The only wreckage I was considering was that she could cause my own family. We gave her breakfast, of course, but I can recall no details of what transpired while she ate other than that she presented Colin with a letter written by her mother, this one addressed to him. The world no longer made sense to me, and I sat watching everything around me turn blurry and strange. Did I believe her claim? In that moment, I couldn’t believe or disbelieve anything; confusion consumed me. I must have taken some tea, for I was holding an empty cup. My throat went dry and my eyes smarted. I wanted to flee, desperate for a little privacy so that I might compose myself, but I didn’t want the girl to judge me as weak and flighty, the way her mother had done before.
“Emily, darling, would you be so kind as to come assist me before we set off?” Ivy asked. “You remember I bought that new camera, the Brownie? The clerk who sold it to me promised I need only press the button and that the machine will do the rest, but I can’t make it work. You’re better with this sort of thing than I, and I’m relying on you to take a look at it and help me learn how to use it. It’s in my room.”
“Of course,” I murmured, hardly aware of what I was saying. She looped her arm through mine and maneuvered me off the terrace, but before we reached the wing that housed our bedrooms, Colin caught up with us and pulled me away.
“A moment, please, Ivy, if I may?” he asked.
“Bring her to my room when you’ve finished,” she said, her voice strong and sharp, as it was only when she was defending someone she loved. She gave my arm a little squeeze before disappearing into the corridor.
“My dear girl, please tell me you believe I knew nothing about this,” he said. “I am—” He pressed a palm to his forehead. “Shocked. Speechless. Cowed. Terrified. Do you believe me? I had no indication that … Kristiana never uttered a word … I…”
I saw no need to let him continue when he was so visibly upset, but I hated how easily her name formed on his lips. “I do.”
“You must despise me, but I swear this happened long before I knew you, long before—”
“It is of no consequence,” I said, the words a lie. The fact was, I wanted a great deal more information. I’d always believed their affair had ended after she turned down his proposal, or, if not then, certainly by the time she had married the Count von Lange. But I couldn’t remember when they had wed. “Are you certain she’s telling the truth?”
“I have no reason to doubt her. I read the letter Kristiana left for me. It confirms her story with more than enough detail to satisfy me. It is, perhaps, best not to discuss that further.”
I waited for him to offer to show it to me, but he did not. A searing heat flooded through me. I hated that there was something new and private between him and the countess. “She has your eyes. That, and your own belief, will have to suffice.” He took me in his arms. I gave into his strong warmth, melting against him, willing myself not to cry as I breathed in his scent, cinnamon and tobacco. What right did I have to judge him for actions that took place so long ago? Actions that had nothing to do with me? “What are you going to do?” I asked.
“I’ve not the slightest idea, but I won’t leave her alone and unprotected. She’ll remain here with us for now, so that we can become better acquainted. The rest we will have to figure out later. If, that is, you don’t object?”
“No, of course not. If she really is your child, how could I keep you from her?” I tried to smile. He would never shirk his duty to look after his daughter. His eyes brightened and his features softened. I knew I had said the right thing, even if it made me feel as if I were being consumed by flames.
He kissed the top of my head. “I can only endeavor to deserve you.”
“You’re certain—beyond doubt—that you’re her father?”
“Yes.” I knew his tone well enough. He would say nothing more about it.
“Go back to her,” I said, uncertain of how much longer I could hold my emotions in check. I wanted to scream and rail and cry. And I wanted him to see none of it. He kissed me again, this time on the lips, and started back down the corridor. Once he was out of sight, I raced to Ivy’s bedroom, flung open the door without knocking, and threw myself onto the bed, where I lay, facedown, sobbing.
“There, there, it will all be fine in the end.” She was rubbing my back and speaking in the voice she must use with her children when they were in need of reassurance.
“I don’t know why I’m so upset,” I said, sitting up and accepting the lacy handkerchief Ivy handed to me. “This all happened so long ago it shouldn’t matter.”
“What an inane thing to say, Emily. Of course it matters. Beyond having just found out you’re the stepmother to a nearly grown girl—whose mother, if memory serves, made you feel inadequate in every regard—you’re being forced—again—to face the uncomfortable truth that your husband loved someone before he met you. But you know Colin adores you. He threw her over the instant he fell for you. Surely you don’t doubt that now?”
“No, no I don’t.” I frowned. “I trust him absolutely. It’s just that—” I stopped. “Everything inside me is a jumble. I’m afraid this girl—her daughter—will remind him of that old love and lead him to regret his choice to marry me. She gives him a glimpse into another life he might have led.”
“It most certainly does not. To start, the countess turned down his proposal. Presumably he was disappointed at the time, but he has given no indication since that he cares any longer.”
“She turned him down in order to keep him safe,” I said. “I was not so considerate.”
“It’s all well and good for her to have said that, but it may have been nothing more than an excuse. Maybe she didn’t love him enough to want to marry him.”
“I appreciate your support, Ivy, truly, I do, but she hid her own child away—so that even she couldn’t see the girl often—to achieve the same end. You cannot tell me it’s anything but self-sacrifice for a mother to have done such a thing.”
