"Their leaves seem to shimmer in the sun. Will you go back to Greece soon?"
"I drank from the Castalia Spring to ensure it."
"Ah, yes. Many poets have been inspired by those same waters."
"I had no idea you were so well informed about Greece," I said.
"I'm not, really. All I know is what anyone could pick up from Baedeker's."
"Where else have you visited?"
"All of the standard places in Europe, of course, as well as Egypt and India."
"And what is your favorite?"
"St. Petersburg in the summer, when the sun never sets." She rose from the bench. "I see, Lady Ashton, that I have succeeded in cheering you up."
"You have. I'm most grateful."
"And I owe you thanks, too. I must confess to having wondered if there was...something...between you and Mr. Berry."
"Let me assure you, Lady Elinor, that you will never have cause to worry on that front."
"Please do not think less of me for having mentioned it."
"Of course I don't."
"And know that you have a staunch supporter in me. I'm aware that you are suffering at the hands of gossips, and shall do all I can to counter their vicious stories. You won't be left off any guest list of mine."
Although Lady Elinor had succeeded in improving my mood, I had to admit that this latest quarrel with my mother left me deeply unsettled. To distract myself, instead of returning home, I headed towards the library at the British Museum, hoping to begin researching the letters of Marie Antoinette's confidant, Léonard. When I asked for assistance at the desk, I could not help remembering my first visit to the museum after my husband's death. On that occasion, the staff had responded to me immediately because of the generous donations Philip had made to the Greco-Roman collection. Now, however, I had a reputation of my own, not only because of my donations to the museum, but also because of my efforts to encourage others to return important pieces to scholarly institutions.
"We are delighted to see you, Lady Ashton," a short, ruddy-faced clerk said, snapping to attention the moment he saw me. "Is there anyone in particular with whom you would like to speak?" I briefly described for him the letters in which I was interested. His red cheeks took on an even darker color. "Then I am most pleased to offer my services. I specialize in eighteenth-century manuscripts."
"Do you know anything about Léonard's letters?"
"Only that they exist. If I recall..." He came out from behind the desk and motioned for me to follow him. "I read a story recently about someone looking for them." He led me through a maze of desks, each one piled with research material. A variety of gentlemen huddled over them, almost none glancing up as we passed. My guide stopped at a desk at the far end of the Reading Room and began to rummage through a stack of books heaped in a haphazard fashion.
"Is this your desk, Mr.—"
"Right. Most sorry. Adam Wainwright. This is my desk. I'm afraid I'm a tad disorganized. Ha! Here it is." He opened a thick notebook, hardly having to page through it before finding the passage he sought. "Yes...yes..."
I did my best to try to read over his shoulder, but the angle was such that all I accomplished was to strain my neck. "What does it say?" I asked.
"Léonard's letters were never located. I do wish I could be of more help."
"These are your own notes?" I asked, indicating the notebook.
"Yes. I'm working on a book about the fall of the House of Bourbon."
"And do you find that Marie Antoinette deserves her reputation?"
"She was naïve, undoubtedly, and perhaps not of more than average intelligence, but she was not cruel. She adored her children, and was, in the end, an extremely pious woman."
"I imagine a looming guillotine would make most of us keenly religious."
Mr. Wainwright grinned. "Quite right, madam. It was the queen's confessor, Father Garrard, who preserved the letters she received from Léonard. Had he not, her jailors almost certainly would have destroyed them after her execution." He dabbed a rather too gray handkerchief across his brow. "I am certain Léonard kept those she sent to him but have never been able to determine what became of them after his death."
I would have liked to tell him that the letters were at this moment in my own library but worried that admitting I had them might somehow bring danger to my household. I would, however, make a point of letting him read them once I'd solved all the puzzles before me. "Have you tried to find Léonard's letters?" I asked.
"Not really," he said. "When things like that disappear into private collections, they are often lost entirely to scholars. If one knows who possesses them, there's at least hope that the owner will allow them to be studied. But, often, it's impossible to figure out who owns what."
"This is precisely why I have been trying to convince collectors to donate significant pieces to the museum."
"Yes, I have heard about your efforts." He pulled a face. "It's unfortunate that it is so difficult to persuade your peers to part with their treasures."
"I know it all too well. I wonder if it would be feasible to at least catalog what people have tucked away in their homes."
"A daunting prospect, Lady Ashton. Have you any idea how long it would take to do that at just one aristocratic estate?" I thought about my husband's collection at Ashton Hall, the magnificent Derbyshire estate of the Viscounts Ashton. He had, in fact, kept his pieces cataloged, but I knew that was not common practice. "And aside from things that are displayed in houses, there are untold treasures, historical documents in particular, packed away in attics. To catalog those would be nearly impossible."
"You're undoubtedly correct."
"If you'd like, you may borrow my copy of Léonard's memoir. I don't know that it will be of much help." He handed a book to me. I thanked him and left the library, my thoughts scattering in more directions than I cared to count. I had an idea of how to begin my search for the letters but wondered if they really would provide any insight into the murders in Richmond. I thought of Jane in prison. I thought of Mrs. Francis, and I felt more than slightly guilty that a good portion of my brain was occupied with thoughts of how I might begin to catalog the treasures of England's country houses.
For the moment, the catalog would have to wait. I remembered the list I had found in Mr. Berry's room. He had known where to find Marie Antoinette's letters, something that, according to Mr. Wainwright, was not common knowledge. And our intrepid thief certainly had no difficulty figuring out who owned objects that had belonged to the French queen. If both of them could acquire this knowledge, certainly it was not beyond my reach.
Not feeling much like having another encounter with Mr. Berry, I decided to focus on the thief. That his identity remained a mystery did not deter me in the least. I would do what any lady would when trying to contact an unknown gentleman; I marched directly to the offices of the Times and placed an ad in the classifieds section. Tomorrow, buried in with pleas that the lady in the pink dress near the Achilles statue and that the gentleman who so kindly bestowed upon me a rose at so — and — so's ball would come forward and identify themselves, my own request would appear:
To the gentleman who delivered the two pinks: You may find me in front of the Rosett a Stone at two o'clock Thursday.
Pleased with myself, I returned to Berkeley Square. I hardly realized how exhausted I was until I'd dropped into the most comfortable chair in my library, where Cécile woke me three quarters of an hour later.
"Beatrice has just arrived."
Still groggy, I dragged myself to my feet, and Cécile took my arm. "I am worried about her, Kallista. She is extremely upset."