by Anne Perry
All she could hope was that her discoveries would prove Adriana innocent, not guilty.
As soon as they entered the doors of the exhibition, the past seemed to close in around them and whisk them away. The whole display was as much about Schliemann himself as the objects he had discovered. He had died in Naples, the day after Christmas in 1890, but his energy and the power of his dreams filled the gallery. A large portrait of him hung at the entrance: a balding man with spectacles, wearing a neat formal suit with a high-buttoned waistcoat. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties.
“That’s not how I imagined him,” Adriana said with a little shrug. “He should be fierce and magnificent, a man who would not have been out of place at the time when Troy still lived.”
Charlotte smiled. “Just don’t let us find out that Helen of Troy was really quite plain. I couldn’t bear it.”
Adriana laughed. “They burned the topless towers of Ilium for her, so the poets tell us.” Her eye caught another portrait on the wall a few yards away. It showed a dark-haired woman, quite young, wearing a gorgeous headdress with long, trailing pieces at the ears, and also a heavy necklace comprised of fifteen or more strands of gold.
Charlotte walked over to it, Adriana immediately behind her.
“She’s rather beautiful,” Charlotte said, regarding her closely. She read the inscription below: “Sophie Schliemann, wearing the treasures discovered at Hisarlik, said to be the jewels of Helen of Troy.” She turned to Adriana. “I wonder what Helen was really like. I can’t imagine anyone being so beautiful that a whole city and all its people were ruined because of it. Not to mention the eleven-year war, and all the death and despair it brought. Is any love worth that?”
“No,” Adriana said without hesitation. “But I have often wondered about the connection between love and beauty. To marry a woman because of the way she looks, when you do not care about who she is inside that shell, is no more than acquiring a work of art for the pleasure it gives you to look at it, or to exhibit it to others. If she is not a companion to you, one with whom you share your dreams, your laughter and pain, is that not like buying food you cannot eat?”
Adriana’s face was quite calm, the skin unblemished across its perfect bones, her eyes fathomless.
Charlotte was left speechless; such a life would be terribly empty. Was that how Blantyre felt about Adriana: that she was a fragile, exquisite possession? What would he feel when the first lines appeared, when the bloom faded from her cheeks, when her hair thinned and turned gray, when she no longer moved with such grace?
Charlotte had always secretly wanted to be beautiful: not merely handsome, as she was, but possessed of the kind of beauty that dazzles, the kind Aunt Vespasia had had. Now she was almost dizzy with gratitude that she looked as she did; Pitt was not only her husband, he was also the dearest, most intimate friend she had ever had, closer than Emily, or anyone else.
Collecting herself, she replied, “Poor Helen. Do you suppose that is all it was: a squabble over possessions that a whole nation paid for?”
“No,” Adriana shook her head. “The classical Greek idea of beauty was as much about the mind as the face. She must have been wise and honest and brave as well.”
“And gentle?” Charlotte continued. “Do you think that she had a wild and vivid sense of humor as well? And that she was quick to forgive, and generous of spirit?”
Adriana laughed. “Yes! And no wonder they burned Troy for her! I’m surprised it wasn’t the whole of Asia Minor! Let’s look at the rest of this.” She touched Charlotte’s arm and they moved forward together, marveling at the ornaments, the golden masks, the photographs of the ruins, the walls that must once have kept out the armies of Agamemnon and the heroes of legend.
“How much of it do you think is true?” Charlotte said after several minutes of silence. She must not waste this opportunity to try to learn some information that could help Thomas. “Do you think they felt all the same things we do: envy, fear, the hunger for revenge for wrongs we can’t forget?”
Adriana turned from the photographs she was looking at and faced her. “Of course. Don’t you?” A flicker of fear crossed her face. “Those things never change.”
Charlotte racked her brain for something relevant that could continue the conversation. “Agamemnon killed his daughter, didn’t he? A sacrifice to the gods to make the winds turn in his favor and carry his armies to Troy. And when he came home again eleven years later, his wife killed him for it.”
