“I admit that I’ve never given much thought to the practices of mourning. Do you think they have helped you manage your grief?”
“Not particularly.” I smiled, liking his direct manner. “Tread lightly, my friend, lest our conversation return again to Philip.”
“Men do not have to abide by such rigorous rules, yet I cannot believe they mourn their wives less than women do their husbands. Perhaps we ask too much of you ladies.”
“A very enlightened comment. I’m most impressed,” I said, smiling. “But in all seriousness, I think it’s terribly unfair.”
Colin leaned back in his chair and stared at me. After some time I wondered if I should speak but found myself mesmerized by his dark eyes.
“Dance with me, Emily,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“Dance with me.”
“There’s no music.”
“I’ll hum.”
“I shouldn’t. I’m in mourning.”
“You’re not dead,” he said, standing, never taking his eyes off me. I gave him my hand, and we began to waltz in what little open space my sitting room offered. His grace surprised me, but not as much as the way my skin responded to his touch. The feeling of his hand on my waist caused me to breathe deeply, and when at last he released me, my hands trembled as I stumbled back to my seat.
“I think I should go,” he said quietly.
“Yes, you’re probably right,” I agreed, not sure what to think. “But we haven’t had dinner.”
“I find that I am no longer hungry.” His eyes shone with an intensity I had not seen before in anyone. He kissed my hand, his lips lingering longer than strictly necessary, and rushed from my rooms.
21 APRIL 1887
BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
Met a stunning girl at the Brandons’ last night—Earl Bromley’s daughter. Could not dance with her, as her card was already full. Dreaded encounter with Miss Huxley worse than expected. Will have words with Anne for having introduced me to her. Not only is she capable of speaking for fully a quarter of an hour without drawing breath (and on topics so boring that a mere three hours later I can’t recall a single one), she has a way of clinging to a chap’s arm that suggests she has no intention of ever letting go. Managed to eventually pry her away and sicced her on Hargreaves, who was unable to escape with as much ease as I did, not having the option of handing her off to a more handsome friend.
Have given thought to Lord Palmer’s views on Hector v. Achilles and cannot agree. Hector is what man can strive to become; Achilles is that of which he can only dream. Who would not prefer the latter?
7
SOON THEREAFTER I HIRED, ON RENOIR’S RECOMMENDATION, a drawing master called Jean Pontiero to instruct me twice a week. His mother was French, his father Italian, and the two countries seemed engaged in an endless battle for his soul. He preferred Italian food, French wine, Italian music, and French women. Once I learned to decipher his speech, an odd combination of the two languages, we got along famously. He did not judge my limited skills too harshly; in return, I included a pasta course at luncheon on the days he came to me.
“The view from your rooms is too French. We cannot work here any longer,” he told me one day.
“I’m afraid we shall not be able to escape the French landscape, so we shall have to make do. Why don’t we go sit in the park? It’s quite warm today. A breeze would provide welcome relief.” Monsieur Pontiero sniffed, packed up my drawing materials, and led me to the Louvre, where he set me to the task of sketching the first of ten paintings by Francisco Guardi showing Venice during a festival in the eighteenth century.
“I do have quite a keen interest in antiquities, Monsieur Pontiero. Perhaps I could draw something Roman instead? The sarcophagus reliefs in the Salle de Mécène?” He ignored me and began to lecture on the use of light in the painting before me. I sighed and began to sketch. Before long we were interrupted by a short, rather pale Englishman, whom my teacher quickly introduced as Aldwin Attewater.
“You would be interested in his work, Lady Ashton,” Monsieur Pontiero said, smiling. “He copies antiquities.”
“Do you really?” I asked. “I should love to see your work. Monsieur Pontiero won’t let me draw anything but these landscapes, but I’d much rather sketch Greek vases.”
“Black-or red-figure? Which do you prefer?” Mr. Attewater continued without waiting for me to answer. “I’m partial to the black myself. Of course, a mere sketch cannot do such a piece justice, which is why I prefer to reproduce it entirely.”
