"Thank you. You're an excellent confidant, Colin," I snapped. "I feel much better now."
"You were right. You never should have told me any of this. I am at a loss for what to say."
"Perhaps you could change the subject. When you came in, you thought I wanted to talk about something else. What was it?"
"Nothing, really. I thought it concerned business Ashton conducted on your wedding trip. Clearly I was mistaken."
"Clearly." Evidently I would have to change the subject. "I do have a matter of business of my own with which I could use your assistance. I would like to set up some sort of memorial to Philip, maybe something at the British Museum, I'm not really certain."
"I believe it would be best if you took it up with your solicitor, Emily." I opened my mouth to speak, but he raised his hand and continued before I could form a single word. "Do not imagine I am angry with you. I think, though, that I should like the remainder of my involvement with you to be completely severed from your involvement with Ashton."
"What precisely should I take that to mean?"
"I have a difficult time reconciling the woman before me with the naïve girl my best friend married, and I fancy I should like to keep the two images separate."
"You have completely confused me."
"Then perhaps the two are not as different as I had hoped." I said nothing in response. "Please do not imagine I think less of you after hearing your confession. On the contrary, I admire your honesty." He put his hand lightly on my cheek and left.
I remained standing for a moment after he departed, and placed my hand where his had rested on my cheek; it was as if I could still feel his touch. I dropped onto the nearest chair, wondering why I had spoken to him about such things. Why had I not written a tearful letter to Cécile instead? She would chastise me for falling in love with Philip. If only Ivy weren't so newly married, she might have been a good audience for my grievances. Funny that before her wedding I never minded telling her that I didn't love Philip. Now that she was happily settled, I must have feared she would judge me more harshly than she had as a single woman. I sighed. What Colin Hargreaves thought of me really did not matter in the least, and I did feel better for having told someone the truth.
Soon after Colin's departure, I went to the British Museum; I wanted to look at the Judgment of Paris vase. On my way through the Greco-Roman collection, I saw something that seemed familiar. When I stood before the case, I recognized it as the Praxiteles bust of Apollo. Philip must have succeeded in finding it, a realization that brought me no small measure of satisfaction. I looked at the card next to the object, expecting to see my husband's name listed as the donor. Instead a Thomas Barrett was given credit for the gift. Obviously this was not the bust to which Monsieur Fournier had referred; I must have been confused by the Frenchman's description.
I continued on to my favorite vase and stared at it for a considerable length of time, wishing that my husband were at my side. How I longed to hear his expert opinions on the artifacts surrounding me in the gallery. I vacillated between sorrow and a bittersweet joy at the thought that studying the things he loved could make me know him better than I did before his death. At the same time, I felt a terrible guilt for never having opened my heart to a man so deserving of my love. As I was contemplating my morose situation, Mr. Murray approached me.
"Lady Ashton! I am delighted to see that you have returned from France. Did you enjoy the City of Light?"
"Immensely, thank you. I'm so glad to see you, Mr. Murray."
"You look melancholy today," he said, hesitating slightly.
"I'm feeling rather sorry for poor Paris. I don't think that marrying Helen turned out to be much of a reward."
"I don't think he would have agreed. 'But let the business of our life be love: / These softer moments let delights employ, / And kind embraces snatch the hasty joy.'"
I continued for him. "'Not thus I loved thee, when from Sparta's shore / My forced, my willing heavenly prize I bore, / When first entranced in Cranae's isle I lay, Mix'd with thy soul, and all dissolved away!'" I smiled.
"Most impressive, Lady Ashton. You have embraced Pope."
"I have begun a study of several translations of Homer. Are you familiar with Matthew Arnold's lectures on the topic?"
"I was there when he delivered them at Oxford. Brilliant man."
"While I think it must be true that Homer can never be completely captured in translation, I am quite interested in whether an English poet can bring to us an experience-emotionally, that is-similar to that felt by the ancient Greeks upon hearing the poem in their native tongue."
"A question that, unfortunately, can never be adequately answered."
"Perhaps, but marvelous to contemplate, don't you think?" I stood silently for a moment, imagining an evening at home with Philip, discussing the topic. Could he have recited some of the poem for me in Greek? That would have been spectacular, although I would not have understood what he was saying. The thought of him doing so, particularly some of the more touching scenes between Hector and Andromache, was surprisingly titillating, and I had to willfully force my attention back to the present.
"Mr. Murray, I have been considering for some time making a significant donation to the museum in memory of my husband. How would I go about arranging the details?"
"I would be honored to assist you in any way I could. Perhaps I could set up a meeting with the director of the museum? You could share with us your ideas and let the solicitors handle the rest."
"Excellent. I shall look at my calendar and send you a note."
"And, Lady Ashton, if you are as interested in Homer as you appear to be, you might want to attend a lecture being given at University College next week by a young scholar, Mr. Jeremy Pratt. I believe he plans to address the differences in translations of the Iliad."
"Thank you, Mr. Murray. In fact, I am planning to go with a friend of mine. Perhaps I will see you there."
Back at home that evening, I found that a decanter filled with port had replaced the sherry in the library. Davis, it seemed, had decided to accept my new eccentricities. I rang the bell, and he entered the room almost immediately.
"Thank you, Davis. I appreciate your consideration."
He smiled at me. "I draw the line at the viscount's cigars, madam. Ask for them and I shall give my notice."
31 MAY 1887
BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
"What winning graces! what majestic mien! / She moves a goddess, and she looks a queen!"
The future Lady Ashton is found, although I am afraid she is, as yet, not much impressed with me. Expect to have a capital time changing this. I watched her at the ball tonight, every eligible peer in Britain vying for her attention. She danced all night-and how she moves!-but took little notice of her partners, regardless of their titles or fortunes. Had the sublime pleasure of waltzing with her and am convinced that somewhere beneath her demure smile is the only woman I shall ever love. Aphrodite be damned! Paris should have given the apple to Lady Emily Bromley, who forevermore shall be known to me as Kallista.
11
I allowed myself the luxury of being the distraught widow for several more days before returning to the realities of life. As I made the requisite round of calls, I realized that I had begun to look forward to my friends' mentioning Philip; talking about him brought me great pleasure now that I genuinely mourned him. I went so far as to invite his sister, Anne, to stay with me for a few days, and I found her a great comfort. She regaled me with stories of their childhood and his years at university, uncovering another facet of him to me. Philip had confided in her and wrote to her frequently when he was not at home. After hearing her stories and continuing to read his journal, I felt that I had a nearly complete knowledge of my late husband's character.