No longer could he afford his favorite suite at the Hotel Imperial, so he rented rooms in a quiet part of town. He took to frequenting a café not far from his digs, and spent most evenings there, delighting in political and philosophical conversation with the other regulars. None of them knew him from his past life, but they all accepted him as one of their own after he gave a particularly passionate defense of Nietzsche’s work. In the span of a few weeks, he had created another new world for himself, one in which no one judged him based on title or income. One quiet night early in the winter, an elegant lady, the picture of perfect sophistication, called out to him, her voice husky and rich.
“Can it be the Viscount Ashton?” She stared openly at him, her bright eyes dancing. “You must know just how shocked I am to see you. You look remarkably well for a dead man.”
“Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting—”
“You cannot claim surprise to learn I spend far too much time in this neighborhood,” she said. “It is a favorite haunt of Hargreaves’s, although he has always preferred Café Griensteidl to this place, despite the fact that his rooms are so nearby. I am certain you know that almost as well as I, but for rather different reasons. Sit with me, Ashton. I am a countess now—I have married since you last saw me—so we are both titled. Perhaps now we are equals you will call me Kristiana, despite the fact you never would before. I always wondered if that was because we did not know each other well enough or because you did not approve of my relationship with our mutual friend. Why are you in Vienna? He is already gone, you know.”
“It is a long and convoluted story. I was in Africa longer than anyone knew,” he said, sitting across from her and motioning for the waiter to bring him a coffee.
“I would imagine so, as everyone believes you are dead.”
“I am surprised the news traveled all this way.”
“It caused quite a sensation at the time. Hargreaves was devastated.” Her tone suggested to Philip that she and his friend had fallen out since then.
“Do you still see him?” he asked. He prayed she would not notice the hope in his voice; it was beneath him. He ought not wish such a thing on Kallista.
“Only when my work necessitates it,” she said. The waiter returned with fresh coffee for them both. She stirred hers despite putting neither sugar nor cream in it. “Mein schatz has, shall we say, moved on.”
“To my wife.”
“Yes.” The countess licked the spoon before returning it to her saucer. “Wicked man. They are to be married, you know.”
This hit Philip like the blow of a hammer on an anvil. “Married?”
“Don’t look so crushed.” She folded the newspaper she had been reading and set it to the side. “It wounded me as well, and I wasn’t supposed to be dead. Which returns me to a subject about which I am most curious. Why did you disappear? I never suspected you had the constitution to follow Hargreaves’s path of employment, yet—”
“She cannot marry him.” His chest clenched, first with panic and then with growing anger.
The countess leaned away and draped her arm over the back of her chair. The posture ought to have looked strained, but instead her insouciance lent an air of permanent and sophisticated elegance to her every gesture. “Why shouldn’t she? You haven’t gone back to her. Are you forbidden to let her know you are alive?”
“Forbidden? No, of course not. I intended to let her know, but then I saw Hargreaves kiss her. Can you imagine how that felt? She did not mourn me.”
The countess laughed. “I know we were never close, but I had not taken you to be so sentimental. Whatever did you expect her to do? Mimic your tedious queen and keep to her widow’s weeds forever?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I only—” He closed his eyes. “One would like to think it not quite so easy to get on with one’s life after such a tragedy.”
“I understand her mourning to have been rather unconventional, if you must know, but I assure you she did grieve.” She shook her head and shrugged. “You must not want her back. If you did, you would have made your presence known at once, regardless of what you had seen. One would expect someone in your situation to have been catalyzed to intervene by the incident. The fact you did not tells me you are not sure you still want her.”
“You could not be more wrong, Countess. I adore her.”
“I insist you call me Kristiana,” she said, leaning forward and placing her hand on top of his on the table. “I cannot tolerate formality from the dead. So you adore her. Did you follow her to Vienna? She has been here with him, you know.”
“I did not know that,” he said. “My work brought me here, not my wife.”
“Your work?” Her lips curled into a wry smile. “How curious. Do tell me—what is your profession?”
“I am employed in an antiquities shop during the winter. For the rest of the year I pursue archaeology.”
“An odd cover, but I know better than to ask questions,” she said. “I presume you are no longer using the name Ashton.”
“No. I have become Philip Chapman,” he said.
Her eyebrows raised. “Suffice it to say I am aghast to learn you, Hargreaves, and I are in the same business. I always pegged you as an overeager dilettante.”
He did not correct her error. “I am aghast as well. I would never have thought so refined a lady would engage in that line of work. He never told me, but you have given yourself away.”
“Surely you suspected.” She fluttered her eyelashes like an ingénue. “I always thought that was why you disapproved of me.”
“I do not disapprove of you,” he said. “So they were both here, in Vienna?”
“They did not leave together, but neither is in the city now. You only just missed them.”
“I would not have wanted to see the spectacle,” Philip said, frowning.
“You would not have enjoyed it any more than I did,” she said. “He loves her, more than he loved me, and from what I know, more than you loved her.”