“Well…” Ivy pursed her rosy lips. “I must say that, in the course of my admittedly limited acquaintance with the countess, motherly was not an adjective I would ever have chosen to describe her. She was dedicated to her work and likely sent the baby away as much for her own safety—and convenience—as for Colin’s. It wasn’t an entirely noble gesture.”
“If he had no other children, the solicitor would never have revealed Colin’s identity,” I said. “The countess died a decade ago. Does that not prove she was concerned with keeping him from vulnerability? More concerned than I.”
“Colin wanted to marry you—quite desperately. How many times did he propose before you accepted him? I lost count. He only asked the dreadful countess once. Clearly, she didn’t have the effect on him that you do. The poor man couldn’t have made his adoration of you clearer. Did he not, after all, deed you all the books in his library?”
“And all the port in his cellar.” The memory felt so far away, almost like it belonged to someone else.
“Colin Hargreaves is a man who knows his own mind. You respected him enough not to second-guess him or to decide for him how best to conduct his life. The countess refused to give him the same courtesy.”
I took her hand. “Thank you, Ivy, you have offered supreme consolation. I believe I can bear to face the others now.”
“I’m pleased to hear that. But now I do need you to help me with my camera. You know me better than to have thought I would outright lie to get you away from them. Robert purchased it for me, and I despise it. Drawing is much more to my taste. If we could somehow jam the wretched thing, I’d have an excuse for coming home with not one single photograph.”
In the end, I convinced her to leave the Brownie unmolested and present it to Kat, who was delighted with the gift. I stood apart from the others with Jeremy, who was leaning elegantly against a column on the terrace. “This is quite the development,” he said. “Interesting times, these, eh, Em? Will you have her presented at court? Host a debutante ba
ll?”
“Don’t be impertinent.” I whacked him on the arm. “I have no idea what we shall do. I’m leaving that entirely up to my husband.” We both stared as Kat pointed the camera at her father.
“You’re too good for him, my dear girl, far too good for him.”
AD 79
8
As I write these words, I am struck by how young I was back then, convinced I had full control of my heart and confident I could read Lepida’s thoughts. I saw Silvanus in private six more times before his wedding, and on each occasion, he extracted from me another of my poems. After the first that I hid in the library, I no longer bothered with subterfuge. My cunning had no visible effect on him beyond a slight annoyance, but it had stirred the embers of my affection, and I no longer wanted the flame to grow.
But grow it did, despite my good intentions. No longer did I hesitate to share with him my work. Instead, I wrote for him, not that I expected he would notice. I did not compose love poems; that would have been coarse and obvious. Instead, I embarked on a great epic, recounting the tale of a hero invented by myself, modeled on Silvanus. I would praise the man I loved without ever naming him and make him the greatest warrior Rome had ever known. Hector and Achilles were weaklings compared to him, Aeneas a mere child. The muse Calliope sat by my side, the verses coming almost without effort. I prayed to Mars and Minerva for an understanding of war, but it was to Diana that I made my most frequent offerings. Like her, I would never marry, and I would scorn any attention from men. Poetry would be my only love.
The first lines of my epic delighted Silvanus. He demanded more, desperate for the rest of the story, never realizing he was the inspiration for it all. Before Lepida left her father’s house, I had completed the first book of my great work and gave it to her betrothed.
When the auspicious day chosen for the wedding arrived, I helped my friend prepare, even fixing in place the flammeum that would veil her head. I stood near her when she uttered the required words to Silvanus: Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia. I followed the torchlight procession from Plautus’s house to the groom’s, but did not have the heart to join the others in their exuberant songs. I hung back as Lepida applied oil to the door of her new home, tears smarting in my eyes as her husband lifted her over the threshold. Try though I might, I could not hold my feelings in check. I envied Lepida for the attentions she would receive from her husband that night.
At last, mired in unhappiness, I returned to the only home I had ever known. Plautus had not given me to his daughter, despite Lepida’s pleas. Neither of us wanted to be separated and couldn’t imagine him refusing such a simple request. But in the end, he did, not because of his own feelings or inclinations. What did he care for one Greek slave, more or less?
The source of my anguish came not from my master, but from someone else altogether. My father, who, since my mother’s death, had never cared for anything beyond his books and ideas, held all the blame for my misery.
1902
9
I’m not entirely certain what motivated me to suggest that Ivy give her camera to Kat, but I suspect it was an effort to disguise my unease with the situation. The earth beneath me no longer felt reliable, all the stability upon which I counted erased in an instant. The girl exclaimed over the gift, and Colin, who deduced that the idea was mine, whispered thanks.
“I know incorporating her into our lives won’t be easy,” he said, “but I’m most appreciative of your support.” I smiled, all the while knowing I was a fraud. How could he accept so readily that she was his daughter? The answer was simple. Unlike me, he wanted to believe her, and, unlike me, he was privy to whatever intimate details the countess had written in her letter. I was an outsider, alone.
Kat had showered the warmest thanks on Ivy for the gift and started taking pictures of everyone but me, instructing them to pose. Before long, she announced that she preferred candid shots and started circling the terrace like a lion in search of prey, peering through the camera as she went.
