A Terrible Beauty

by Tasha Alexander

  Colin narrowed his eyes. “I do not remember recounting that story to anyone.”

  “I would not expect you to,” Philip said. “You told me on the evening she rejected your proposal of marriage. We had consumed rather a great deal of whisky.”

  My heart thudded against my chest. I could not speak and did my best to appear more composed than I felt.

  “Are we quite finished here?” Margaret asked. “I see no point in further discussing any of this. We should all go to bed or retire to read or write letters or something. It has been a dreadful day.”

  “I quite agree, Margaret,” Jeremy said. “Em, will you walk me downstairs? I find myself suddenly fatigued.”

  “I appreciate what you both are trying to do, but assure you it is unnecessary. I am not so fragile that hearing this makes me want to run off to bed,” I said, pulling myself up tall and finding my voice. “Colin, I may not have known every particular detail of your relationship with the countess, but I did know you proposed and that she refused you. Am I shocked you were upset after that and turned to your friend for whisky and gentlemanly consolation? Hardly. Am I surprised you once brought her torte in the middle of the night? It sounds like just the sort of thing you would do for someone you love.” I swallowed hard.

  “This ought not have been discussed in such a setting,” Colin said, looking at our friends.

  “No, it ought not,” I said. “And the subject shall not be mentioned in such a way again.”

  “We cannot stand by and pretend this theft did not happen,” Colin said.

  “Of course we can,” Fritz said. “And if you insist on notifying the authorities, I will swear to them it was I who took the bronze.”

  “I will not let you do that,” Philip said. “I—”

  “It is a ridiculous, if noble, threat,” I said, “but one that would collapse under even the slightest scrutiny. Colin, if Philip goes to jail, is it possible Demir could harm him there?”

  “Yes,” Colin said, glowering at Philip. I had never before seen him so agitated.

  “Then we must find a way to prevent that,” I said. “What if I make overtures to these shadowy figures of the black market? I could let it be known I have an object I have acquired by dubious means and have decided to sell. When word spreads that it is the very bronze Demir has been harassing Philip for—”

  “He will still attack him, believing he sold it to you,” Colin said. “I am afraid there is no easy way to avoid the consequences of this particular action. I shall go to Fira and telegram the museum in Athens to ask how they would like us to proceed.” He kissed me before he went downstairs, but instead of a quick peck, he pulled me close to him, one arm around my waist, his other hand resting on my cheek, and he took his time about it. Although I admit to being rather too distracted to be certain, I thought I heard Margaret whoop. Much though I enjoyed the forceful nature of the kiss, I knew it to be the primal display of a man marking his territory and could not entirely approve of the action. Which is not to say I entirely disapproved of it, either.

  When he had gone, Philip asked me to come with him to the back of the terrace, away from my friends, so that we might talk without them hearing. Once we were alone, he said, “I owe you my deepest apologies, Kallista. It was wrong of me to speak the way I did, but my name is all I have, even if the greater world does not know it. Hargreaves’s change of heart and rejection stings, but that does not excuse my behaving in a most ungentlemanly manner. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “It is of no consequence,” I said.

  “You still believe me, don’t you?” he asked, his pale blue eyes radiating earnestness.

  “I—”

  He took my hand. “I remember so vividly the night I fell in love with you. It was in Lady Elliott’s ballroom—a dreadful night, really, until I saw you. You were wearing a gown of the palest shell pink, all ruffles and flounces and lace, and your cheeks flushed the identical shade, not from a feeling of embarrassment or modesty, but from the heat of dancing. You sat out not a single tune, but I noticed how carefully you chose your partners. You spurned several extremely eligible gentlemen, clearly having no interest in title or fortune, and instead danced with younger sons and elderly fathers.”

  “I had not gone to the ball in search of a husband,” I said, pulling my hand away. “I only wanted to dance.”