“Yes,” Adriana agreed. “I can understand that. Mind, she had married his brother in the meantime, so there were a lot of different emotions there. And then her son killed her, and on and on. It was a pretty nasty mess.”
“Revenge often is,” Charlotte said with a sudden change of tone, as if they were speaking of something present.
Adriana looked at her curiously. “You say that as if they were people you knew.”
“Aren’t all good stories really about people we know?”
Adriana thought for a moment. “I suppose they are.” She gave a sudden, brilliant smile. “I knew coming here with you would be more fun than with anyone else! Can you spare time to have luncheon as well? There is a most excellent place near here where the chef is Croatian. I would like you to taste a little of the food from my country. It is not so very different. You will not find it too strong, or too heavy.”
“I would be delighted,” Charlotte said sincerely. “I know so very little about Croatia. I wish you would tell me more …”
“That is a dangerous request,” Adriana said happily. “You may wish you had never asked. Stop me when it gets dark and you have to go home.”
Charlotte felt the guilt well up inside her, but it was too late to turn back. “I will,” she promised. “Now let us see the end of what Mr. Schliemann found in Troy and Mycenae.”
“Did you know he spoke thirteen different languages?” Adriana asked. “He wrote in his diary in the language of whatever country he was in. English, French, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, Swedish, Italian, Greek, Latin, Russian, Arabic, and Turkish. And German, of course. He was German.” Her face was animated with excitement and admiration.
“He actually wrote a paper on Troy in Ancient Greek,” she went on. “He was an extraordinary man. He made and spent at least two fortunes. He named his children Andromache and Agamemnon. He allowed them to be baptized, but placed a copy of The Iliad on their heads at the time, and recited a hundred hexameters of it. Wouldn’t life be so much emptier without the world’s eccentrics?” She was laughing as she said it, but there was a ring of passion in her voice and a vividness in her face that lent her the sort of beauty that made others in the room turn to look at her, as if she might, for an instant, have been Helen herself.
Charlotte thought back to the intensity of the emotion she had seen in Blantyre’s face when he looked at Adriana: the protection, the pride, something that could have been lingering amazement that she should have chosen him, when she had had perhaps a dozen suitors, a score. How much did her beauty matter to him? Would he still have loved her had she been ordinary to look at? How much was her vulnerability, and his need to protect her, a part of his feelings for her?
Charlotte knew she had to learn more about Croatia, about the past there, about Adriana’s father’s death, and above all about Serafina Montserrat.
They finished the tour of the exhibit and Adriana’s carriage took them to luncheon at the restaurant she had spoken of. She was eager to share everything about her country and the culture with which she had grown up.
“You’ll enjoy this,” she said as each new dish was brought. “I used to like this when I was a child. My grandmother showed me how it was made. And this was always one of my favorites. It is mostly rice with tiny little shellfish, and very delicate herbs. The art is in cooking it to just the right tenderness, and being careful with the seasoning. Too strong and it is horrible.”
“Do the Croatians eat a lot of fish?” Charlotte a
sked.
“Yes. I don’t know why, except that it’s easy to cook, and not very expensive.”
“And like us, you have a long coastline,” Charlotte added.
Adriana gazed at some vision inside her own mind. “Ah.” She let out a sigh. “Beautiful as England is, you’ve never seen a shore like ours. The air is warm, and the sky seems so high, with tiny drifting clouds in wonderful shapes, delicate, like feathers, and bright. The sand is pale, no shingle, and the water is colors you wouldn’t believe.”
Charlotte tried to see it in her mind. She pictured blue water bright in the sun, warmth that seeped through the skin to the bones. She found that she was smiling.
“Croatia is very old,” Adriana went on. “Not older than England, of course. We became part of the Roman Empire in AD 9, and we had Greek colonies before that. In AD 305 the Roman emperor Diocletian built a palace in Split. The very last emperor, Julius Nepos, ruled from there, until he was killed in AD 408. You see, we too have great Roman ruins.” She said it with pride.
