“There’s nothing surprising in that. But focus instead on the reality of the situation, Emily. Take comfort in the fact that no matter how wondrous he seems in death, in life Philip was a typical English nobleman. He may not have reacted well to your having decided to educate yourself.”
“Perhaps.”
“Don’t be offended by this, Emily, but I think that if Philip were still alive, you would be in exactly the same position as Ivy.”
“And what is wrong with that?”
“Nothing, for Ivy. She is content with her role. I do not think you would be. Eventually you would have wanted more, and your husband probably would have been shocked, if not horrified, to realize that he had married a woman with an active mind. Was Philip so unlike Mr. Brandon?”
“I cannot say,” I said.
“Don’t be so melancholy,” she admonished me as she took her leave. “Seek solace in Homer. Your plight is far less than Hector’s.”
Resolved to take her advice, I dove into the Iliad, quickly losing myself in the poetry. I hardly heard Davis enter the room to announce Mr. Attewater, who had come to update me on the progress of my sculpture.
“Mr. Attewater, this looks delightful!” I exclaimed, peering closely at the sketches he held out before me and examining the paper on which they were drawn. “I am so pleased that you have already begun work on my commission.”
“I am a busy man, Lady Ashton, but I consider you to be one of my most important patrons. I have chosen Aphrodite as the subject of this sculpture because she, alone among the Olympian gods, approaches your own beauty.” He executed a perfect little bow as he spoke.
“There is no need to flatter me, Mr. Attewater; I have already agreed to pay you.”
“I assure you, Lady Ashton, that any compliments which spring from my lips are entirely genuine,” he said, puffing up his chest. “I am a man of high principles.” This comment made me laugh despite myself.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Attewater, I mean no offense.”
“It is nothing,” he replied. “I realize the contradiction in my person that stems from the nature of my work. But remember, only once have I strayed from my principles. Do not judge me based on the lack of scruples enjoyed by the majority of my patrons.”
“Let me assure you I do not, Mr. Attewater,” I said, smiling warmly at him. “I am very curious about your other patrons. I believe that I know one of them rather well.”
“I would imagine that you know any number of them. My pieces grace the collections of many aristocrats. Not everyone can afford originals, you know.”
“Yes, I am quite aware of that and know better than to press you for names.”
“I appreciate that, Lady Ashton,” he said. “This is a fine library, if I may say so, but shockingly short on art. Where did the viscount keep his collection?”
“Nearly all of it is in our country house. I do have a lovely bust of Apollo in the drawing room.”
“Oh, yes, the Praxiteles. We saw mine in the British Museum, didn’t we? A very difficult piece to complete,” he said, clearly proud of himself. “Not many could have pulled it off. Do you know who did yours?”
“Praxiteles, actually,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a bit embarrassing, I’m afraid.”
“My dear lady, I assure you that I do not hold it against you at all. I was already aware of that”—he paused, searching for a word—“habit of the viscount’s. I can guarantee you not only my absolute discretion but also of my respect for any man who has such a profound appreciation for beauty. A great man with a fortune at his disposal can hardly be blamed for wanting to own the original of such a thing.”
“I do not blame him for wanting it. Accepting that he went through with the purchase has been somewhat more difficult for me.”
“Had he not, my own work would not be so prominently placed in the museum for the pleasure of thousands,” Mr. Attewater replied. I almost pitied him, knowing how much it must bother him that he received no credit for his work by the viewing public.
“Please do not think that I consider your work unremarkable. It is the deception that troubles me.”
“I understand completely, Lady Ashton. It is the same concern that keeps my involvement a step away from where I would have to be if I wanted to become really well-off from selling my works.”
“That, Mr. Attewater, brings me back to the subject of my friend, the one who I believe is a customer of yours. Mr. Colin Hargreaves.”
“Why do you mention him, Lady Ashton?” he asked, looking rather concerned. “I have never told you that he is a patron of mine.”