  “That may be, but your behavior suggested to me you required more from your life than a title and a comfortable allowance, and the moment I realized that, I started to hope you might consider me as the gentleman who could give you something better. I loved you wholly from that moment on.”

  I pressed my lips together. I hardly remembered the night of which he spoke. It had made almost no impression on me at the time, but his words echoed almost perfectly another description I had heard of the evening, from Colin, nearly ten years ago, when he had agreed to help organize for me the details of a trip to Paris. We were in the library at Berkeley Square, and I had commented that he and Philip must have spent many pleasant hours there. He assured me they had, and explained it was in the library that Philip had told him he had fallen in love with me. His words were kindly intended, meant to give a young widow consolation, but instead they stunned me. It was the first time I had heard anything that led me to believe Philip had genuinely cared for me. Until that moment, I had assumed he wanted nothing more than a standard society match.

  “I am afraid I do not remember the evening so well as you,” I said.

  “You cannot have forgot the dress, though?” He smiled conspiratorially and raised an eyebrow.

  “That I may remember,” I said, feeling myself begin to blush.

  “You were but a girl then,” he said, “and the woman you have grown into is nothing short of amazing. When I imagine what we might have had—exploring the world together, our mutual love of Ancient Greece acting as our compass—”

  “I only began to study Greece after reading your journal,” I said. “Had you not disappeared in Africa, I might never have come to be so devoted to ancient history.”

  “You would have,” he said, reaching his hand up as if he meant to touch my face but pulling it back before he could do so. “Your ardor for the subject always lurked within you and eventually would have come out. I know you have translated both The Iliad and The Odyssey. I should very much like to read your versions.”

  “We should not discuss these things.”

  “I know it is wrong, but I cannot stop. I do not want to.” He stepped closer to me. “You are dear to me, and I shall always hold a special place in my heart for you.”

  I fidgeted, finding his proximity discomforting. As if he could read my thoughts, he retreated, just a bit, and spoke in a less intimate, clipped tone. “Again, I apologize for any pain I have caused.” He took my hand again and pressed it to his lips. “You do believe me, don’t you? You recognized me. I could see it in your eyes the moment I stepped out of the villa.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I did recognize you.” I began to feel the way I had that first day we arrived on the island, when I stood on the terrace speaking to him in private: confused, and yet, somehow, calm and happy.

  “I hope you know that whatever happens, I shall always be a friend to you, Kallista. Anything you need, I shall endeavor to provide, even if it is nothing more than the opportunity to discuss Homer with someone who shares your passion for it.”

  “Yes, but you prefer Achilles to Hector, a position I find intolerable.”

  He laughed. “Only because you are caught up in the notion that man’s best is enough, when Achilles’ semi-divinity enables him to—”

  A loud clattering on the stairs interrupted him.

  “Lady Kallista!” Adelphos called as he rushed over to me, grabbing both of my arms. “I have found the man you seek. I have him. He is in the barn. I tied him up there. You will come right away?”

  Philip

  Santorini, 1896

  Before the start of his first season at T
hera, as he wintered in Athens, Philip had considered again changing his name, as it might make it more difficult for Demir to find him. Reiner had suggested the scheme, assuring him that Hiller von Gaertringen would hire him on Reiner’s recommendation, even if he could not, with this new name, claim any prior experience. Philip saw the wisdom of the idea, and very nearly agreed to it, but in the end decided he had already lost too much. He had worked hard to hammer out his new existence, and he was proud of the work he had done in Magnesia, Troy, and Ephesus. He would remain Philip Chapman.

  He reached this conclusion only after giving full thought to the implications, not wanting to foolishly make it easy for Demir to continue harassing him. He kept his name, but that did not stop him from engaging in a certain amount of subterfuge specially designed to throw Demir off the track. He informed his archaeological colleagues he planned to spend the next season in northern Africa exploring Roman ruins before agreeing to join another excavation. He wanted to see Petra and Leptis Magna and, he had to admit—leaning close to gain their confidence—he felt a certain pull toward Egypt. He had never believed he would give even the barest consideration to abandoning the Greco-Roman world, but owned that a trip through the land of the pharaohs might prove a temptation too great to resist.