“Our first king, Tomislav, was crowned in AD 925.” She stopped and pulled her face into an expression of resignation. “In 1102 we entered a union with Hungary; that would be after you were conquered by William of Normandy. Then in 1526 we chose a Habsburg king, and I suppose that was the beginning of the end. At least that is what my father used to say.” Pain laced through her voice, and was apparent in her eyes. She looked down quickly. “That was about the time of your Queen Elizabeth, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, it was,” Charlotte said quickly, struggling to remember. Elizabeth had died around 1600, so it must be close. She felt brutal, but she had no better chance than this. She might betray Adriana’s guilt, but on the other hand, she might prove her innocence. That would be infinitely worth all her efforts and discomfort.
The second course was a white fish baked in vine leaves with vegetables Charlotte was unfamiliar with. She tried them, tentatively at first, then, aware that Adriana was watching her, with more relish. Their time was slipping away. She must introduce the subject of Serafina; how could she do it without being appallingly clumsy?
“I wish I could travel,” she said, not knowing where that subject might lead. “You must miss your home. I mean the one where you grew up.”
Adriana smiled with an edge of sadness. “Sometimes,” she admitted.
“Do you know other people who have lived there, beside Mr. Blantyre, of course?”
“Not many, I’m afraid. Perhaps I should seek a little harder, but it seems so … forced.”
Charlotte took a deep breath. “Did you know Mrs. Montserrat, who died recently? She lived in Croatia once, I believe.”
Adriana looked surprised. “Did you know her? You never mentioned it before.” Her voice dropped. “Poor Serafina. That was a terrible way to die.”
Charlotte struggled to keep from contradicting herself and letting too much of the truth into her questions.
“Was it?” She affected ignorance. “I know very little. I’m sorry if I gave the impression that I knew her myself. She was a great friend of my aunt Vespasia-Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould.”
“Lady Vespasia is your aunt?” Adriana asked with delight.
“Actually she is my sister’s great-aunt, by marriage to her first husband. But we hold her in higher regard and affection than any other relative we have.”
“So would I,” Adriana agreed. “She is quite marvelous.”
Charlotte could not afford to let the conversation slide away from Serafina. “I’m so sorry about Mrs. Montserrat. Aunt Vespasia said she died quite peacefully. At least I thought that was what she said. Was I not listening properly? Or was she …? No, Aunt Vespasia would never circle around the truth to make it meaningless.”
Adriana looked down at the table. “No. She wouldn’t. She was a fighter for freedom too, I believe.”
“Like Mrs. Montserrat,” Charlotte agreed. “They knew each other long ago. Aunt Vespasia said Mrs. Montserrat was very brave-and outspoken in her beliefs.”
Adriana smiled. “Yes, she was. I remember her laughter. And her singing. She had a lovely voice.” She struggled for a moment, trying to catch her breath and steady her voice before going on. “My father used to say she was the bravest of them all. Sometimes she succeeded just because no one expected a woman to ride all night through the forest, and then be able to think clearly by daylight, and even hold a gun steady and shoot. He said …” Tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Blindly she fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief, finally finding it and blowing her nose gently.
“There is no need to apologize,” Charlotte assured her. “The loss of your father must have been terrible, and I know that you still miss him very much. Did you say that Serafina was there, when he died?”
Adriana was surprised. “Yes. I … I must have. I don’t talk about it because it always makes me lose my composure. I apologize. This is ridiculous. Everyone must be looking at me.”
“Lots of people were looking at you anyway,” Charlotte responded with a smile. “Men look at beautiful women with pleasure, women with envy, and if they are stylish as well, to see what they might copy. Or to see if they can find a flaw, if they are particularly catty.”
“Then I will have satisfied them,” Adriana said wryly.
“Nonsense. There is nothing wrong with a tender heart,” Charlotte assured her. She was losing her grip on the conversation. “Did Mrs. Montserrat talk to you about your father? That must have been sweet as well as painful for you, to have someone to remember with, who could tell you stories of his courage, or just the little things he liked and disliked.”
