And Only to Deceive

by Tasha Alexander

  “I don’t think you shall be slapped today,” I replied, burying my face in his chest. “If pressed, I would admit to having liked it very much when you kissed me on the Pont-Neuf.”

  “I should never have done it, Emily. Not then.” He lowered me onto the settee and sat next to me. “I hope you can forgive me.”

  “My recent behavior suggests that I have.” I smiled. He leaned closer, as if he would kiss me again, and then stopped.

  “Is it too soon? I know that you are out of mourning, et cetera, et cetera, but the emotional upheaval of the past months must have taxed you greatly.”

  “No, I assure you, I am all right now. I am happy to have suffered what I did. If I had not, I should have been consumed with the guilt of neither having loved my husband nor grieving the loss of him. In the end I truly mourned him. He deserved nothing less.”

  “He was a most excellent man, Emily.”

  “I know. It is a pity that I did not realize it sooner, but it would be foolish for me to dwell on romantic fantasies of what our marriage could have been like. I did grow to love him after his death, but I might never have if he were still alive.” I shrugged and caught myself feeling suddenly French. “At any rate, that chapter of my life is over, and I have no regrets.”

  “I am glad,” he said, sighing, as he looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I really must leave. My brother is expecting me in Richmond. When do you go to Ashton Hall?”

  “Tomorrow. I shall return to London only briefly before I journey to Santorini.”

  “I should not have arranged the trip so well for you.” He smiled and rose from the settee. “I wish I had thought of delaying your departure so that I could see you again before you go.”

  “When will you return to London?”

  “Most likely not until the spring. I have business in Berlin and will travel there soon after the New Year.”

  “What sort of business, Colin? Anything that might interest me?”

  “Not in the least,” he replied firmly, and pulled me to my feet. “I shall miss you, Emily.” He kissed me lightly and slipped a small box into my hand. “Happy Christmas.”

  He took his leave before I opened the gift and thus cheated himself of seeing my expression as I realized what he had given me: a golden apple inscribed “Tê kallistê.”

  “I ALWAYS KNEW I liked Mr. Hargreaves!” Ivy cried, holding the apple as we sat in the library after dinner that evening. “What a marvelous gift! And you, Emily, seem quite in danger of falling in love with the gentleman.”

  “I shall make no attempt to deny the possibility.”

  “It seems ridiculous now that we ever thought he was the ringleader of the forgers.”

  “Given what we knew at the time, it was a perfectly reasonable hypothesis. His behavior made him appear quite suspicious.”

  “I am glad the whole business is over.” She grinned wickedly. “But it was rather exciting. It is shocking, though, that Andrew and Arthur should have turned out to be so awful.”

  “‘So fairly form’d, and only to deceive.’ Lord Palmer has suffered greatly,” I said.

  “I am glad to see that he is not being cut by society.”

  “His own character is spotless. He deserves all our sympathy.”

  Ivy nodded in agreement and leaned close to me. “Is Davis really bringing port to us, Emily? I don’t know that I shall have the nerve to drink it in front of Robert.” She glanced at her husband, who sat across the room from us contentedly reading the newspaper.

  “There’s no one here but the three of us, Ivy. What better occasion to get him used to the idea?”

  “He is a very conservative man,” she whispered.

  “There may be hope for him yet,” I replied. “Perhaps someday we can get Colin to sponsor him at the Reform Club.”

  “That, my dear, is going too far, even for you,” Ivy said, smiling.

  Davis came in with a decanter of port and three glasses, which he placed on a table. I asked him to pour for us, and Ivy reluctantly accepted the glass he handed to her, glancing at her husband, who sighed loudly and turned his attention to me.

  “Emily, darling, I cannot tolerate this. If you are going to continue with your attempt to corrupt my wife, I am afraid I must insist that you advise her correctly. It’s very bad form to have your butler serve port. The decanter should start with the host and be passed around the table to the left, each gentleman…er, person pouring for whoever is seated on his right. In this case, because we are in the library instead of the dining room, the rules may be relaxed somewhat, I suppose, but the basic form stands. Always pass to the left. When your glass is empty, never ask directly for more. Instead inquire if the person nearest the decanter knows the bishop of Norwich. Any educated chap will know what you mean and pass you the decanter.”

  “Robert, I knew from the moment I first met you that you were a man of much possibility,” I said, laughing.

  “Do not think, Ivy, that I shall stand for this in any but the most private situations. However, I look forward to having you join me for port when we dine at home.” He tried to appear severe as he said this but did not succeed. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but wonder if it would be possible to find an English gentleman who would allow his wife to do what she truly wanted.

  3 DECEMBER 1888

  EAST AFRICA

  Am excessively tired—think I have caught some blasted fever—but must record the day’s conquest. I have my elephant—never before has a man felt such exultation. What a story this will be to tell K. Am rather hoping she has one of her own to share with me upon my arrival home. News of a future heir would be most welcome.

  More tomorrow.