“How did you know to find us here?” I had decided I ought to try to engage her in conversation.
“After Herr Gruber departed, I contacted Buckingham Palace,” she said, not looking at me. “My mother’s letter suggested that you, Father, were an agent of some sort, so I thought I’d go straight to the top, but my telegram did not lead to a helpful reply. I sent two more: one to the Foreign Office and one to the Department of Defense. Then I learned that you English are more reticent than I expected, so I did the only other thing I could think of.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Colin said.
“I found a clerk at one of the Fleet Street papers much more willing to be of assistance. He gave me your London address. The skeleton staff you keep there when not in residence forwarded my telegram to your house in Derbyshire. Your butler—Davis, I believe he is called?—replied, saying you were in Pompeii.”
“Did you tell him who you are?” I asked.
“Oh, heavens, no! That’s best left to my father,” she said. “I presented myself as an old family friend whose parents had recently died and was in need of consolation.”
“Well done,” Colin said.
“Thank you.” She grinned. “So! We’ve all breakfasted and you lot look dressed for exploration. Can I persuade you to take me to the ruins?”
“While we were about to set off for the archaeological park, I’m afraid our plans for the day aren’t quite so straightforward,” Colin said, and explained, without going into particulars, our role in investigating the murder.
Kat expressed neither horror nor shock, only clapped her hands. “This is better than I could have imagined. I can move right into the family business.”
Family business? Yes, her mother was a spy, and her father an agent of incomparable talents, but there was no family business.
“I don’t want you to become embroiled—” Colin started, but she interrupted, sliding her arm through his and pulling him toward the door.
“You’ll learn soon enough there’s no point arguing with me. I’m coming with you and expect to have heard a complete account of every gritty detail of the case by the time we reach the excavations.”
I caught a glimpse of pride in Colin’s dark eyes as he let her lead him to our waiting carriage. Ivy looked worried and Jeremy huffed. I did not feel it was my place to interfere. If my husband wanted the girl to accompany us, that was his decision. Our plan was innocuous enough: to examine each of the plaster casts in the city to make sure there were no other modern victims hidden among the ancient dead. Nothing sensitive or delicate in that; bringing her along would not hinder our work.
Most of the casts were housed in the museum near the ancient Porta Marina, but once that space had been filled, the general consensus was that any more would be better displayed where the remains had been found. The emotional impact of seeing them in situ was far more powerful than viewing them in a gallery. We quickly determined that nothing had been added to the museum’s collection—we had expected as much, but had to be thorough—and then commenced taking an inventory of the rest, armed with maps of the site.
The task was daunting. Pompeii is unlike other ancient sites, in that it is an entire city, not simply a temple, a marketplace, or even an acropolis. Only three-fifths of it have been excavated thus far, but those three-fifths are comprised of acres and acres of houses, shops, taverns, temples, baths, and every other sort of building found in a Roman provincial city. We had to scour its entirety, not simply check each place marked on the map as containing casts. Our murderer could have hidden another one anywhere, in the backroom of a bakery, perhaps, or a cubiculum in the remains of a modest dwelling overlooked by casual tourists. While the most celebrated houses, those containing the finest paintings, the best-preserved peristyles and atria, could be locked, the rest of the site was accessible without a set of keys.
Knowing the scale of the work before us, we decided to separate. Colin announced his intention of taking Kat with him, leaving Ivy,
Jeremy, and me together. Father and daughter would scour Regions I, VII, and VIII, while we started with Region VI. I watched as they walked away. Her raven hair was darker than his rich brown, and she had none of his curls, but there was something in her posture that mirrored the confident manner in which he always carried himself. Much though I despised myself for feeling so, I couldn’t help but wish there was some way to deny the relationship between them. What would our lives be like now, with her in them? How often would I be left behind as they went off together?
“Don’t wallow, Em,” Jeremy said. “It’s beneath you.”
“There’s no need to scold her.” Ivy poked him with the tip of her parasol. “She’s every right to be unsettled by this development.”
“Thank you, Ivy,” I said.
“You’re welcome, but don’t think I shall let you sink into melancholy, even if Miss von Lange is an unwelcome disruption.”
“You’re a master of understatement, Ivy,” Jeremy said. “She’s like one of those storms in the ocean—what are they called? Typhoons?—that barrels down and capsizes your ship.”
“You’re such a comfort, Jeremy,” I said. “Whatever would I do without you?”
“If you’d let me finish, you would have heard the part when I mention your extremely sturdy lifeboat: Ivy and me. We’ll make sure you skate through with grace.”
“You’re mixing metaphors,” Ivy said, “and I’m not certain I like being compared to anything extremely sturdy. But he’s correct, Emily, you do have us, and we’ll do all we can to help you—if I may, Jeremy, correct you—sail through.”
“I was picturing a steamship, not a sailboat,” Jeremy said, “but I won’t argue the point. All that matters, Em, is that you’ve got plenty of other things to occupy your mind. Like murderers, for example. And if that’s not enough, I’m prepared to whisk you away to whatever romantic location you choose and show you once and for all that I’m twice the man Hargreaves is.”
In the Shadow of Vesuvius Page 5