Adriana’s eyes softened. “Yes. She told me about his love of history, and how he could tell all the old tales of the medieval heroes: Porga who went to the Byzantine emperor Heraclius, and had the Pope send Christian missionaries to the Croatian Provinces in AD 640. And Duke Branimir, and on and on. Serafina knew all their names, and what they did, even though she was Italian. She enabled me to recall the stories he told me, when I had only bits of them in my mind.”
Charlotte tried to imagine Adriana sitting beside Serafina’s bed, waiting patiently as the old woman salvaged fragments from her wandering mind and pieced them together, bringing back for a brief moment the presence of her beloved father.
Did she remember that she had seen him beaten, covered in his own blood, and then forced to his knees and shot in the back of the head? The sight of faces distorted with rage, the gleam of light on gun barrels, the cries of terror and pain, then the stillness and the smell of gun smoke; and then Serafina coming, grasping her, holding her, hurrying her away, perhaps on horseback, on the saddle in front of her as she rode like a wild thing to escape, to protect the child Adriana.
Looking at her now, so exquisitely dressed, her skin paper white, Charlotte could see that the demons were still in her eyes. If Serafina had let something slip, been careless in even a couple of words, had she led Adriana to believe that it was she who had betrayed Lazar Dragovic?
Or had she given the name of someone else who had?
“I’m so sorry she’s gone,” she said to Adriana. “But Aunt Vespasia told me it was peaceful. As if she had taken much laudanum, and simply gone to sleep.” Was that enough? It was a lie, of course. It was Pitt who had told her, but it was unimportant.
Adriana stared at her. “Would a double dose of laudanum kill you?”
Charlotte hesitated. What should she say? Should she evade the truth, or tell it, and see how Adriana reacted? She had to know. Pitt’s case might rest on it.
“No,” she answered levelly. “I believe it takes far more than that, several times a single dose.”
Everyone else in the restaurant seemed as if they were moving in slow motion as Adriana stared at Charlotte. She started to speak but her mouth was so dry her voice faltered. She tried again. “Several times?”
Charlotte nodded. “Apparently.”
“Then …” Adriana did not finish the
sentence, but it was not necessary. They both knew what the end was.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said softly. “Perhaps I should not have told you. Would a lie, or at least an evasion, have been better?”
“No.” Adriana sat motionless for a few more moments. “I’m sorry, I can’t eat any more. I think I need to go home. Do you know who gave it to her? Was it Nerissa Freemarsh, do you think? Serafina was so distressed by her failing memory … her mind …” She did not complete the train of thought.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said honestly. “It might be considered an act of mercy by some, but the law would regard it as murder, all the same.”
“Perhaps she took it herself?” Adriana said desperately.
Charlotte knew that was not possible. Care had been taken to prevent that, but perhaps this was not the time to say so.
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “She was terribly afraid of being indiscreet and letting slip old secrets that might cause harm to someone who is still alive and vulnerable. I have no idea who that could be, or indeed if there even is such a person. Do you know?”
“No … she said nothing about anyone to me. I can’t think of a person …” Adriana spoke hesitantly, as if she was raking her memory for anything Serafina might have said.
“No one at all?” Charlotte pressed. Was she being deliberately and pointlessly cruel?
“Well, Serafina knew Lord Tregarron,” Adriana said tentatively. “Quite well, it seemed, from the way she spoke of it.”
Charlotte was puzzled. There had been the faintest flicker of amusement in Adriana’s eyes, gone again the next instant. Tregarron was at least twenty-five years younger than Serafina, if not more. Thirty-five years ago that might have mattered less, but then he would have been very young, no more than a boy, and she in her late thirties. That was ridiculous. Adriana must be mistaken.
“Could it have been someone else, whose name sounded like his?” she suggested. “Someone Austrian, or Hungarian, for example?”
“No, it was Tregarron,” Adriana insisted. “He visited her at Dorchester Terrace.”