“It also brings a much higher price that way,” Monsieur Pontiero added. “Aldwin does a great deal of work for you English aristocrats who are willing to pay exorbitant prices for obvious fakes.”
“My work is never obvious,” Mr. Attewater replied. “It can be found in some of the world’s best museums.”
“Perhaps in your imagination, Aldwin. But look at my pupil’s work. It is good, no?” Mr. Attewater looked over my shoulder at my uninspired rendition of poor Mr. Guardi’s landscape and shrugged.
“Decent form, little passion. Move her to another gallery, Pontiero. If it’s antiquities she likes, she should draw them. She is paying you, after all.”
“Money, money, that’s all you think about,” Monsieur Pontiero jibed good-naturedly. “It is the art that matters, and she should start here.”
“Your husband was the Viscount Ashton?” Mr. Attewater inquired.
“Yes, he died in Africa more than a year ago.”
“I remember hearing that. Please accept my most sincere condolences. I’m certain that he is greatly missed in the art world. He was an excellent patron.”
“Thank you, Mr. Attewater,” I answered, and proceeded to change the subject. “Do you have a studio in Paris?”
“No, I prefer to work in London.”
“The soot in the air helps to give his sculpture an ancient look,” Monsieur Pontiero joked as his sharp eyes evaluated my sketch. “That’s enough for today, Lady Ashton. I can see that you are too distracted to work.” He sighed. “I imagine that Aldwin would be happy to lead us through the Ancient Sculpture collection. Perhaps he will allow you to choose the next work he plans to imitate.”
“Maybe I will commission the work myself,” I said, smiling. Monsieur Pontiero frowned.
“Your money would be better spent on Renoir or Sisley. At least their works are original.”
“True,” I began, “but if Mr. Attewater can produce an object of exquisite beauty, I’m not sure that his source of inspiration is of much consequence.”
“Copying requires nothing more than mechanical skill,” Monsieur Pontiero said. “The genius of the artist can never be duplicated. A work done by someone else’s hand will always lack the spark of brilliance.”
Mr. Attewater grinned. “I don’t think you could tell the difference, my friend.” They bickered back and forth well into the Greek collection, stopping only when I gasped at the sight of a particularly lovely sculpture of the goddess Artemis.
“You like this?” Mr. Attewater asked. I nodded. “What do you think, Pontiero?”
“It is exquisite.”
“Does it contain a spark of brilliance?”
“Yes, it does,” Monsieur Pontiero answered quickly. “Don’t try to claim that it’s one of yours. No one would believe you.”
“I could reproduce it well, but it is not mine. Nonetheless, it is a copy, done by a Roman in the style of one done in bronze during the fourth century B.C. by a Greek called Leochares. Would you consider it a fake?”
“Hardly. It’s an ancient piece.”
“Ancient yes, but a copy of a sculpture more ancient.” Mr. Attewater turned to me. “The Romans loved to copy Greek sculpture. Have you been to the National Archaeological Museum in Athens? There you will find real Greek statues.”
“I shall have to go,” I said, still looking at the beautifully carved Artemis.
“You’d prefer Rome,” Monsieur Pontiero ins
isted.
Realizing he was about to embark on another of his monologues on the virtues of things Italian, I quickly interrupted. “Mr. Attewater, do you think our descendants will look at your copies in museums thousands of years from now, appreciating them as art in their own right, the way we do this statue?”
“Don’t encourage him,” Monsieur Pontiero scoffed. As we turned the corner, I was pleasantly surprised to see Colin Hargreaves seated on a bench at the far end of the gallery. He rose immediately when he saw me, and I introduced him to my companions. As always, he was exceedingly polite, and he asked to accompany us on our tour. Mr. Attewater, however, excused himself.
“I shall have to leave you now,” he said. “I have an appointment I must keep. It has been most pleasant making your acquaintance, Lady Ashton.”
