And Only to Deceive (14 page)

18 A
UGUST
1887
B
ERKELEY
S
QUARE,
L
ONDON

A
SIDE FROM HIS COPY OF
A Study in Scarlet,
THE ONLY
thing I took from Philip’s bedroom at Ashton Hall was a notebook in which he had recorded information on each of the objects in his collection of antiquities as well as observations on some of his favorite pieces in the British Museum. Back in London, comfortably ensconced in a large chair in the library (no corset for me that evening), I armed myself with the notebook and Philip’s journal, resolved that a lively exchange of ideas about ancient Greece could be adequately replaced with reading my dear husband’s thoughts on the subject.

Like me, he seemed to prefer red-figure vases to black, finding the detail superior on the former. He mused for several pages about the white lekythoi that Mr. Murray had mentioned to me when he first showed me the Judgment of Paris vase. Philip was struck by the humanity of these pieces, many of which he believed had been made as funerary objects, and wondered about the identity of the figures represented on them. I determined to take a closer look at them the very next day at the museum.

Not surprisingly, he adored any vase that depicted scenes of the hunt. I paused for a moment, considering their appeal, but could not bring myself to reach Philip’s level of appreciation and decided to skim through the rest of his thoughts concerning them. Unfortunately, much of the rest of the notebook was filled with notes he had written about hunting in ancient times. I sighed, flipping through pages until I came across a draft of an essay of sorts that he had written about the
Iliad
.

In it I found no mention of the things I loved about the poem: its humanity, its energy, the heroic ideals of its characters. Most unsettling to me was his excessive praise of Achilles.

I had already admitted to Margaret that Achilles’ strength on the battlefield was unparalleled. That this impressed Philip did not shock me. However, it overshadowed for him everything else in Homer’s great work. He used it to justify Achilles’ egotistical fits and could not praise the hero enough for his unwavering sense of morality. While it is true that Achilles’ straightforward approach to his world could be considered admirable, I found it immature and overly simplistic. And in all these pages of writing, Philip never once mentioned Hector, except as Achilles’ enemy. How could he have so overlooked Homer’s most human character? A man who painfully realizes that his best will never be enough, whose heart-wrenching decision to fight Achilles nearly brought me to tears?

Dissatisfied, I put down the book, irritated that Philip was not there. I desperately wanted the chance to argue about these things with him. As I sat there, I slowly began to realize that my own opinions were quite different from those of my husband. Until then I had attributed all my interest in classical antiquity to Philip and had assumed that his own studies would serve as an adequate guide for mine. I no longer felt driven to study as a way to know Philip; I wanted to study because I loved the poetry, because the beauty of Greek sculpture moved me, because I was touched by the sight of tiny details on a vase. Suddenly Philip became one in a series of people whose academic opinions might or might not matter to me.

The culmination of these thoughts did not make me lose any love for my husband, nor did it make me grieve less for his loss. Instead it made me miss him all the more, because it revealed conversations I would never have with him. I could, and would, continue my studies, this time allowing only my own interests to serve as my guide. What I would never have, however, was the chance to end an infuriating argument on
the merits of Hector versus Achilles with a series of soft kisses that gradually became more passionate as the topic at hand faded from memory.

As soon as I had returned to town, I sent notes to two gentlemen. The moment their replies arrived, I rushed to compare their handwriting with that in the missives now locked in my desk drawer. I was not surprised in the least that Colin’s did not match but found myself mildly disappointed when I realized they were not written in Andrew’s hand either. My idea about Andrew and warnings had not proved sound.

Before closing the drawer, I removed the glove and placed it on the table in my entrance hall. I told Davis that someone had dropped it in the library and that he should leave it on the table to be claimed.

Nearly a fortnight passed before I was able to find Mr. Attewater. As usual, Davis proved himself indispensable, taking on the task of tracking him down, locating him at last through one of the rather less exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in town. In the meantime I found myself once again spending a considerable amount of time with Andrew, who continued his habit of calling almost every day.

“What shall we do? Are you planning to ride?”

“I’m awfully tired, Andrew, and intend to stay in all day. I have a great deal of work to do before Mr. Moore comes tomorrow.”

“Capital. Then now is as good a time as any to present you with this.” He held a small parcel out to me; I did not take it.

“Andrew, you know I cannot accept a gift from you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Emily. It’s as much from my father as it is from me, to thank you for those terribly boring papers of Ashton’s.”

“Oh! Did you find them?” I asked, trying to sound surprised. I knew he had spent nearly an hour in the library while I was in the country. At my request, Davis had stood over Andrew’s shoulders the entire time, carefully observing what he was doing. I did not want Andrew to know that I had already received a full report on his visit.

“Yes, yes, though I cannot imagine what my father is going to do with them. At any rate, you must take this,” he said, handing me the package.

I hesitated, knowing that I should not accept anything from a man to whom I was not engaged. But surely Andrew, who had such a sporadic respect for the rules of society, would not consider my taking his gift to mean more than it did. I opened the paper and gasped. Inside was an ancient bronze coin bearing a portrait of Alexander the Great.

“Where on earth did you get this? It’s fascinating,” I said, looking at it closely.

“Some dusty old shop in Bloomsbury. I thought you might like it and knew my father would approve.”

“It’s lovely, Andrew. I shall treasure it.”