“You cannot know that.”
“They are happy together,” she said. “It revolts me, if you must know, but it would be unwise to try to separate them. We are both aware of how painful it is to lose love. Do you want her to know that feeling so well as we do?”
“He never did deserve you,” Philip said.
“You do yourself no credit, schatz.”
“Don’t call me what you called him. Terms of endearment ought not be transferable.”
“Why not?” she asked, eyeing him closely. “You are more handsome than I remember. Perhaps the time in the wilds of Africa suited you.”
“Where is your husband?”
“Berlin. You should come home with me.”
“I cannot do that, Countess. I love her too much, and you are seeking to fill a hole in your heart that I will never fit.”
She laughed. “You Englishmen do so like to be right, and here you are, succeeding at it extremely well. It is surprisingly good to speak with you. There are very few people who understand the delicacy of my situation when it comes to Hargreaves. You are the only of his friends he ever deigned to allow me to meet.”
They sat for nearly an hour, dissecting their wounded hearts with the candor that develops easily between near-strangers who know they are unlikely to see each other again. Anyone watching would have thought them conspirators, the way they leaned together, speaking in hushed tones, but it was pain, not a mutual cause, that brought them together.
“I wish you would come home with me,” Kristiana said. They were the only two left in the café, and Philip suspected the waiter would be pleased to see them go.
“You know I must not do that,” he said. “I thank you, not only for the invitation, but also for your sage advice. I cannot bring myself to hurt her. If she loves Hargreaves, I shall not stand in the way of her happiness.”
“I don’t see that you have a choice—if she is still married to you, she cannot marry him.”
“Which is why, my
dear lady, I am now Philip Chapman, who works in a very fine antiquities shop near St. Stephen’s. You should call in, but be sure to use my new name. I shall only be in Vienna a few more months, then I’m off to Turkey in seek of more ancient relics.”
“Ah, yes, archaeology.” Her eyebrows lifted. “Fascinating. I should very much like us to meet again, but it is unlikely to occur. My own work has grown increasingly dangerous of late, and I fear this may be my final mission. I love Austria more than my own life, and will do anything to stop those who would attack her.”
“Surely your work does not threaten your personal safety?”
She laughed and leaned forward over the table, her eyes flashing. “You play naïve quite well. I would not have thought you had it in you. There is no need for it with me. We may be embroiled in the espionage game, but I assure you we are playing for the same side.”
“I will not allow you to distract me from my question. Is your life at risk?”
“There are abstract ways in which it always has been, but my current assignment has placed me more directly in the line of fire.”
“Then it is too dangerous to attempt,” he said.
“No, it is the most important of my career,” she said. “I could not turn it down. Something you should understand well, as you appear to be engaged in a similar sort of subterfuge. Professional hazard, isn’t it? I shall come out of it unscathed and then I shall stop. There comes a time when danger starts to lose its appeal.”
“It felt different when you and Hargreaves were working together, didn’t it?”
“More than you can imagine,” she said. She rose to her feet and pulled around her the fur wrap she had draped across an empty chair. She held her hand out for him to kiss. “I already regret that I shall not see you again. When at last you do confront our friend, please tell him how disappointed I am to find him adopting such a bourgeois life. I expected better from him. And in your own work, I wish you good luck, Herr Chapman. I hope you never become as jaded as I.”
7
Philip—I knew not what else to call him—looked dreadful when Colin and I returned to him and the others in the music room. His complexion had taken on a gray hue, and his eyes, sunken and dull, all but disappeared into his face. Herr Reiner had shared his news about the destruction of the tent, and while the gentlemen discussed it, Margaret, with what I am convinced was a deliberate desire to provoke, sat at the piano playing Mahler’s Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen and singing the composer’s mournful lyrics bemoaning the loss of love. In the midst of this performance, Professor Hiller von Gaertringen called to collect Herr Bohn’s body. Colin shook the archaeologist’s hand and complimented him.
“I have read several of your excavation reports,” Colin said. “Your work is most impressive. I do hope you will be able to further explore more of Santorini, and perhaps dig under the ash at Akrotiri.” The eruption in the seventeenth century B.C. that had savaged the island buried the town of Akrotiri. Hiller von Gaertringen had ordered some of his men to do a preliminary dig there, and they had uncovered at least one house, but I imagine he could not spare the resources to excavate two sites simultaneously with the attention each deserved.
“Thank you,” he said with a little bow. “I hope to as well, perhaps when I am through at Thera, but there is much to be done elsewhere, too, and I am already called to other sites. We shall see. I apologize again for the disturbance and thank you for taking in my men when they were in such dire need of assistance.”
“Think nothing of it,” Colin said. “I am only sorry more could not be done for Mr. Bohn. Please accept my condolences.”
The German nodded brusquely, but I could see the emotion in his face and red-rimmed eyes. “I should take him now.” He excused himself, gave Philip and Herr Reiner encouraging little slaps on the shoulders, and the three of them left to tend to their friend’s body.
