spent in Paris on his fateful trip. And what of Andrew? I had no idea that he’d returned to Paris only a few weeks ago; he had not mentioned it to me. The timing would mean that he’d left England soon after I refused his proposal. Perhaps he had traveled in an effort to mend his broken heart. Regardless, it appeared that Andrew must have taken the picture from the studio after Renoir showed it to him. How else could it have come back to England? But what could have motivated Andrew to do such a thing? Surely not petty revenge after my rejection.

  Worrying about why Andrew had done it troubled me, but not nearly as much as what it might imply about Philip’s current status. My confidence in finding my husband alive began to ebb, and as I felt it drift away, tears streamed down my face. Realizing that I looked rather conspicuous, I decided to keep walking; I did not want Cécile or any of my friends to find me just yet. Most of all I did not want to return to the Meurice, where I was certain to see the Palmers.

  I headed away from the Opéra, keeping my head down lest I see anyone who might recognize me, and walked as quickly as I could all the way to the Cité, where I sought refuge at Sainte-Chapelle. The day not being especially bright, there were few tourists inside the church; the stained glass could not be viewed at its best under a cloud-filled sky. I sat on a bench facing the southern wall with its glorious windows, not particularly caring what I saw. Confident that no one would search for me here, I dropped my head into my hands and sobbed quietly.

  The sun began to set, and as my surroundings grew increasingly dark, I felt comforted by the absence of light in the medieval chapel. Too soon an elderly man approached me and told me the hour had come for the building to close. Seeing my swollen face and red-rimmed eyes, he suggested that I move to Notre-Dame, where I would find only the choir closed to visitors. I took his advice and spent an immensely soothing length of time in the nave of the magnificent cathedral. My mind somewhat cleared, I decided to walk the length of the Cité to the Pont-Neuf, my favorite of Paris’s many bridges.

  I stopped near the center of the bridge as it approached the Right Bank and relished the commanding view I had of the Louvre. The moon’s brightness as it slipped out from behind a cloud shocked my eyes after the easy candlelight of Notre-Dame, and I considered returning to the cathedral. Before I could make up my mind, I heard a man’s voice calling my name. I turned around, startled, and was utterly astonished to see Colin Hargreaves striding toward me.

  “Emily!” he cried, grabbing both of my arms. “What are you thinking, standing here by yourself in the middle of the night?”

  “Good evening, Mr. Hargreaves. It’s quite delightful to see you, too,” I quipped. “It is hardly the middle of the night. I don’t think it’s later than eight o’clock.”

  “It’s already dark, so the hour is irrelevant. Have you no regard for your safety?”

  “At present, no, I do not. I thank you for your kind inquiry.” I turned my face from him and looked back at the river.

  “Thank God I happened upon you. What on earth are you doing? You’ve been crying. Pray, tell me what is the matter. Have your friends abandoned you?” He placed his gloved hand gently on my cheek; the sensation was so comforting that I did not ask him to remove it.

  “Quite the contrary, I assure you. They are most likely mad with worry after my hasty departure,” I said, trying to smile. “So much has happened today.”

  He put a hand to my lips and pulled me close to him. “My poor girl. There is no need to discuss it if you would rather not.” I let my head rest against his chest in a most inappropriate fashion. He said nothing further until I pulled away from him.

  “Thank you for solacing my wretchedness. Truly, I have had a most disturbing day.”

  “Can you trust me with your worries?” he asked, his voice deep. I tilted my head and looked into his dark ey
es. A funny choice of words, I thought. Can I trust him? Not knowing the answer to that question, I remained silent.

  “I do not want to pressure you into a confidence, Emily. You are too dear to me.” This revelation should have startled me, but I found that it did not; in fact, it seemed completely natural. I met his gaze and parted my lips to speak. Before I could utter a sound, he embraced me and began kissing me with an urgency I had never before felt. Despite myself, I relaxed in his arms, returning his kisses at least as passionately as he bestowed them on me. Soon I touched his hair and tried to pull him closer to me, as if that were even possible. Then, all at once, I thought of Philip. I pushed Colin away from me and slapped him soundly on the cheek, aware of the unfairness of my action even as I did it. He did not flinch.

  “I deserve that,” he said calmly, looking me straight in the face. “But I am afraid that I cannot apologize to you. Kissing you is, without a doubt, the most ungentlemanly thing I have ever done. However, to beg your forgiveness would be completely dishonest, because, given the same opportunity, I would do it again.”

  “How could you do that when you know Philip may be alive?” I cried, trying unsuccessfully to slow my breath to a normal rate of respiration.

  “I would never have done such a thing if I thought there were even the slimmest hope of such a possibility. You know that, Emily. He was my best friend.”

  “I do not know what to think,” I said, my head spinning. The only thing of which I felt certain was the intense anger inspired by the man standing across from me.

  “I shall not pretend to know all that is troubling you at the moment, although I think I have a fairly good idea. I can only offer clarification of my own actions. I am very much in love with you, Emily,” he said huskily, raising my chin in an attempt to force me to look at him. “I have been since I had the good fortune to escort you home from Café Anglais during your last visit to Paris. I adore the fact that you have so willingly shed the restrictive mantle of your upbringing, and love absolutely the woman you have become. I want to argue about Homer with you, help you learn Greek, take you to see Ephesus.”