After accepting the coin, I began to consider more seriously my relationship with Andrew. I did not love him and wondered if I ever could. I thought of the passages in Philip’s journal relating to the early days of our engagement. It would be terrible to love someone so much who did not return the feeling. Although I did not believe that Andrew loved me, I did not want to do anything to increase his attachment to me. If I were ever to love a man, I wanted to do so completely; nothing less would satisfy me, and clearly Andrew would not be the man. It would be best if he considered me nothing more than a good friend; I would not allow him to kiss me again.

I started seeing him less frequently, turning down most of his invitations. When I was with him, I tried to make sure it was in a large group of friends or with other members of our families. One evening I invited him and his brother to dine with me, anxious to see if Arthur planned to propose to Arabella anytime soon. Unable to broach the subject during dinner, when the conversation kept to the usual sort of polite nonsense, I brought it up after we retired to the library.

“I saw Arabella yesterday, Arthur. She spoke highly of you.”

“She is an excellent lady.” I did not like his tone; it suggested that she was a fine piece of livestock.

“Do you see her often?” I asked, not feeling the need to inquire delicately to such a man.

“Yes, quite as often as I can.” He was pacing around the perimeter of the room, vaguely looking at the titles of books on the shelves in an attempt to find something to read aloud.

“I wonder if I should encourage her feelings for you?” I continued. “I would not like to see her hurt.”

“I assure you my intentions are honorable, Lady Ashton.” He opened a volume of Ovid. “Are all his Greek books in this section?”

“Ovid was Roman, Mr. Palmer,” I said, disliking the easy manner with which he dismissed the subject of Arabella. “The Greeks are on the next shelf.”

“Shall we have port tonight, Arthur? Emily tells me Ashton left quite a stash.” Andrew turned to me. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.” I rang for Davis and was shocked that when he arrived, Andrew directed him to bring the port rather than letting me do so. Davis nodded to him politely, as he always did, and turned to me.

“You would like me to bring port to the gentlemen, Lady Ashton? And for you?”

“Port for all of us, please.” I waited until the butler had left the room to turn my attention to Andrew. “I don’t like you directing my servants.”

His blue eyes laughed. “Don’t you realize that I will persist in taking whatever liberties I can with you, Emily? You have been very cold to me lately. If I cannot kiss you, I shall have to resort to playing man of the house with your butler.”

“Don’t do it again,” I snapped, shocked that he would say such a thing in front of his brother. I was about to say so when Davis returned.

“How did you like Ashton Hall, Emily? I never inquired after the trip you took there.” Andrew laced his long, thin fingers together and laid them in his lap.

“It’s a remarkable place. Have you been there?” I asked coldly.

“Now, don’t hold me in contempt, Emily. It doesn’t suit you, and you shall break my heart if you continue.” He looked around the room as he spoke. “What a shame my brother is relentless in his pursuit of literature.

I should like to go to the drawing room so that you could play for us.” Arthur was continuing his tour of the shelves, pulling books down occasionally and leafing through them.

“I have no desire to play the piano,” I replied. “Are you looking for something in particular, Mr. Palmer?”

“No, Lady Ashton, just at a loss to choose something. I apologize if I seem distracted. My mind is elsewhere this evening.”

“My brother has been rather elusive on the subject of Miss Dunleigh, don’t you think? I happen to know, Emily, that there is more to the story than he has revealed.”

“I’m sure that if Mr. Palmer wants me to know, he’ll tell me himself.”

“You persist in punishing me!” Andrew cried. “Dreadful girl! What shall I do to return to your good graces?”

Truth be told, Andrew was beginning to tire me, and I doubted that I should want to remain even his friend for much longer. His disrespectful attitude, which initially I found amusing and even a bit exhilarating, had begun to grate on my nerves. Happy though I was to escape from some of the bonds of society and its elaborate rules of behavior, I did not desire to remove myself completely. I did not want to embark on a lengthy discussion with Andrew concerning his faults, nor did I want to be subjected to one of his drawn-out apologies. I decided to be charming for the rest of the evening and subsequently distance myself from him.

“I shall reprimand you no further, Mr. Palmer,” I said, bestowing on him my most attractive smile. “Tell me, have you any further news of Emma Callum and her Italian count?”

“I’m afraid that I must disappoint you on that subject. Her family has closed ranks and is revealing very little.”

“Too bad. Perhaps I shall call on them the next time I’m in Italy. I wonder where the count lives.”

“Venice, I think. Do you plan to travel there soon?”

“No, not at all. I shall most likely stay in England for the winter and then go to Greece in the spring.”

“Ah—to the villa.”

“Yes. Have you been there?” I asked, watching Arthur continue his perusal of my husband’s books.

“Of course. I would be happy to arrange for your trip. I’m quite familiar with Santorini.”

“Thank you for the kind offer, Andrew, but Mr. Hargreaves promised Philip he would take care of everything.”

“Really? I’m stunned to know that Ashton would consider Hargreaves qualified to do such a thing.”

“Especially after that screaming argument they had in Africa,” Arthur said, wrinkling his nose.

“I didn’t know they argued,” I said.

“Oh, yes, nasty row the night before Ashton got sick,” Arthur continued. “No offense, Lady Ashton, but I can’t say I’ve ever thought much of Hargreaves. Something about him’s not quite cricket.”

7 S
EPTEMBER
1887
B
ERKELEY
S
QUARE,
L
ONDON