“I am aghast,” Margaret said, abandoning the piano and flopping onto a settee. “How awful that poor Philip is left with a demolished tent after dealing with the death of his colleague.”
“You have adopted the use of his Christian name? You must be feeling a tad more sympathy than earlier, although I would not have guessed that based on your choice of music,” I said. “What caused the change?”
“He doesn’t seem to want anything. I spoke most frankly with him while you and your charming husband disappeared. He plans to return to camp today, and they will go back to work tomorrow.”
“So you now believe him to be Philip?” I asked.
She shrugged and nodded toward Colin. “You and Adonis seem to, so who am I to argue? I’m the only one who has never before met him.”
I did not respond, still uncertain as to how I felt. “Can his returning to the site so soon be a good idea? He has just lost a friend.”
“Getting back to work will help,” Colin said. “Wallowing will not, and we must take action as well. I shall go to Fira and wire our solicitor about the legal aspects of the situation. Knowledge is preferable to speculation. I want to know precisely where we stand.” I heard him go back upstairs after he left us, presumably to bid the archaeologists farewell and to see if they required any assistance with Herr Bohn’s body. Soon they had all left the house.
“Greece, Em, is nothing like you promised,” Jeremy said, rising from his seat and crossing to the small window. He opened the shutters. “I cannot fault the view, though. Margaret tells me this island may have inspired the legend of Atlantis.”
“She is correct,” I said. “Santorini is shaped like a crescent, but if you were to draw curved lines from its tips to the volcano and the islets near it, you get a sense of its appearance before the eruption.”
Margaret joined him at the window, squinting. “It would have been circular.”
“Yes. Plato wrote that the island sank into the sea,” I said. “Imagine what might be in the depths of that water.” I looked over Margaret’s shoulder and gazed at the sapphire blue sea.
“You cannot claim the trip has been anything but diverting,” Margaret said, turning to Jeremy.
He tilted his head back and forth, as if giving the matter serious consideration. “I have not thought about Amity for at least forty-five minutes.”
“Progress,” I said.
“And I look forward to the conclusion of the Greek tragedy currently unfolding before us.”
“I am delighted to provide you with such amusement,” I said.
Philip stepped into the room, leaving me no opportunity to scold Jeremy. “Apologies if I startled you,” he said. “Herr Bohn is in good hands for his journey, so I wanted to pop back and invite you all to the dig. Perhaps a picnic and a tour, the day after next?”
“I thought you would never ask,” Margaret said. I shot her a quizzical look that she pointedly ignored. “Thank you, Lord Ashton, I accept on behalf of all of us.”
“Hargreaves already agreed,” he said. “Kallista…” His lips caressed the word, making me feel distinctly uncomfortable. “Would it be too much to ask to speak with you privately? Outside, if we might?” I nodded and he stepped aside to let me leave the room ahead of him. He touched my arm softly to stop me as I turned toward the front door. “The roof terrace, if you don’t object. I have long dreamed of standing there with you.”
“Whatever you prefer,” I said, mounting the stairs, my heart pounding. The sun would not set for another several hours, but already it hung low enough in the sky to have changed the appearance of the light caressing the island, its strong rays piercing the handful of clouds that dotted the sky above the volcano.
“You approve of the view?” he asked. I had taken a position an awkward five or six feet away from him at the low wall that served as a railing around the perimeter of the roof.
“No one could object to it.”
“I know I shall never be able to adequately apologize to you, Kallista.” He stepped closer to me, and I felt my body freeze. “Please, do not cringe. I have not brought you here to
make any inappropriate advances or to implore you to return to me as my wife. I realize far too much time has passed to ask that of you. Waiting so long to come forward was an error in judgment on my part, but I swear I did it only because I could see that you truly love Hargreaves.”
“Sir, I do not know what to say to you.”
“Are we not allowed to reminisce at all?” he asked. “Do you care nothing for the time we had together, brief though it was?”
“Of course not,” I said. “I grieved for you.” I bit my lip.
“But not at first.”
I met his eyes. “How did you know?”
“A reasonable guess, isn’t it? I took you on a shorter than ordinary wedding trip and then rushed off on safari almost the moment we returned to England. That can hardly have endeared me to you.”
“It did not trouble me at the time. I understood how important the hunt was to you.” I would have been ashamed to admit to him that I had not known him well enough to have missed him when he left me. Quite the contrary, I had found myself relieved to have the house to myself.
“Yet you deplore hunting,” he said.
I looked down, scrutinizing the bright rug I had placed over the rough pumice surface of the roof. “Yes.”
“But you never told me.”
“I did not think my opinion on the matter particularly important.”
“What did make you finally grieve for me?” He moved closer, and now stood only a few feet from me.
“Your journal,” I said. “I fell in love with the man I found on its pages, and then regretted so very much I had not known you better when you were alive. I mean—when—”
A Terrible Beauty Page 8