  36

  THE HOLIDAYS PASSED QUICKLY AND WITH REMARKABLY little incident. Soon after the first of the year, I departed for my Cycladic villa, stopping in Paris to collect Cécile, Caesar, Brutus, and an enormous pile of Cécile’s trunks. Meg, who had actually been disappointed not to have the chance to go to Cairo, looked forward to our journey with great enthusiasm. My plan to turn her into a traveler had worked; evidently she found Amelia Edwards perfectly inspiring. By the time our boat docked at Santorini, she and Cécile’s maid, Odette, had become fast friends, and later I heard Meg tell one of the Greek housemaids that she thought Paris was a lovely city.

  The villa completely surpassed my expectations. It sat near the village of Imerovigli on top of a tall cliff overlooking the caldera and the remains of the volcano that had sunk the center of the island in ancient times. Inside, the house, with its bright, white rooms, wide arches, and huge windows, was unlike any building I had seen. As I had suspected, Philip chose to display his collection of impressionist paintings here; the simple surroundings set them off perfectly. The furniture in the house combined an odd assortment of traditional Greek pieces with a number of ill-fitting English ones that I quickly banished from my sight. The villagers gladly took them off my hands, happy with the novelty of the chintz settee, skirted tables, and other assorted monstrosities. My bedroom on the second floor opened onto a balcony with a view of the caldera. On warm nights I left the bright blue doors open so that I could feel the air and watch the stars as I fell asleep.

  As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,

  O’er heaven’s pure azure spreads her sacred light,

  When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,

  And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene,

  Around her throne the vivid planets roll,

  And stars unnumber’d gild the glowing pole,

  O’er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,

  And tip with silver every mountain’s head:

  Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,

  A flood of glory bursts from all the skies:

  The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,

  Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

  Weeks flew by as we quickly adapted to Greek culture. Unlike Philip, I did not hire an English cook.
Instead we found ourselves surprised and delighted by the cuisine prepared by Mrs. Katevatis, who the villagers in Imerovigli had assured us was the finest cook on the island. Kreatopitakia, seasoned meat tucked into a flaky pastry, became a favorite food, and we were enthusiastic supporters of several of the local vineyards. Cécile threw herself with abandon into the Eastern habit of napping every afternoon, and neither of us particularly missed the cosmopolitan society to which we had been accustomed. We did not, however, entirely abandon our Western European ways; I still took port after dinner, and Cécile had champagne shipped to her by the case from France. Although we tried, neither of us liked retsina, the resinated Greek wine.

  While continuing my study of the ancient language, I decided also to learn to speak modern Greek in order to better communicate with our servants and neighbors. Mrs. Katevatis’s fifteen-year-old son, Adelphos, spoke excellent English and was soon persuaded to tutor me. I picked up the language quickly and before long was able to respond in her own language to Mrs. Katevatis’s cry of “Kali orexi!” Good appetite!

  Unfortunately, finding someone to school me in ancient Greek was not as easy, so I had to tackle the subject on my own, which proved to be no small effort. Margaret planned to join us later in the spring; until then the notes in her lecture books would help me immensely. My interest in Homer had not faded, but I began to expand my readings in translation to include Plato and, when I was in a light mood, Aristophanes. I don’t know when I have laughed so hard as while reading The Clouds.

  For entertainment we invited large groups of our neighbors from the village to dine with us. Never before had I mingled with such a varied group of friends. Cécile’s dearest compatriot was a young man called Aristo Papadakos, a skillful woodworker. After she described to him her miniature Versailles, he carved for her a tiny Parthenon and presented it to her. From that day on, they set about re-creating Athens in its golden age, complete with small figures of Pericles, Socrates, and Plato.

  I spent much of my time alone, sketching or reading. In the afternoon I liked to walk along the cliff toward Fira, the largest city on Santorini. Often I would stop at the summit of a rocky outcrop with a book and enjoy perfect solitude while seemingly everyone else on the island napped. The weather that spring was extraordinary, bringing day after day of sunshine following a rainy February.

  Perched on a rock one fine day in March, I sighed with satisfaction as I looked at the caldera before me and wondered what lay in ruin beneath its waters. I had been reading Plato’s Timaeus, a dialogue in which the great philosopher describes the destruction of the ancient civilization of Atlantis, often thought to have been located on Santorini. I had just decided that I must find someone to take me across to the volcano tomorrow when I heard a person approaching from the path behind me. I turned around and saw Colin smiling at me.

  “It looks as if you have found paradise,” he said.

  “What a surprise!” I exclaimed, rising to meet him. “I should not have thought Santorini a convenient excursion from Berlin.”

  “I assure you it is not.” He kissed my hand.

  “Then I am most flattered that you made the trip.” He was dressed more casually than I had ever seen him and looked extraordinarily handsome with his hair disheveled by the wind.

  “You should be,” he said. “You are reading Plato?”

  “Yes.”

  “Timaeus?”

  “I felt this the perfect location for it.”