Soon thereafter Monsieur Pontiero begged our leave to call on his next pupil. Colin took my drawing material from him, and we continued to walk through the museum.
“Please forgive me, Emily, but you should perhaps be a bit more discerning about the company you keep. Aldwin Attewater is not the sort of man with whom you ought to consort,” he said in a soft but forceful voice.
“He seemed pleasant enough to me,” I retorted, feeling my face grow red.
“Don’t be naïve.”
“I can’t see why you should object to the acquaintance.” It astonished me how quickly he was willing to attempt control over this small part of my life. Was this what came from dancing with him in such inappropriate circumstances?
“His profession precludes him from any position of honor.”
“I did not think you were the type of man who would consider an artist dishonorable.”
“My dear, he is not an artist. He is a forger.”
“I don’t see that he does anything wrong. Not everyone can afford originals, and I myself would enjoy having reproductions of some of the objects from museums.”
“Then make use of the British Museum’s casting services, Emily. There is a significant difference between a man who openly copies objects and one who produces forgeries. Mr. Attewater falls into the latter category, and you should not associate with such a man.”
“I disagree with you. Mr. Attewater was completely candid about his work. He has no intention to deceive. Furthermore, I would not have expected someone with your liberal views to lecture me on the company I keep. It’s not as if I intend to dance with him.” I glared at him. He met my stare with one of his own.
“I’m only trying to help you, Emily. I admit I did not expect to receive such an immature response.”
“Happily, as you are not my husband, I do not have to give your opinion more attention than I choose,” I snapped. “Good day, Mr. Hargreaves.” I grabbed my sketchbook from his hand and marched out of the museum, pleased beyond imagining that there was no man to whom I had to answer for my actions.
“HE IS ABSOLUTELY INFURIATING!” I exclaimed to Cécile as we rode in her carriage to a party at Gordon Bennett’s house that evening. “Can you believe he had the gall to speak to me like that?”
“I admit it is somewhat surprising, given what little I’ve heard about him.”
“His character is full of hypocrisy, and I shan’t waste another moment thinking about him.”
“I imagine you won’t,” Cécile replied sarcastically, not even having the courtesy to pretend to believe me. “I think he’s a very interesting man.”
“Who cares? Did I tell you the story of Philip’s triumphant elephant hunt?”
“Yes, chérie, you did. I thought you disliked hunting.”
“I do. But it seems that Philip was able to commune with the animals in a way that was truly noble.”
“If he really communed with the animals, I would think he wouldn’t have wanted to shoot them. I must say that your renewed interest in Philip is somewhere between distressing and morbid. It is time that you move on, Kallista. Philip was a good man, but he is dead. You can get nothing more from him, especially love.”
“You’re right, of course, but I cannot help regretting that I did not know the man better. He grows more fascinating with every account of him that I hear. Arthur Palmer called on me yesterday and told me that Philip actually arranged to have the son of one of their African guides schooled in England. Apparently the boy speaks quite good English.”
“No one questions Philip’s excellent character. I only ask that you remember he is dead.”
“I know that quite well,” I said sharply.
“I think it’s what makes him so appealing to you. After all, he’s not here to tell you to keep within the confines of good society.”
“Well, that certainly doesn’t hurt,” I admitted, my good temper slowly returning.
“Who is this Arthur Palmer? Is he as handsome as Colin Hargreaves?”
“Not at all! The elder brother, Andrew, got all the good looks the family has to offer. I don’t really know him, so I can’t comment on his personality. Their father was a friend of Philip’s and is marvelous. They studied Greek antiquities together. I quite forgot I promised to locate some of Philip’s papers for him. As for Arthur, being Lord Palmer’s younger son, he has few prospects. Worse, he doesn’t seem particularly bright.”
“He’d do well to marry a wealthy heiress.”
“He’ll have to look elsewhere, I’m afraid. I would never be able to think of him in that way. Besides, I shall never marry again.”
“A wise decision, Kallista. Keep control of what is yours. Why does this Palmer’s father need Philip’s papers?”
