And Only to Deceive (30 page)

O
NE DAY, WHILE I WAS ENGROSSED IN DOROTHY L. SAYERS’S
wonderful
Gaudy Night
, a sentence leapt off the page at me:

I had been saying for as long as I could remember that I wanted to be a writer. Now I realized that if that was truly what I wanted, I had to sit down and write a book. No more excuses. At the time, my son was three-and-a-half years old and had reached the age where he stopped napping. I had to take advantage of every free moment I had—and in bursts of fifteen minutes, a half an hour, whatever time I could steal—I spent the next two months writing the first draft of
And Only to Deceive
.

I knew I wanted to write about an English woman in the late Victorian period and had a strong image of her standing on the top of the cliff path on the Greek island of Santorini, one of my very favorite places. Once I started asking questions about how she came to be there, the story started to invent itself.

I was determined not to create twenty-first-century characters, drop them into bustles and corsets, and call them historical. Fundamentally, we may have much in common with those who lived before us, but sensibilities have changed greatly. A strong-minded young woman in 1890 would not think in precisely the same way one would today. Emily’s search for independence had to make sense in the context of the society
in which she was raised. So she rebels in small ways at first, gradually becoming more steadfast in her convictions, more confident in herself, but she’s vulnerable because she’s not prepared to absolutely renounce her position in society. And, really, I think it’s that sort of compromise for which we all search: How much of our culture, our society, do we accept? How much do we reject? Can we live according to our principles without sacrificing anything? It’s very easy to have strong opinions when holding them does not threaten the comfort of our daily life.

The paramount goal for an aristocratic woman in Victorian England was to make the best possible marriage, one that would preserve fortunes and estates while increasing her standing in society. The marriage market was a competitive one. A family might have many eligible daughters but could only have one eldest son, who, alone among his brothers, stood to gain a significant inheritance. A young lady would feel a great deal of pressure to catch a respectable husband in as few seasons as possible after making her social debut. If two or three years passed and she was not engaged, she would be considered a failure.

Emily, coming from a wealthy, titled family, would have been in an excellent position to make a good match, and although I wanted her to be independent, it would have made no sense, historically speaking, for a girl in her position to avoid marriage. Her parents would never have allowed it. As an unmarried woman, she would be subject to her mother’s rule, a situation, that, given Lady Bromley’s character, would hardly have allowed her to do the things I wanted. But I did not want her to be married. A Victorian gentleman, even an enlightened one, would still have a decidedly Victorian view of marriage. To make her a widow seemed the perfect solution. I would be able to give her a certain degree of freedom without having to sacrifice historical accuracy.

Once I had Emily’s character and situation firmly in my mind, I started to consider what might inspire in her an intellectual awakening. I’ve always been struck by the graceful beauty of classical art and fascinated by the enduring nature not just of Homer’s epic poems, but of
Greek mythology in general. It’s astounding to me that these stories, first told more than two thousand years ago, still resonate with people. Can you imagine writing something that could permeate Western culture for that long? I’d be afraid even to try!

Regardless of how many times I’ve read
The Iliad
, I always hope, hope, hope that
this
time Achilles won’t kill Hector, even though I know it’s impossible. I fling the book across the room every time I get to the part where Hector dies. I can’t help it. It slays me. But that’s part of the brilliance of the story; even though we know what happens, we still care desperately about these characters.

(If you like Hector, read the lovely, heartbreaking poem Irish poet Valentin Iremonger wrote about the night before the Trojan hero’s death.)

As I was concocting the plot for the novel, I decided to have part of the intrigue involve art forgeries, which can be immensely difficult to detect. Two of the pieces I’ve mentioned in the book, both pointed out as fakes by Mr. Attewater, were actual objects found in the museum. The first, a bust of Julius Caesar purchased by the British Museum in 1818 for approximately thirty pounds, was not only exhibited, it was reproduced extensively as well, becoming one of the most famous images of the great Roman. It is not an ancient piece at all, dating instead from approximately 1800.

