"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 SEPTEMBER 1887
BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
Hargreaves arrived last week, bringing a much-appreciated supply of port. We took the boat across the caldera and spent a capital day exploring the old volcano. Discussed the possibility of funding an excavation of the island-I wonder if beneath the remains of ancient eruptions one could find treasures similar to those at Pompeii?
Have arranged to visit Delphi next week. Villagers there have been selling the most astounding artifacts-all from the remains of Apollo's oracle. Terrible crime that the site is not better protected. I fear that the significance of many of the objects will never be fully understood, as they are mercilessly ripped from their environs, robbing scholars of the opportunity to study them in context.
19
The next morning I received Cécile's reply to my letter asking her to find out what she could of Philip's purchase of the Praxiteles Apollo.
Ma chère Kallista,
I cannot tell you how distressed I felt after reading your letter. I hoped you had abandoned your morbid fascination with Philip, but clearly not. My child, it is always best to leave the dead buried. Nonetheless, I could not resist your plea for help and as a result have spent a fascinating week pretending to be in the market for antiquities. What a collection of characters I have found! Talented artists whose work would deceive any expert, ruthless dealers who reap huge profits, and buyers from the highest circles of society.
As you probably know, it is simple to buy an excellent copy of nearly any museum piece, so I began my adventure by letting it be known that I had seen Philip's Praxiteles bust and wanted to purchase a copy. I was soon approached by Monsieur LeBlanc, a man of dubious character but impeccable manners, who assured me that his artisans could produce a copy of anything I desired. When I told him of my friendship with Lord Ashton's widow, he asked if, like Lord Ashton, I preferred to purchase originals. He made it most clear that he could even obtain items from certain museums, as well as things acquired illegally from archaeological digs.
I am sorry to tell you that Monsieur LeBlanc, as well as several others, confirmed for me that your husband had frequently dealt with black-market dealers in the last year of his life. He purchased Apollo on a trip to Paris the week before your wedding from a private collector who had bought it only six months earlier; the gentleman prefers to remain anonymous. A colleague of Monsieur LeBlanc arranged the sale and gave me this information, believing that it would prove to me that he is equally capable of handling my own black-market purchases. Many underworld doors opened for me when I mentioned the name Lord Ashton. I know this information will bring you pain, but I do not think you should dwell on it. Bury his indiscretions along with the man and close this chapter of your life, chérie.
Please return to Paris soon, Kallista. I think your mood would improve immeasurably.
I am, as always, your most devoted friend,
Cécile du Lac
This confirmation of Philip's illicit activities dealt me a blow like none I had suffered before; I felt utterly betrayed by him and angry at myself for falling in love with such a man. Tomorrow Mr. Attewater and I would visit the British Museum, and I knew he would tell me that the objects in which I was interested were fake. Then what would I do? There could be no question that the originals must be returned to the museum, but how? As I pondered the subject, Davis announced Andrew, who rushed into the room almost before my butler spoke his name.
"Darling, I was a beast to you last night," he said, reaching for my hand as soon as the butler had closed the door. "But I see now why you have been so harsh with me lately. Your pointed questions to Arthur about his imminent engagement clearly indicate that you are afraid my own intentions to you are not honorable. My dear, you could not be more wrong." He continued before I could stop him. "Arthur suggested to me that your concern for Arabella clearly mirrored your own hopes. You know I adore you, Emily, and must admit that you are in dire need of a husband."
"Andrew!" I exclaimed.
"I am only teasing you, dearest. Please marry me, Emily. Think of the fun we would have together."
I drew a deep breath before I replied. "Andrew, you do me the greatest honor asking me to be your wife, but I fear I cannot accept your proposal. My feelings for Philip still overwhelm me. I could not marry another."
"Of course we would not marry before you are out of mourning. We wouldn't even need to announce the engagement."
"Please, Andrew, do not press your suit. I have no desire to hurt you," I said gently.
"I want to marry you, Emily," he said, more firmly than I would have expected. "Would you deny me my greatest wish?"
"I'm afraid I must, as it is incompatible with my own feelings."
"I cannot believe you feel nothing for me."
"I enjoy your company immensely but do not believe that we are well suited for marriage. And as I have already said, I am still deeply in love with Philip." I looked at him directly as I spoke, feeling I owed him at least that. He stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other for some time, as if he were waiting for me to change my mind. Eventually he spoke.
"I am not accustomed to being so easily dismissed. You'll forgive me if I beg your leave." He left the house without looking at me.
Once again I sat alone in the library, my mind spinning. My concern for Andrew paled next to my feelings concerning Philip and antiquities theft, but I did not enjoy rejecting Lord Palmer's son. His proposal came as a total shock, but when I remembered that Philip fell in love with me while I largely ignored him, I decided that men must prefer women who have little interest in them. The more I pushed Andrew away, the more serious his pursuit became. Perhaps men should not be allowed to hunt; the love of the chase creeps too much into other realms of their lives.