  “I adore the way your mind works.” He kissed my hand again. I touched his face and leaned forward to kiss him. After a short embrace, I pulled away and looked at him, relishing the warmth I found in his eyes.

  “How are your studies coming?” he asked.

  “Very well for the most part, although I have stalled a bit on my Greek—difficult to learn on one’s own.”

  “Hmmm…” he agreed, softly kissing my neck.

  “Now that you are here, you must help me. I’m so pleased to have someone who can answer my grammar questions. I’d begun to fear that I would be stuck reading in translation until Margaret arrives.” He did not seem to be paying much attention to my plight, so I lifted his head. “You will help me, won’t you?”

  “Yes, but not before you feed me—there was nothing edible on the boat.” He took my hand, and we walked slowly back to the villa, where Cécile rejoiced at his appearance. She insisted that we celebrate his arrival and immediately began discussing plans for a feast with Mrs. Katevatis, who, in typical fashion, had soon invited the entire village to dine with us. The food was, as always, incomparable, and the amount of ouzo consumed led to some particularly raucous dancing. Colin took to Greek folk dancing well, cutting a fine figure with Cécile and the villagers. The festivities did not break up until late in the evening, and although I was exhausted by the time I fell into my bed, I found that I could not sleep. I paced restlessly on my balcony for some time, calmed by neither the stars nor the sound of the ocean. Suddenly my eyes caught something below me; I had left a book on the white wall at the edge of the cliff and decided to get it before the wind blew it into the water.

  I went downstairs, stepping quickly, the stone floor of the veranda cold on my feet. The book, my poor abandoned Timaeus, collected, I paused for a moment to look at the caldera, when I saw Colin sitting in a chair only a few feet away from me.

  “Why aren’t you asleep?” I asked as he stood and walked toward me.

  “Morpheus seems to have eluded me completely tonight,” he said. The skirts of my nightgown and my long hair billowed around me in the wind as I took his hand. “You are cold.”

  “A little,” I admitted. “I couldn’t sleep either. Your arrival has forced me to realize how much I have missed you, when all this time I thought I had found perfect contentment. I shall never forgive you for disillusioning me.”

  “What can I do to redeem myself?” he asked, putting his arms around me.

  “I cannot say. You might start by kissing me again.”

  He obliged me immediately and thoroughly. “I hope that was satisfactory.”

  “Perfectly,” I murmured, resting my cheek against his.

  “The difficulty, of course,” he continued, “is that it does not address the long-term problem.”

  “Is there a long-term problem?”

  “Of course. Now that I know you shall miss me, how can I possibly leave you again?”

  “There’s no need to think about leaving; you’ve only just arrived.”

  “But eventually I shall have to go, and I have found being without you a severe impediment to my happiness. I am afraid there is only one solution to our predicament.”

  “What is that?” I asked, kissing him. He was unable to respond for several minutes.

  “I want you to give me your heart, Emily. I want you to marry me,” he said. “But I know your views on that subject. I would not want you as my wife unless you truly believed that marrying me would complement a life you already find perfectly satisfying.”

  Although the idea of spending my life with Colin struck me as very attractive on a number of levels, I was not willing to commit to something that would so radically affect my personal freedom. Perhaps later, when I had a more precise idea of how I wanted to live my life, I would be in a better position to judge how he could fit into it. For now, though, I was not prepared to abandon my autonomy and did not want to feel obligated to anyone. An odd thought crossed my mind.

  “Whom do you prefer: Hector or Achilles?” I asked.

  “What kind of a question is that?”

  “Hector or Achilles?”

  “Hector, of course,” he said, looking confused. “‘Sprung from no god, and of no goddess born; / Yet such his acts, as Greeks unborn shall tell, / And curse the battle where their fathers fell.’”

  “And you did express an interest in taking me to Ephesus, if I remember correctly. I believe it was on the Pont-Neuf?”

  “So long as you are willing to uphold your pledge to leave yo
ur evening clothes behind.”

  “Cécile is right,” I said, laughing. “She has always told me that you are a man of great possibility.”

  “Perhaps I should propose to her,” he replied, raising his eyebrows.

  “She undoubtedly would accept you.” I rested my hand on his cheek. “I, however, have no intention of marrying again.” He did not take his eyes from mine, even as they exposed the pain my statement caused him. I paused. “But, faced with such a suitor, I am willing to allow for the possibility.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I am giving you permission to court me, Mr. Hargreaves,” I replied, placing my fingers lightly on his lips. “But I can offer you no promises.” He pulled me close and kissed me passionately, apparently satisfied with my response.

  “Perhaps just one promise?” he asked, brushing my hair from my eyes.

  “What?”

  “Promise that you will not be too hard on me. I’ve no goddesses lining up to help me convince you.”

  “No promises, Colin,” I said, and kissed him very sweetly before returning to my bed.

  THE HISTORY

  BEHIND

  THE STORY

  ON WRITING And Only to Deceive

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

  If you are once sure what you do want, you find that everything else goes down before it like grass under a roller—(all other interests, your own and other people’s.

  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.