“It concerns some work Philip was doing before he died. Lord Palmer would like to complete it and publish it as a memorial.”
“Sounds like a fitting tribute,” she said with a sigh. The carriage slowed as we approached our destination. “I fear this will be another tedious night.”
Happily, her prediction proved to be incorrect; the evening was quite entertaining. Mr. Bennett’s house was an exercise in excess, filled nearly to bursting with flamboyant works of art and eclectic objects he had collected on his travels around the world. I do not know that one could say it was a tastefully decorated home, but it did an excellent job of capturing its owner’s character.
“Lady Ashton!” I heard a bright voice calling to me.
“Miss Seward, I am so pleased to see you.” Miss Seward had caused no small measure of controversy when I first met her at Ivy’s dinner party. Her modern ideas had clashed horribly with the more conservative ones of Sir John Harris, a friend of Ivy’s parents. Sir John was particularly outraged when Miss Seward, an American who had recently graduated from Bryn Mawr, suggested that I ought to learn read ancient Greek.
“I meant to call on you but have not had a moment to spare. Who is your friend?”
“Madame Cécile du Lac, Miss Margaret Seward,” I said, making the introduction. As always when she met a new acquaintance, Cécile quickly evaluated Miss Seward; this time she looked as if she approved.
“Enchantée, Margaret,” Cécile said. “Kallista has told me about you. Your dress is most interesting. I shall speak to you about it later.” She left without another word before Miss Seward could reply.
“Does she disapprove of my gown?” she asked, looking down at what I found to be an oddly attractive dress. Miss Seward had strayed from the constraints of fashion, appearing in a high-waisted Empire gown that clearly required no corset. It was much more flattering and elegant than the aesthetic dresses I had seen in Liberty’s, which I always thought gave one the appearance of a rather burdened medieval matron yet must have given the wearer a similar ease of movement.
“Quite the contrary. I imagine she wants to order one, if not several, for herself.”
“Clearly she has excellent taste,” Miss Seward replied, smiling. “We must get some champagne. It’s the only thing capable of making this party worthwhile.” She beckoned to a footman, who quickly supplied us with full glasses. “How is your study of Homer coming along?”
&nbs
p; “Quite well, Miss Seward. I have considered your suggestion to attempt to learn Greek so that I can read the original, and I intend to hire a tutor when I return to England.”
“You will not regret it.”
“In the meantime I would very much like to learn your thoughts on the various English translations. Are you free for tea tomorrow afternoon?” We arranged to meet, and Margaret was quickly swept up in a group of Americans. I excused myself and went in search of Ivy and Robert, whom I found talking to Andrew Palmer.
“We have met before,” Mr. Palmer said as he kissed my hand. “At your wedding.”
“Of course,” I replied. “Thank you for the kind note you sent after Philip’s death. I appreciated your condolences.”
“He was an excellent man and an even better friend. I only regret that we couldn’t do more for him in Africa.”
“All of you on the hunt provided him with fine companionship and the adventure he loved in his final days. For that I am grateful.” As I spoke, I realized that for the first time I was actually comfortable talking about Philip. “He told me numerous times how he enjoyed your company.”
“Did he tell you much about our friendship?”
“I must confess that, given the brevity of our marriage, much of what I know about Philip comes from his letters to me. We had hardly been married a few months when he left for Africa.”
“Yes, I remember that,” he replied with a winning grin. “And now it is my turn to confess. I was quite surprised that he left such a lovely bride so soon after the wedding.”
“Don’t be a beast, Palmer,” Robert interrupted.
“My apologies, Lady Ashton.”
“There is no need, Mr. Palmer. I knew the safari had been planned before our wedding date was set. I had no intention of asking him to change his arrangements. Regardless, he was quite adamant that he go.”
“Yes.” He paused. “I wonder why that was?”
“I believe,” Ivy interjected, “that there was something about an elephant, isn’t that right, Emily? He’d always wanted to hunt an elephant.”
And Only to Deceive Page 6