I had no doubt that Andrew would fall in love again quickly, and I wondered if his desire to marry me was inspired more by my fortune in the Bank of England than by my wealth of personal attributes. I knew he needed money, and I pitied him. His title, however, would make him the perfect catch for the daughter of an American railroad baron whose wife kept a copy of Debrett's on her bedside table. Yes, an American would suit Andrew well. I wondered if Margaret could think of someone who would make an excellent match for him.
Not many days passed before I found myself receiving another gentleman in the library. This time, however, there was no danger of a proposal.
"You have been immensely difficult to track down lately," Colin said, his long legs stretched out before him as he sat on one of my favorite chairs.
"I cannot agree with you, Colin," I said, meeting his eyes.
"Well, I suppose if I were willing to gallop down Rotten Row at top speed, I should have an easier time of it."
"I don't think I shall be doing that much anymore," I said wryly.
"Dare I hope that Palmer has fallen from grace?" he asked.
"No, of course not," I began, not wanting to tell Colin of the refused proposal.
"How is your study of Greek?"
"I will admit candidly that it is more difficult than I had anticipated. Furthermore, I've been rather distracted lately."
He handed me a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "I've been told more than once that racing about town horrifying society matrons is immensely time-consuming." He smiled. "I found this last weekend when I was in the country and thought it might be of some use to you." Inside was a well-used copy of an elementary Greek grammar. "It was mine at school and served me well."
"Thank you, Colin. That is very kind of you."
"It's delightful to meet a woman who wants to broaden her mind; I consider encouraging you my moral duty."
"I'm not sure that I like being someone's moral duty," I exclaimed.
"I did say it with a touch of irony, Emily, and c
annot believe that such a tone would be lost on you."
"Of course it was not, Colin, but I in turn cannot believe that you would think I could pass on an opportunity to tease you." I looked directly at him. "Did you dance with me in Paris out of the same sense of duty?"
"No, I did not," he replied, steadily meeting my gaze, "and I hope to dance with you again."
"I'd rather not shock Davis today. He's been quite understanding about the port."
"You are wonderfully easy to be with," he observed. "You have settled well into this house and now seem to belong in this library. I think Ashton would be surprised."
"Why?"
"I wonder if he knew the depth of the woman he took as his bride."
"The truth is that I was not particularly deep when I married him." I sighed. "And since I have already told you all my horrible secrets, I will confess that I do sometimes imagine that Philip and I would have found ourselves happily engaged in academic discussions, but I wonder if that really could have happened. I do not think I would have ever developed the interests I have now if he had remained alive."
"That is not so surprising. You would have been neatly packaged into the role of wife and, before long, mother, with scant time or opportunity to consider any other path. It is unfortunate that so little is expected of wives from an intellectual point of view."
"I believe most men prefer it that way, Colin," I said.
"I would not. I am confident that most of the women I encounter would bore me to death before the first leg of our wedding trip."
"So you are a confirmed bachelor?" I asked.
"I suppose so."
"You deal a great blow to the mothers of London's unmarried girls."
"My work requires a fair amount of travel that would not be appreciated by most wives," he said.
"I have driven past your lovely estate and would be shocked if there were not plenty of women who would gladly be ensconced there while you are away."
"I am not so desperate for an heir."
"Ah, the pleasures of the common man," I teased. "Thank goodness you have no hereditary title to worry you."
"Yes, I have been spared that burden," he said. "I need only be concerned about the estate and fortune." We both laughed.
"What is your work, Colin? I can't remember that Philip ever told me."
"He probably had more interesting stories with which to regale you. He was, after all, trying to impress you."
"I wouldn't have thought that a man of your station would work. What do you do?"
"Nothing of significance," he said, running his hand through his hair. "Merely a bit of politics. Terribly boring."
"Why does politics bring you abroad so often?" I asked.
"You are full of questions today, aren't you? I shall put a stop to them by revealing to you the other present I have for you."
"What is it?" I asked, full of curiosity.
"I've ordered a case of '87 port to be laid down for you-the Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee vintage. Andrew Palmer is not the only man who can assist in your corruption."
"Thank you, Colin. That will be delightful, even if you have done it only out of a sense of moral obligation. You must come to dinner and have some."
"It will not be ready to drink for another thirty years, Emily."
"Right," I said. "I shall make a note in my diary and be sure to invite you."
"I look forward to it." He rose to leave. "Enjoy your Greek, Emily."
"I shall, Colin, very much. Thank you again."
"Oh-and I must thank you." He pulled an evening glove out of his pocket. "I must have lost this the night of your dinner party. Glad Davis didn't throw it out. It's from my favorite pair."
25 SEPTEMBER 1887
DELPHI, GREECE
The artifacts I have found here are incomparable-some of the most exquisite stonework I have seen. If ever a site begged for systematic excavation, it was Delphi. Almost wish I were not returning to England next month. Lord Bromley has invited me to Darnley House to shoot-I welcome the opportunity to see my darling K. Wedding cannot come soon enough. Perhaps now that the date has been set, Lady Bromley will allow me some time alone with her daughter.