  When the time came to depart for the season, he did not go directly from Piraeus to Santorini. Instead, he took a boat to Alexandria and played tourist in Egypt for a fortnight, waiting there until he felt certain no one was following him. He then sailed to Tripoli, where thence, at last, he boarded a ship that would call at a number of ports, one of them Oia on Santorini.

  As a result, he was late getting to the dig, but he had told Herr Professor Hiller von Gaertringen to expect this—pleading vague family commitments—and his new employer had not objected. The site was small enough that the professor, along with Reiner and Gerhard Bohn, would be able to manage adequately without him for a few weeks.

  Once he arrived on Santorini, Philip wondered how he would ever bear leaving the island. He had taken fewer than twelve steps into the picturesque village of Oia, with its blue cupolas and curving white arches, before he came to what he realized should have been an obvious conclusion: No place on earth could compare to Santorini, with its bright skies and arid landscape. He loved the hot, dry summers, with their infrequent sudden and unexpected bursts of rain. When he reached the site of the German excavations, he stood atop Mesa Vouno, surrounded by ancient ruins, to watch the sunset over the caldera, and repeated this ritual every night, finding he took more delight in digging at Thera than he had even at Troy. He would always remember his first season on Santorini as something almost magical.

  Although he primarily credited the beauty of the island for this, the fact that his scheme had worked so far played no small part in his newfound contentment. He saw no sign of Demir or anyone connected to him. When the season ended, and the archaeologists packed up, Philip decided not to return to Athens for the winter, instead buying—for an obscenely cheap sum—a small house outside Mesa Gonia, a village in the foothills of the mountains, famous for its wine. He loved walking through the barren vineyards in the winter, amused that this habit led his new neighbors to believe he was not entirely sound of mind. This did not stop them from inviting him to dine and welcoming them into the fold, and before the first signs of spring, he had adapted so well to island life it was as if he had never lived anywhere else.

  The satisfaction he felt was very nearly complete. All he needed now was to find a way to draw Kallista to him. He had been patient long enough. The time had come for him to get what he truly wanted.

  19

  Adelphos was speaking so quickly I was not certain I understood his accented—though very good—English. “Σταματα τωρα!” I shouted at him—“Stop now!”—unconvinced I was using the imperative correctly. I would have done better in Ancient Greek. Fortunately, the rising register and tone of my voice had the desired effect regardless of my grammar, and Adelphos, who was still gripping my arms, snapped his mouth shut and stood, quiet.

  “Tell us again, more slowly,” I said.

  “There is no time for slow,” he said, immediately becoming once again agitated. “The man you seek, I have him. He is in the barn.”

  “What man?” I asked. “The drawing I gave you is of the man recovering downstairs—”

  “Yes, yes, Lady Kallista, but I have found the man who sent him to the ruins.”

  “You have?” I had not dared hoped he would accomplish so much. Perhaps I had employed a certain genius in comparing him to the ancient heroes.

  “Take us to him at once, my good man,” Philip said.

  “Margaret, you come with me,” I said. “The rest of you stay here. I do not want to overwhelm him.”

  Philip scowled. “If you think we shall stand by and let two unaccompanied ladies—”

  I interrupted him. “Adelphos is more than capable of looking after us.” That settled the matter—as Philip was evidently coming around to the idea that it is best not to stand in my way—and Margaret and I followed Adelphos downstairs, pausing in the kitchen so he could tell us how he came to find his quarry. He explained that no one he queried knew the identity of the man in my drawing, but that a man who worked in the port at Oia admitted to having seen him arrive with a second stranger on a small fishing vessel two days before we spotted him at Thera. He could not speak as to the man’s name or where he was from, and, unfortunately, the fishing boat that brought him to the island came from Cyprus, and had long since departed. He did not know the captain of the vessel. He did, however, point Adelphos to the boy who had guided the boat’s passengers on donkeys from the pier to the village.