Second, the fragment Mr. Attewater confesses to having sold under false pretenses is based on an object that came to the museum in 1889, a piece depicting a boy’s head. It was not until 1961 that it was determined it had been copied, sometime after 1840, from a slab of the North frieze of the Parthenon.

Bernard Ashmole, a former Keeper of Greek and Roman Antiquities at the British Museum and Lincoln Chair of Classical Art at Oxford, recognized that both of these items were forgeries, and they were included in a marvelous exhibition staged by the British Museum called “Fake? The Art of Deception.”

To me, the most fascinating thing about forgeries is that they make one think about the true definition of art. If a work is copied so perfectly that no one can detect it as a fraud, why isn’t it art? Why does only the original count? Yet, of course, the original is
different
somehow. But how can we quantify that difference?

I
HAVE TAKEN THE LIBERTY OF USING SEVERAL HISTORICAL
persons as characters in
And Only to Deceive
. Pierre-Auguste Renoir, who once said, “Why shouldn’t art be pretty? There are enough unpleasant things in the world,” and his wife, Aline, are of course real. They were married at a city hall in Paris on April 14, 1890.

Emily’s friend, Alexander Murray, was named Keeper of Greek and Roman Antiquities at the British Museum in 1886. His
Manual of Mythology
was recently reprinted as a facsimile of the original edition.

Lord Lytton was the British ambassador in Paris from 1887 until his death in 1891. He published fiction and poetry under the pseudonym Owen Meredith, his most successful work being a novel-length poem called
Lucile
. His father, Edward Bulwer Lytton, wrote
Last Days of Pompeii
, a book that was wildly popular in the nineteenth century.

Gordon Bennett, the publisher of the
Paris Herald
and son of the founder of the
New York Herald
, was responsible for financing Henry Stanley’s famous search for Dr. David Livingstone. He immigrated to France after a scandalous drunken incident at his then-fiancée’s house ended with him challenging her brother to a duel. No one was killed, but Mr. Bennett found himself no longer welcome in New York society. His behavior did not much improve upon his arrival in Paris, where he would pull tablecloths off restaurant tables if he found the service to be lacking. Nonetheless, he was handsome enough that the ladies were willing to overlook his shortcomings.

Charles Frederick Worth, though not precisely a character in the novel, was a man near and dear to the hearts of the nineteenth-century women fortunate enough to be in a position to afford the elegant dresses he designed, using the most luxurious fabrics and trims. He is often called the father of
haute couture
.

I
HAVE TRIED TO USE ACTUAL PLACES AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE
in
And Only to Deceive
. Sadly, many of the mansions that lined Berkeley Square in the nineteenth century were pulled down in the twentieth, but in 1890, the square was one of the most fashionable in London. Hyde Park and the British Museum are of course familiar to those even casually acquainted with the city, and all of the objects Emily sees in the museum were there in 1890, with one notable exception: The Judgment of Paris vase is, alas, fictional.

Travel to Paris was common for wealthy Britons, many of whom would come in January after they’d tired of country house life and before the start of the Season in London. Carriage rides in the Bois de Boulogne, strolls through the Jardin des Tuileries, trips to the Opéra, parties, and balls filled the days and nights of Englishmen abroad.

The Hôtel Meurice still offers some of the most luxurious accommodations to be found, although extensive renovations completed in 1907 have altered it since the time of Emily’s visit. The Café Anglais closed in 1913. As with the British Museum, everything Emily sees in the Louvre would have been found there at the time the book was set.

It is impossible to overstate the glow that comes from hours spent walking through the lovely streets of the French capital. Emily’s solitary wanderings in the city come at a difficult and sad time for her, but even in such circumstances, the solace one could find in Notre Dame or Sainte-Chapelle is unparalled. If one must be miserable, it might as well be in beautiful surroundings.

