"What makes him say that?"
"Well, he didn't tell me precisely, but it was the overall impression he gave."
"Andrew Palmer is irreverent, funny, knows more gossip than my mother, and as far as I can tell is serious about absolutely nothing. He is loads of fun, and I adore spending time with him, but I could never love him."
"Yet you kissed him," Ivy said.
"Yes, I did, and I'm glad of it. That doesn't mean I'm going to marry him."
"Well, I shouldn't like to be the one to dash his hopes of happiness," Ivy said, settling in with her port and smiling. "Aren't we supposed to smoke cigars with this?"
"Margaret would say yes, but I can't stand the smell of the things, can you?"
"Not really," she said. "Although it does remind me a bit of Robert."
"Are you very happy with him, Ivy?" I asked.
"Married life agrees with me." Her mischievous grin gave way to a demure smile.
"I can see you transformed to matron before my eyes! It's terrifying."
"Robert is very kind to me, and, unlike you, I have no desire to control money and property or any of that sort of thing. I enjoy having him take care of me."
"You are lucky to have found a husband who can be trusted to do that," Margaret said, looking up from the book she was reading.
"It's nice being on a pedestal," Ivy replied. I wondered if she would grow tired of such a relationship, as surely Robert would over time. "Should I swirl this in the glass? It makes me look rather sophisticated, don't you think?"
"You look stunning, as always, but I haven't the slightest idea if it's the thing to do with port. I shall ask Davis when we return to London."
"I think there are few things more comfortable than a good marriage, and I am thankful to have found that with Robert."
"Comfort is certainly important," Margaret agreed, though I could tell from her voice that it would not induce her to settle into such an arrangement.
"Do you love him, Ivy?" I asked. "I mean, really love him? Desperately, passionately? Does he fill your every thought? When you retire to bed at night, do you long for the moment he reaches for you?"
"Well, not exactly. Really, Emily, I think one has to have realistic expectations. I have read all the sordid novels you have, and I remain unconvinced that anyone ever achieves that sort of thing in real life."
"I'm not sure."
"I know you didn't think like this when Philip was alive, but do you feel that way about him now?"
"No, not really. Of course, he is dead, so it's rather frustrating to feel anything for him." I remembered his face as it looked when he kissed me for the first time on our wedding night. "But I will admit that when I look back on things, I feel rather more excited about them than I did as they transpired."
"I'm not entirely sure what you mean. Should I be shocked?" Ivy asked.
"No, not at all. I think that as we experience things, they happen too quickly to be thoroughly analyzed. I am sitting here contemplating the first time Philip kissed me after we were married and realize now how romantic and enrapturing it was. At the time, however, I didn't feel much other than fatigue. Had I been able to step back and observe us, I might have found the scene thrilling."
"But if you had been passionately in love with him, I think you would have felt the thrill. Surely passionate love doesn't require thorough analysis," Margaret said.
"You're right, of course," I replied. I sipped my port and slouched into the chair, but only for a moment. "We must return to the matter at hand. How am I going to determine the status of these things?"
"Will you ask the British Museum to assist you?" Ivy asked.
"No, I would prefer to avoid that for as long as possible. Do you suppose if my husband turns out to have really been a thief, I should be obligated to expose him?"
"I don't see how you could not," Margaret said.
"Perhaps if we determine that to be the case, we can concoct some way to return the original pieces to the museum and no one will be the wiser. Why tarnish his memory now?" Ivy suggested.
"I am going to consult with Mr. Aldwin Attewater. He should be able to tell me what is authentic."
"Can you trust him?" Ivy asked.
"I think I can. He spoke to me quite candidly in Paris. At any rate, I don't have to reveal to him why I suspect the museum is displaying reproductions." I paused. "You know that Colin Hargreaves very strongly warned me off the acquaintance. I do wonder about him. His behavior has been so strange at times. Did I ever tell you that Andrew actually told me to keep away from him? Said his charm could be deadly."
"What on earth could that mean?" Margaret asked.
"At the time I assumed he meant that he would trifle with my emotions; now I question that conclusion. Perhaps Andrew knows that Colin has connections to these forgers. He also told me that he has never felt he could trust Colin. It is almost as if he were warning me," I said, remembering the note I had found. "I wonder if he also warned Philip?"
For several hours after Ivy and Margaret had gone to bed, I sifted through every paper I could find in the library, hoping to locate some documentation of the antiquities. Philip's files were carefully organized, and I quickly found records of those objects displayed in his stunning gallery. There was no mention anywhere of the objects currently in the library, nor any suggestion that he knew of or suspected forgers at work in the museum.
Eventually I retired but still did not sleep. Finding myself alone in Philip's bed overwhelmed me, and I spent much of the night searching through the contents of the master bedroom. Philip had not been to the house since our marriage, and I felt that the room was a vestige of his bachelor life. His dressing room contained nothing of particular interest; the same could not be said of the bedroom itself. A low shelf standing below the windows across from the heavy four-poster bed held a surprising collection of books, among them Lady Audley's Secret, the edition of Beeton's Christmas Annual that contained A Study in Scarlet, a catalog of objects from the British Museum, and Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida, as well as a few volumes on the subject of big-game hunting. The selection of books kept in one's bedroom is highly personal and indicative of one's character, and after looking at these, I felt that I knew Philip more intimately than before. I loved the idea that he might have read Lady Audley on a blustery evening during which sleep eluded him, and I wished for the chance to nestle beside him with a novel of my own. How delightful it would have been to spend an evening in bed with him, reading and exchanging comments.
Ivy had told me about Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, but I had never read either of the novels. I picked up A Study in Scarlet to bring back to London and then noticed a series of leather volumes with unmarked spines identical to Philip's journal. As I suspected, they contained records of previous years of his life. I immediately opened the first book and began to read but stopped before I finished a page. Much though I wanted to know my husband better, I didn't feel entirely right reading his private thoughts, especially those written years before he ever knew me. I opened the book again.
Truly, she is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen and cannot imagine finding more beauty in a single being.
Who was this trollop tempting my future husband? I ground my teeth as I skimmed ahead, jealously hoping that she had died of consumption before the relationship grew serious. No, not consumption; that would take too long and almost certainly ensure the formation of the dreaded attachment. I sighed when I realized I was reading the musings of a fifteen-year-old Philip on the subject of a horse. I replaced the volume on the shelf. It would be naïve to think that Philip had not loved before he met me. The former object or objects of his affection were likely to have had the good sense to return his feelings; reading about it would serve only to remind me of the foolishness of my own behavior toward him.