  Adelphos convinced the boy—with a bribe for which I promised to reimburse him—to tell him the men’s destination: a ramshackle house on the outskirts of Oia, a place long thought to be abandoned.

  “And haunted,” Adelphos added. “It is well known to be haunted, but this did not daunt me. I went there without delay, ready to face whatever dangers my foe could hurl at me.”

  I could almost picture him, bronze helmet covering his dark curls, sword in one hand, shield in the other. If only it were a different century!

  “I watched from afar for a while, but there was no one in the vicinity, unless there was someone in the house.”

  “And was there someone in the house?” Margaret asked.

  “Of course. How else do you think I caught the man?” His face was flushed pleasantly from exertion; he almost glowed.

  “I had rather hoped you pursued him to an ancient cave,” Margaret said, her voice taking on a dreamy quality. I knew she had formed as strong an image of Adelphos as ancient hero as I.

  “Cave? No.” He shook his head, confused. “I did not go straightaway to the house and knock on the door, as I know this man to be bad because he sent someone to hurt Lord Ashton, so instead I approach the building from the rear, and I look through windows until I see him.”

  “And then you charged him?” I asked. “Startling him into paralysis with a battle cry worthy of—”

  “Achilles,” Margaret finished. “I realize you object on principle, Emily, but it is the most fitting image. Adelphos is Greek. You cannot make him Hector.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of Theseus slaying the Minotaur, if you must know,” I said.

  “My ladies, please.” Adelphos grinned, enjoying our conversation. “It was not so difficult. He was sleeping. I climbed through the window and bound him with the rope I had brought with me. Just in case, you see.”

  “He must have woken up?” I asked.

  “Yes, and he was most displeased, but I had no trouble keeping him under control. I am a strong man, Lady Kallista. You maybe should think of Heracles.” He grinned again and motioned for us to follow him to the barn. There could be no doubt he was enjoying this immensely.

  Once inside, I held up a lamp to illuminate the face of our prisoner, but saw only a dusty heap in the straw.
Adelphos grunted at it. “If you want water you will sit up. And I know you want water.”

  The heap started to move, squirming in a most inelegant attempt to do as Adelphos suggested. Adelphos grunted again and as he tugged at it, its robes fell away, revealing the man’s face, the lips pulled to reveal a particularly unattractive set of brown, jagged teeth. Margaret and I turned to each other, immediately recognizing him as the burlier of the men we had spied on at Nea Kameni.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “You may call me Savas.” He spat the words.

  “I do not have much Turkish,” I said, crossing my arms and sitting on a convenient barrel, “but I know that word means ‘war.’ I do not suppose it is your real name, but that is of no consequence. I shall call you whatever you like.”

  “You are clever so I shall tell you. I am Batur.”

  “Thank you. What brings you to Santorini?”

  “The view.”

  I laughed, softly. “I like you, Batur. Adelphos, give him some water.” The Turk drank greedily when Adelphos lifted a cup to his mouth. “I am dealing with a great difficulty. Your … colleague, let us say, menaced a friend of mine at Ancient Thera some days back and was injured. As a caring woman, I of course wish to notify his family, as his condition is bleak.”

  “I am aware of his condition. You think I did not track him to this house when he did not return as arranged?”

  “So you skulked around and eavesdropped and decided he was too ill to be worth further bother?” I asked. “Or rather, too ill to wake up and cause you any difficulties?”

  “He could not cause me any difficulties even if he does wake up. He knows nothing.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said. “You come to the matter at hand. You, Batur, do know something, and you are going to tell it all to me.”

  Now he laughed. “You are amusing. You think you come here, talk sweetly to me, give me water, and I will betray my master? You are naïve.”