I examined the note closely. The paper was heavy, the type that an artist might use in his sketchbook, but it bore no indication of the identity of either sender or recipient. Very odd. I sighed, unsure of what to do. After rereading it I placed it in Philip's desk, where I sat, suddenly overcome by a feeling of ominous unease. I rang for tea, hoping the genial beverage (without my mother's too-liberal use of sugar) would soothe my nerves. It was some time before I was able to turn my attention back to the book from which the note had fallen, but eventually I found myself engrossed in its descriptions of the museum's magnificent artifacts. Suddenly, on a whim, I summoned my carriage. I wanted to see them myself.
Naturally I had not mentioned Greece or the villa to my parents, and I smiled as I approached Great Russell Street, Wondering what my mother would think if I were to set up house in Santorini for the rest of my years. How long would I have to wear half mourning there? I fluffed my black striped skirts and entered the museum, immediately asking if someone could show me the Greek antiquities. A wealthy widow quickly learns that great institutions long for her money; knowing this, I anticipated a thorough and enjoyable tour.
As I waited for what I hoped would be a knowledgeable guide, I looked around the hall, wondering why I hadn't visited the museum in so long. My father had taken me periodically when I was a girl, but once my education transferred to the hands of my mother and a legion of governesses, I was limited to pursuing those things considered essential by society matrons. Consequently I became fluent in French and Italian and able to speak passably in German. I could sing and play the pianoforte, though not well. In the visual arts, I excelled at drawing, though I never moved to watercolors, preferring the feel of pencils to that of the artist's brushes. Embroidery, etiquette, and household management became second nature, but my mother did not want me to receive anything that could be construed as a classical education. A good wife, she believed, should not think too much for herself. Before I could mull further on the shortcomings of my schooling, a distinguished-looking middle-aged gentleman interrupted my reverie.
"Lady Ashton, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Alexander Murray, Keeper of Greek and Roman Antiquities. My colleagues inform me that you are interested in viewing our collection." I gave him my hand and murmured something appropriate.
"Please allow me to express my condolences on the death of your excellent husband," he continued. "He visited us frequently; the entire department was shocked to learn of his demise. We are immeasurably grateful for the artifacts he donated to us during his lifetime. I presume you would like to see those pieces first?"
I hardly knew what to say. I had never known Philip to set foot in the museum, but I realized that fact in itself to be meaningless. Clearly I knew even less about the man than I suspected. As Mr. Murray led me through gallery after gallery, my thoughts divided between my husband and the wondrous objects I viewed. Philip had given the museum several stunning Greek vases. One in particular struck me: a large vase showing three women standing before a young man who held an apple.
"That is a calyx-krater, so called because the shape of the handles brings to mind a flower's calyx," Mr. Murray told me. "It would have been used in antiquity as a vessel in which one would mix water with wine. I believe it was Lord Ashton's favorite. He had a difficult time parting with it but felt strongly that it belonged where others could study it. It is a fine example of red-figure vase painting."
"The detail is exquisite," I exclaimed, leaning closer to the object. "Even the eyelashes are visible on the man's profile."
"The red-figure technique allows for more realism than black-figure because the details are painted onto the unglazed figures. This artist is known for his attention to such things. Note how he shows individual strands of hair and the way he has shaded the folds of fabric on each cloak."
"There is something in it that brings to mind the Parthenon friezes."
"A keen observation, Lady Ashton. The style is very similar to those figures found at the Parthenon. This vase painter is credited with being the most classical of all his colleagues."
"Who was he?"
"I'm afraid we do not know his name, but his work is recognized on hundreds of vases."
"All red-figure?"
"No. Black-figure and white-ground lekythoi, too. If you'll come this way, I'll show you one of the lekythoi. They are the ones for which he is best known."
I did not respond immediately to Mr. Murray but continued to examine the piece before me. "Look how graceful his hand is holding the apple. Whom do the figures represent?" I asked.
Mr. Murray moved closer to the case. "Those are the goddesses Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite. They have just attended a wedding ruined by Eris, or Discord. Furious not to have been invited to the celebration, she determined to cause a scene and dropped a golden apple among the guests."
"They argued over who would keep the gold?"
"In a sense, yes. Tê kallistê-'To the fairest' was engraved on the apple. The goddesses each argued that she was the most beautiful and should have the apple. Zeus realized that no judgment would be acceptable to all three and decided it would be best to stay out of the mix."
"Wise," I said, smiling.
"He gave the task of choosing who would receive the apple to Paris, an unfortunate shepherd." He pointed to one of the figures on the vase.
"Whom did he choose?"
"I'm afraid he found Aphrodite most irresistible, especially when she promised that he would have for a wife the most beautiful of all mortal women."
"Hera and Athena were not pleased, I imagine."
"Far from it. They were his sworn enemies from that day forward."
"And Paris's wife?"
"A lovely girl called Helen, unfortunately already married to the king of Sparta, Menelaus. With Aphrodite's help, Paris convinced Helen to leave Menelaus and come with him to Troy, giving rise, of course, to the great Trojan War."
I remained silent for a moment, certain that I should know more of this story than I did, and resolved to read about it that very evening. Something Mr. Murray said had caught my attention, and I had to inquire further.
"Could you tell me again what was written on the apple?"
"Tê kallistê. Kallista in Greek means 'most beautiful.'"
And thus I learned that Philip had considered me beautiful. I blushed uncontrollably and allowed Mr. Murray to continue his tour, although I must confess that my attention to his thoughtful commentary was less than it ought to have been.
2 MARCH 1887
EAST AFRICA
Another day marred by the infinite stupidity of one of our party. To hunt is to bask in the glory of the wild beasts, track them, and spar with them on their own terms. In doing so, the hunter honours the magnificence of his prey. Fitzroy's actions today fit into no gentleman's code. He left camp early, before breakfast, with one of our guides, Lusala, and returned filthy and terrified less than an hour later. The bastard convinced Lusala to bait a rhinoceros rather than track it-then waited in a blind until an unlucky beast stumbled upon their trap. When Fitzroy prepared for his shot, he tripped, startling the animal. Then he took the shot he ought to have refused-firing without aiming properly-wounding the rhino but not killing it. Thinking it was about to charge at them, he and Lusala ran back to camp like the cowards they are. It took me hours to track the poor animal and finish what my friend should have done. We are not here to leave a trail of wounded animals.