“But he is, isn’t he?” I asked, trying to sound lighthearted.
“I’m afraid that I must stay true to my policy of not discussing clients.”
“So you admit that he is one?”
“I have said no such thing,” he stated, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. “Suffice it to say that he is a man who has a significant effect on my business.”
“How is that, Mr. Attewater?”
“Please, Lady Ashton, you will make things terribly difficult for me if you press the issue. I can neither confirm nor deny the name of anyone I work with. Should I start making exceptions, it would undermine my position greatly.”
“But you told me that Lord Ashton never contacted you,” I said.
“I did that, Lady Ashton, against my better judgment, because I could see the pain in your eyes. Do not ask more of me.”
“Did you ever contact Lord Ashton?”
“What makes you think I would?” he replied.
“I have found two notes that warned of grave danger. Both were written on heavy paper—like that on which you sketched your plan for my sculpture,” I said, walking over to the desk. I unlocked the drawer, pulled out the notes, and handed them to Mr. Attewater, who turned slightly pale.
“I had heard rumors. Nothing specific, mind you. Although I had no direct dealings with Lord Ashton, I knew of his reputation as an excellent patron and thought that he deserved to be warned.”
“What were these rumors?” I cried emphatically.
“People said he had angered a powerful person and was in danger. It had something to do with antiquities he had purchased, but I really know nothing else.” Although I pressed him, Mr. Attewater insisted that he was ignorant of further details, leaving me to wonder whom my husband had angered and why.
7 NOVEMBER 1887
DARNLEY HOUSE, KENT
Lord Bromley hosted a magnificent foxhunt to mark the opening of the season. K rode but did not follow the hounds, instead choosing to tear about the grounds with her friend Miss Ivy Cavendish. Told me she hoped the fox would escape—but the spark in her eyes suggested she was teasing me.
I managed to evade our chaperone in the garden for a mere five minutes. Not enough time, but—at last—I have kissed my bride.
23
IVY LEFT ME ALONE THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON WHILE she called on friends. We had agreed to tell none of our acquaintances of Philip’s letter, not wanting to make the news public until we were more certain of its truth. While she was gone, I took stock of my wardrobe and, unsatisfied with it, dashed off a note to Mr. Worth, ordering two more gowns in fabrics decidedly unsuitable for mourning. I say “dashed off,” but after signing it, I glanced at the clock and realized that I had spent nearly an hour writing precise descriptions and drawing sketches of what I wanted. I turned my attentions to Philip’s dressing room, lamented at having so recently purged his clothing, and wondered if I should order some clothes from his tailor. This led me to wonder if it would be possible to rehire his valet, who had taken another position some months after Philip’s death. Not death, disappearance, I corrected myself.
The only bookshelf in our master bedroom was rather small, and I quickly set myself to the task of filling it with the same titles Philip had in his room in the country. Happily, both of his libraries contained copies of Troilus and Cressida, and I added my own catalog from the Briti
sh Museum as well as the copy of Lady Audley’s Secret I’d read on our honeymoon. I had lent A Study in Scarlet to Ivy but had Davis send one of the footmen out for Conan Doyle’s new Sherlock Holmes book, The Sign of Four, which I thought would be a pleasant surprise for my husband should he, in fact, return home. The only volumes I did not search for were those on hunting; I rather hoped that his latest experience in Africa would have soured Philip on the subject.
I sat on the edge of our bed and smiled to myself. Perhaps I would not be forced to sleep alone for much longer. Never had I imagined that I would so look forward to the intimacies shared by husband and wife, but here I was, craving Philip’s gentle touch, his warm breath on my cheek, and the feel of his strong body on top of mine. I sighed and collapsed into a supine position on the bed, quickly realizing that the pins Meg used to such stunning effect to hold my hair in place dug into my head and made lying on my back wholly uncomfortable. My tightly laced corset made returning upright difficult, and eventually I rolled onto my side and off the bed. These logistical problems quickly broke the spell of my thoughts of Philip, and I became aware of the sound of Ivy’s voice calling to me from the hall. The stairway carpet muffled the tap of her heels, but I could tell that she was racing up the stairs, all the time shouting my name. I pulled myself to my feet and met her at the top of the steps.
