"Does this help Jane?"
"It may," I said. "I'm not sure."
"I cannot bear this, Emily. The poor girl is rotting in prison — "
"Please do not upset yourself. I need your help. Think carefully: Did your husband's manner or mood change at all in the days before his death?"
"No, not that I can remember."
"Did he ever seem withdrawn?"
"David was the most constant man I ever met."
"A perfect husband?"
"As near as one could be."
"Was there never any strife in your marriage?"
"Not really. We argued on occasion, as everyone does."
I thought of my own brief marriage. Philip and I had never argued. We hadn't known each other well enough. "About anything in particular?"
"I sometimes complained that we did not go out much in society, but there is no use in trying to change a husband. I knew when I married David that he preferred a quiet life."
"But he did go out, didn't he? With Mr. Barber? And to his club?"
"Yes, of course. That's very different from going about in society, though. He went to a political meeting every Sunday at his club. I can't think that he ever missed one."
"What sort of politics?"
"Oh, I haven't the slightest idea. He never told me details, but there was an energy about him when he returned. I can't quite describe it."
"And they always met on Sundays?"
"Yes." She laughed. "It was a concession to the wives. When they first started, they met three nights a week. Can you imagine? The wives complained, and eventually they were persuaded that happiness at home required them to curb their enthusiasm for politics."
"Did you complain?"
"Actually, I didn't. I could see that the meetings did him good. He felt useful. And, at the time, I was rather glad to be by myself."
"Why is that?"
"It was a difficult period for me, Emily. David and I had been married for more than seven years, and not once was I with child. It was hard to accept that I would never be a mother."
"I'm sorry."
"There's no need to apologize. I came to terms with it years ago."
"How did Mr. Francis react?"
"He handled it with grace and understanding. Never complained, never made me feel my failure."
"Perhaps it wasn't your failure at all. It could have been his."
"No, Emily, it was mine. I'm sure of that."
Davis could not hide his pleasure as he handed me the mail that afternoon, and when I sorted through my letters, I knew why. "Have we both had letters from France today, Davis?" I asked. "Is Odette glad to be home? Or does she long for England?"
"I'm sure I wouldn't know, madam; she wrote only to inform me of her safe arrival in Paris."
"Hmmmm." His cheeks took on a slight color as he bowed quickly and left the room. I tore open my letter from Cécile.
Ma chère Kallista,
There is no joy more complete than that felt when returning to Paris. London has its diversions, but nothing could compare to the beauty of my own city. Monet and Renoir have both inquired after you; Monet has finished the paintings for the villa, and is shipping them to Madame Katevatis, where she will have them ready for your arrival on Santorini in the fall.
There is sadly little to report to Monsieur Hargreaves, but tell him not to despair. I have made the acquaintance of Monsieur Garnier. He will not be a stranger to me for long. Already I have captured his attention — he is an oddly attractive man — I know I shall enjoy working on him.
How is Davis? I am being subjected to unbearable waves of melodrama here, Odette mooning about and singing mournful arias from Italian operas. Beware, Kallista, I may be forced to steal your butler, as I can tolerate lovesickness for only so long.
I smiled as I read this, and then looked through the rest of my mail. The next envelope I opened contained a note from Mr. Sinclair, who single-handedly restored my hope that the work I was trying to do for the British Museum was not futile. He'd consulted with the Keeper of Greco-Roman Antiquities at the museum, Mr. Murray, who agreed with my assessment of the Archaic statue I had seen in Richmond. In view of the piece's intrinsic value to scholars, Mr. Sinclair had immediately donated it to the museum. It turned out that his wife had never been overly fond of the piece, so the decision did not cause any strife in the house.
I scrawled a quick reply, expressing my gratitude, and then, my confidence bolstered, penned a message to send to the Times. Not only did I need to uncover the identity of my admirer, and, of course, thank him for the flowers, I had to confirm that he had more of Léonard's correspondence. You've overwhelmed me with flowers. Care to do the same with L's letters?
That taken care of, I changed into something suitable for walking and set off for the park, where I was to meet Ivy and Margaret. They were waiting for me in front of the statue of Achilles when I arrived, Ivy a picture of English perfection, her delicate skin shaded by a frilly parasol, Margaret dressed in a modern-looking suit and carrying a stack of books bound together with a leather strap.
"These are for you, but I won't make you carry them," she said. "I've decided to bludgeon you with Latin until you agree to take up the study of it."
"I'm sorry, Margaret, you'll not convert me yet. I'm nowhere near being satisfied with my mastery of Greek, and I think I shall turn to hieroglyphs when I want something new."
"You're both so clever," Ivy said, looking at the ground.
"Perhaps you can convince Ivy to discuss Latin with you," I said.
"No, no, I've no head for that sort of thing."
"I think you do," Margaret said. "You don't give yourself enough credit." Ivy blushed furiously, and her knuckles turned white as she clutched her parasol.
"You're perfectly capable of learning it, but don't let Margaret bully you. She won't be satisfied until she's at Oxford reciting Ovid until all hours of the night."
"I wish the Season was over," Margaret said, slinging the books over her shoulder.
"I think it's unfortunate that Jeremy isn't willing to embrace his classical education. If he were, you might just marry him."
"He'd make a decent husband," she admitted. "He's a brilliant kisser —"
"Margaret!" Ivy cried.
"Well, you knew I'd have to check."
"I rather assumed he would be," I said. "He's very..." I smiled as I considered Jeremy.
"Yes, exactly," Margaret said.
"I haven't the slightest idea what either of you is talking about," Ivy said.
"That, my dear, is because you are too good," I said, squeezing her arm. The park was bursting with the best of society, mothers parading their daughters, gentlemen looking as dapper as possible in the heat, young married women bending their heads together, asking and giving advice, gossip, and encouragement to one another. We had to pause every few feet to nod greetings to acquaintances, but it was impossible not to notice that no one seemed interested in actually speaking with us. Until, that is, we came to Lady Elliott, my mother's bosom friend. She stopped and forced a pained smile onto her face.
"Mrs. Brandon, Miss Seward, how delightful to see you." She did not so much as look at me. "Dreadful heat, don't you agree?"
Ivy managed a sputtered but genteel reply. Margaret glared at Lady Elliott, who walked on without further comment.
"Emily, she deliberately cut you," Ivy said. I felt the unwelcome sting of tears in my eyes.
"Are you all right?" Lady Elinor and Isabelle approached us.
"We're fine," Margaret snapped.
"Thank you, Lady Elinor, for asking," Ivy said.
"I saw Lady Elliott. Dreadful. Pay her no mind, Emily. She's a petty, jealous woman."