Headed to Athens tomorrow to visit Lysander Vardakas. Have seen his collection of antiquities before-there are few more impressive in private hands-he tells me he has acquired some new pieces of great significance. They cannot be all that he claims, but I still look forward to seeing them.
20
At last the day of my meeting with Mr. Attewater arrived. Our rendezvous, which proved more educational than I could have imagined, began outside the museum, where we sat on a bench for nearly half an hour talking before we went inside. As I listed the items I wanted to look at with him, he immediately recognized each and assured me that he knew their locations in the gallery.
He seemed completely at ease in the British Museum and knew the Greco-Roman collection in great detail. He had an unmistakable admiration for his ancient colleagues and clearly considered himself to be their equal.
"I must admit that you surprised me in Paris, Lady Ashton, when you said that you could see beauty in copies. It is an opinion so unlike that of your husband."
"You told me you did not know him well," I replied, trying not to look down at my companion, who stood several inches shorter than myself.
"No, I did not. Lord Ashton had no interest in my work. As you surely know, he purchased only originals."
"Yes, Mr. Attewater. I am keenly aware of that."
He led me to the first item on my list, the bronze statue Ivy had found so amusing. "I do not work with bronze much. There are a huge number of chemicals one can use to achieve just the right patina on metal, but I prefer the feel of marble. Nonetheless"-he paused as he circled the case wherein the statue rested-"I did produce a copy of this for one of my...er, patrons."
"Mr. Attewater, I remember you said in Paris that your work can be found in some of the world's best museums. Is that true?"
"It is, Lady Ashton."
"Did you make this statue?"
He peered closely at the figure, pulling a magnifying glass out of his coat pocket and examining as best he could the cloak hanging over the figure's arm.
"Yes! That is mine!" he exclaimed.
I admonished him to speak more quietly, hoping that no one else in the gallery had noticed his outburst.
"There is no question about it." He polished the magnifying glass on his waistcoat and beamed proudly as he looked at the statue. "I left a mark on the underside of the cloak. Take a look." He handed me the glass, and I peered at the cloak. Although barely visible, they could be seen: two tiny Greek alphas.
"A.A.," he said, smiling. "My initials."
"Yes, I understand." I nodded slightly.
I ushered him away from the statue, not wanting to draw anyone's attention. As we continued from piece to piece, the reaction was the same. Mr. Attewater recognized all of them as his own work and on many was able to show me his hidden double alphas. I grew more and more depressed as I realized that every artifact currently in my country library was something that belonged in the British Museum. Apollo, it appeared, was not an anomaly.
"Don't you worry," I asked my companion as softly as I could, "that someone at the museum will notice your alphas? Surely the penalty for such an offense is great?"
"Lady Ashton, I assure you I have done nothing wrong. I have been commissioned on numerous occasions to copy pieces from the venerable halls of this museum. As you have seen, I produce them to the best of my abilities and collect my payment. What the purchaser chooses to do with them is none of my concern."
"But surely you knew what was going on." I could not believe that Mr. Attewater was entirely innocent in the matter.
"My art, Lady Ashton, has been largely unappreciated by the public from the time I began to sculpt. After years of trying to succeed on my own, I realized that I could earn enough money to keep my studio by copying antiquities. Is that a c
rime? I have never received outrageous payment for any of my works. Believe me, were I to sell them as originals, they would command far higher prices. Furthermore, if I were going to attempt to deceive a buyer about the origin of a piece, I obviously would not sign it."
I looked at Mr. Attewater's worn but well-cared-for suit, noted his dignified manner, and found myself believing him. Here stood a man who wanted to be great; if he had money, he would spend it and not wear something so decidedly out-of-date.
"Why would a person come to you instead of using the museum's casting service?"
"They do not offer reproductions of every piece in the museum. Furthermore, I work much more quickly than they do."
"Yet if your clients are, as it seems, replacing original antiquities with your copies, don't you worry that someone in the museum will notice your initials and hold you responsible for the crime?"
"These pieces have been here for years. Their provenances were verified and the objects examined thoroughly before the museum purchased them. No one has a reason to doubt them now. The experts did all their work on the true originals."
"How does one go about copying the originals?"
"All I need are the precise dimensions of an object and a good sketch. I can get that in a relatively short period of time. My patrons would get me into the museum after hours. It's not as difficult as you might think."
"It's a very clever scheme," I admitted, and looked at Mr. Attewater. "Doesn't it bother you that others are profiting from your work when you receive so little?"
"I get enough." We passed a bust of Julius Caesar. "That is not mine," he whispered, "but it is clearly a fake. The dark color of the marble is achieved through liberal application of tobacco juice, and the pits over the surface come from banging on the sculpture with a brush with metal spikes. It works beautifully."
"Amazing," I said, looking at poor Caesar. "But how can you tell it is not authentic?"
"The beauty of a forgery, Lady Ashton, is that there typically is no definitive proof. But here the artist was not an expert." He motioned to the area between Caesar's eye and his hair. "The surface is perfect wherever there is a contour. Everywhere else is pitted to make the marble look aged. I would not have made such a mistake."
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