“Good heavens, Ivy! What is the matter? You look as if you had run through all of London.”
“Emily, I have just had the most extraordinary afternoon.” She sat on the top step. “Have you met Cyril Elliott?”
“No, the name is not familiar,” I answered, my curiosity piqued.
“I saw Arabella and Mr. Palmer at Lady Fielding’s. Arthur was rather severe with me for having left you alone. Clearly he has no concept of the strength of your character.” Ivy laughed. “But it is kind of him to be concerned, I suppose.”
“Yes, Ivy, but that can hardly be the extraordinary part of your afternoon?” I asked.
“No, of course not, merely an interesting aside,” my friend said with a wicked smile. “Later, when I was at Victoria Lindley’s—” Ivy stopped and interrupted herself. “Have you been to her house since her marriage?”
“No, I haven’t,” I answered, wishing Ivy would regain her focus.
“Horrid place,” she said. “At any rate, while there, I was introduced to Mr. Cyril Elliott. And before you ask, no, he is not related to the dreaded Lady Elliott.”
“Good,” I said.
“Mr. Elliott, it seems, has only just returned from Africa, where he and a small party of friends were hunting. In the course of recounting his adventures to myself, Victoria, and Jane Barring, who, I must tell you, looks terrible—”
“Ivy! The story. What did Mr. Elliott say?”
“Right. He told us that everywhere they went, they heard rumors about an Englishman wandering through the bush.”
“Could it be Philip?” I asked, hoping that this would be the proof I needed to erase the seeds of doubt I harbored.
“He said the story grew more and more fantastic each time they heard it. First they were told that the man was very ill, then that he was mad, then that he had renounced civilization and planned to live like a native. Mr. Elliott gave little credence to the latter two versions but said that it does appear that someone, separated from his party, grew sick and was left to his own devices to find help.”
“Where on earth is this man?” I asked. “It must be Philip. I hoped he might be alive after reading the letter, yet I must admit that it alone did not offer indisputable proof. But this story seems to confirm everything.”
“It appears so, Emily,” Ivy said, taking my hands. “If nothing else, it is without a doubt reasonable to think there is a very good chance that this man may be Philip. Surely it is too much to think that coincidentally there would be two Englishmen in a year who have fallen ill and been abandoned by their friends.”
At that moment Davis appeared, announcing Margaret, who had come to study with me. She joined us at the top of the stairs, and I immediately told her all we knew; she reprimanded me for not having shared with her Philip’s letter when I first learned of its existence.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Emily!”
“I do apologize, Margaret, but please understand that I wanted to tell no one until I had better evidence. You, of all people, would require considerable substantiation of such a claim. I know your standards of proof. I suppose I was afraid you would point out the implausibility of the whole situation when I had no desire to abandon my hopes.”
“You have me all wrong, Emily. I’ve heard of stories like this before—men surviving against unthinkable odds. It’s happened more times than I can count in the American West. And think of Dr. Livingstone.”
“Dr. Livingstone?” Ivy asked.
“Oh, yes!” I cried. “Of course, Dr. Livingstone.”
“He was presumed dead in Africa for at least three years before Stanley went to look for him. And it must have been another two before he succeeded,” Margaret said. “Philip’s been gone fewer than two years. That he might be alive doesn’t shock me in the least.”
“Mr. Bennett,” Ivy said, grabbing my arm. “Do you remember him from Paris?”
“Of course,” I replied, confused.
“He’s the one who sent Mr. Stanley to look for Dr. Livingstone because he wanted the story for his New York paper,” Ivy said. “I talked to him about it at some length. It was rather difficult to get him to move on to another subject.”