Although Emily did not make it all the way to Africa, it was not unheard of for women in the period to travel extensively. Some went on tours, some traveled with male guardians, but a not insignificant number traveled with female companions, letting their own interests guide their itineraries. There are a number of fascinating travel memoirs written by Victorian women, including Amelia Edward’s
Thousand Miles Up the Nile
, Gertrude Bell’s
Persian Pictures
, and Mary Kingsley’s
Travels in West Africa, Congo Français, Corisco, and Cameroons
.

A widow in Emily’s situation would find herself in a very different London from the one she occupied while her husband was still alive. Wealthy women had social schedules that could exhaust even the heartiest of souls: rides in the park, luncheons, garden parties, afternoons making calls, tea parties, dinners, soirées, balls, the opera, theater. The death of one’s spouse brought an immediate stop to such activities.

When Prince Albert died in 1861, Queen Victoria entered a period of mourning that would last the remainder of her life. No one was expected to emulate the queen’s devotion to the memory of her dear departed, but at least a year of deep mourning was required of widows, a time during which they would dress in unrelenting black and wear jewelry fashioned either from jet or from the hair of the deceased. Thank heavens that Colin Hargreaves did not have the presence of mind to snip some of Philip’s hair to return to Emily!

An article that appeared in
Harper’s Bazaar
on April 17, 1886, comments on women who were not devastated to lose their spouses:

Once she entered the period of half-mourning, the widow would start her gradual return to society. Black gowns gave way to grey, mauve, and lavender, and could now be made from silk instead of crape or bombazine. To alert the members of her circle that she was ready to face society, a widow would leave calling cards at the houses of her acquaintances. She would begin to accept more invitations, always being careful only to attend events that were not
too
joyful and to behave in ways respectful of the memory of her husband.

It is during this phase of Emily’s life that the action of
And Only to Deceive
takes place. I wanted her to be somewhat isolated from society so that she would come to see that she did not, in fact, miss it as much as she might have thought. Because she, like the heartless wife of
Harper’s Bazaar
, is not truly grieving Philip; it’s an awkward and uncomfortable period for her, and a perfect time for her to look for intellectual stimulation.

Private Palaces: Life in the Great London Houses,
Christopher Simon Sykes

The Bourgeois Experience: Victoria to Freud
(five volumes), Peter Gay

The Decline and Fall of the British Aristocracy,
David Cannadine

Victorian and Edwardian Fashion,
Alison Gernsheim

Age of Opulence: The Belle Epoque in the Paris Herald, 1890–1914,
Hebe Dorsey

Fake? The Art of Deception,
Mark Jones (editor)

Parallel Lives: Five Victorian Marriages,
Phyllis Rose

This book could never have been started, let alone completed, without the enduring support of my parents, Gary and Anastasia Gutting, who have encouraged me to write for as long as I can remember. They were also kind enough to provide me with two brothers whose assistance was invaluable: Edward, for his expertise in classics, and Tom, who is an excellent writing partner and novelist in his own right.

I am grateful for my friends in New Haven, Connecticut: Kristen Fairey, who discussed Emily over more pots of tea than I can count (when will Fortnum & Mason start supplying us directly?), and Rebecca Weiner, whose skills as both an editor and a writer helped this book beyond measure.

Myriad thanks to my agent, Anne Hawkins, who is simply fabulous and loads of fun, and to my wonderful team at HarperCollins. I can’t imagine a better editor than Carolyn Marino. Jennifer Civiletto provided insightful suggestions and was always available to help me. Thanks also to Maureen Sugden for her careful copyediting of my manuscript.

My husband and son, Matt and Alexander, are the best family anyone could hope for. They made it possible for me to do what I love, and I couldn’t be more appreciative. I am also indebted to my grandmother, Anastasia Sertl, for her constant inspiration and support.

Finally, special thanks to Kristy Kiernan, a brilliant writer without whom this book would still be untitled.