“You’re clever to remember that, Ivy. I had forgotten,” Margaret replied. “And you know everyone believed that Livingstone had been killed.”
“He was in poor health when Stanley found him, I recall.”
“Actually, more weary than ill,” Margaret said.
“All the same, his experience must have been dreadful!” Ivy exclaimed. “How he must have suffered.”
“I must go to Philip. I must try to find him,” I said, hardly hearing what either of them said, as I suddenly felt almost panicked. “I am going to Africa. I cannot bear the thought of him languishing alone in an isolated village. I want to see him the moment he is discovered.”
“Of course you must go. If he is still ill, your very presence will undoubtedly lift his spirits and aid in his recovery. Your reunion must not be delayed,” Margaret said, growing more and more excited.
“Perhaps Mr. Bennett would be willing to organize an expedition to find Philip,” Ivy suggested.
“Mr. Bennett might be an excellent resource, but I don’t think he would agree to let Emily go. Can we think of anyone else to arrange things?” Margaret asked.
“You are right. Furthermore, if Mr. Bennett were to hear of this, he would undoubtedly want the story for his paper. I do not want to attract publicity.” I thought for a moment. “I shall enlist the help of Mr. Palmer. It is he, after all, whom Philip chose to contact. He should be able to orchestrate a search party.”
“We should remember that Dr. Livingstone was a missionary, Emily. He had chosen to live in Africa and was well established there. Granted, his living conditions were undoubtedly wretched, but they were satisfactory enough that he stayed on even after Stanley found him. Philip was not in such happy circumstances. While we can hope that he may be found alive, I do not think that we can be sure,” Ivy said.
“I will believe it until it is proven otherwise,” I said with a flourish, utterly captivated by the idea that I would soon find myself in Philip’s arms.
“Do you really think you should go to Africa?” Ivy asked. “It sounds awfully dangerous.”
“She must go!” Margaret cried. “I wish I could. I cannot believe that my sister’s wedding is so soon. There’s no way I can avoid going back to New York for it.”
“I will need your help, Ivy,” I said. “My mother cannot know that I am going. She would do everything in her power to stop me. I would like to tell her that I am with you in the country. Will you corroborate my story?”
“Oh, Emily, I just don’t know if this is a good idea. I want Philip to be alive as much as you do, but it is not a certain thing. And the idea of traveling to Africa—it just isn’t safe.”
“You needn’t worry, dearest. You know the Palmers will see to it that no harm comes to me.”
“I don’t think now is the time to abandon your friend, Ivy,” Margaret said.
“Emily knows I only want what is best for her.” I could see from Ivy’s expression that she thought I was going too far.
“But now you are implying that you know better than she does what that is,” Margaret said, rather forcefully.
“Please, Ivy, will you help me?”
“Of course,” she said, sounding more resigned than convinced. “If you feel this is something you must do, I will not stand in your way.”
“If Mother writes, could you answer the letters for me?”
“Yes, but surely she would recognize your handwriting?”
“True. If she writes, you shall have to send any reply by cable. Say that I’m so very rich that I don’t like to wait for letters to arrive by post. She’ll be horrified and won’t write again,” I said. “And, Ivy, you must not tell Robert.”
“Oh, Emily, I don’t know that I could lie to him.”
“Your husband has no right to know her plans,” Margaret said.
“Please, Ivy. If he were to find out, he might try to stop me.”
“Yes, I imagine that he would.” She furrowed her pretty brow. “But maybe not, if you agreed to go only as far as Cairo. You could let the others travel the rest of the way without you and still see Philip more quickly than if you waited in London. No one would object to your going to Cairo, not even your mother. You could stay at Shepherd’s—this is the perfect time of the year for it.”
“I am not going to Cairo, Ivy—I am going to Philip, if I must travel all the way to Lake Victoria to find him.”
And Only to Deceive Page 19
