Ivy stared at me, shocked. "What have you done?"
"I don't know that I've ever had such fun in my life. I never could stand either of those beasts. Emma always threw herself at Philip before we were married and couldn't bear the fact that he never noticed her. She tormented me in every way she could once our engagement was announced."
"But, darling, you never cared for Philip. Surely you weren't jealous?"
"Of course not. But now that he is gone, I am gaining a better appreciation for the man and his tastes. And as for those two, they came here to congratulate themselves on their own good luck at not being widowed at such a young age and to terrify you at the prospect of your wedding."
"I don't think they meant to be cruel."
"Believe what you will, but I know Emma well enough to see her game. She doesn't like being one of the last of us to marry. But she'll be engaged before long, and woe to the poor man she accepts. He'll find no happiness in his bride."
"You really aren't yourself, Emily. Do you need more tea?"
"No, Ivy, I'm fine. I have just realized that I am now in a position to voice opinions that would have been outrageous for an unmarried woman. Don't worry, I'll send perfect notes apologizing for my behavior and beg them both to forgive me. No one can resist a grief-stricken widow."
"You are awful."
"I think I'm going to rather enjoy sitting with the other widows at balls, machinating the futures of young ladies and gossiping excessively."
"When you return fully to society, I don't imagine you'll stay with the other widows."
"Perhaps you are right, but I do not intend to relinquish my newfound freedom in the foreseeable future. What were we discussing before those harpies interrupted us? I'm sure it was much more pleasant than our present topic of conversation. Did I tell you that I've started to read the Iliad?"
"No, you hadn't. How terribly clever you're becoming," Ivy said, laughing. "But in all seriousness, Em, is what you said true?"
"Everything I say is true."
"I mean about what Philip told you," she pressed, unable to meet my eyes.
"It is true, Ivy. Now that I think about it, I should perhaps have listened better when Philip talked to me. He gave very good advice."
That night I dreamed about Philip for the first time. He looked very lovely, right off a Greek vase. He was storming the walls of Troy, his sandy hair blowing in the wind as he called out, "Kallista! Kallista!"
The next morning I decided that I would definitely continue reading Homer.
25 MARCH 1887
SHEPHERD'S HOTEL, CAIRO
Have spent past week playing tourist in Egypt; sights are spectacular, but seeing anything ancient makes me long for Greece. Hargreaves is back exploring pyramids today-I declined the invitation to join him and instead combed the shops in search of Ptolemaic pieces. Most I found were singularly uninteresting, caught somewhere between the Greek and Egyptian styles, doing justice to neither. Had hoped to locate a nice image of the great Alexander, but all I found were hoards of unremarkable coins being offered at outrageous prices.
After less thought than the topic likely deserved, I have decided to acquiesce to my family's wish that I marry. I recognize that doing so is inevitable and see little point in arguing the timing of the event, although embarking on serious courtship will ensure a bloody tiresome Season.
3
I was surprised to find how greatly I enjoyed my readings in classical literature and soon began spending a considerable amount of time visiting the British Museum. Not entirely certain how to approach these new interests of mine, I decided to let my husband be my guide and set myself to the task of studying the objects he had donated to the museum. Mr. Murray was pleased to see me in the galleries so often, and I was delighted to show him that I now had the beginnings of at least an elementary knowledge of Homer.
"Hard at work again, Lady Ashton?" he asked, coming upon me as I sat sketching the Judgment of Paris vase.
"I don't know that something described as work could bring such pleasure."
"How are you finding Homer?"
"'Achilles' banefull wrath resound, O Goddesse, that imposd / Infinite sorrowes on the Greekes...,'" I quoted, smiling at him.
"Chapman, eh?" In his library Philip had a multitude of copies of Homer's great work: four different English translations and one in the original Greek. The latter, obviously, was far out of my realm, so I chose Chapman's, the most familiar of the rest, which I knew only from Keats's poem. The bold lines inspired me immediately and vigorously; I pored over it daily.
"Seemed as good a place to start as any, and it certainly has not disappointed."
"No, it wouldn't. A bit fanciful for my taste, though."
"Too Elizabethan perhaps?"
"Quite. Pope suits me better. 'Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring / Of woes unnumber'd, heav'nly Goddess, sing!'"
"Wonderfully direct," I agreed. "But for the moment I shall stay with Chapman."
"No reason not to, Lady Ashton. I shall leave you to your drawing."
I returned my attention to the vase in front of me, keen to accurately capture Aphrodite's graceful pose. Some minutes later, while pausing to compare my work to the original, I had the sensation of being watched and turned to look behind me, half expecting to find Mr. Murray. Instead I saw an unfamiliar man. His position suggested he was studying the frieze that occupied the wall beyond the Judgment of Paris vase, but his eyes were fixed on me. I was not accustomed to encountering the sort of individual who would stare in such a way, and I must admit to having been somewhat unnerved. He did not look away when our eyes met but moved his face slightly, revealing a long dueling scar on his right cheek. I tried to return my focus to my sketchbook but found my gaze periodically drawn to the stranger, who continued to lurk in the back of the gallery. When I heard footsteps approaching me, I nearly jumped.
"I hope I didn't startle you, Lady Ashton," Mr. Murray said, smiling broadly as he walked toward me.
"Not at all, I-" I glanced behind me. The man was gone. "I'm pleased to see you again so soon."
"I've no intention of pulling you away from your work, but I would like to present you with this." He handed me a copy of a book he had written, Manual of Mythology I smiled and thanked him, happily distracted from the unwanted observer.
Time passed quickly while I was engrossed in my intellectual pursuits. Ivy's wedding came and went with little incident. I attended, of course, suitably attired in a dreary gray gown. It was the happiest of occasions, but I must confess to feeling a slight melancholy when I realized how vaguely I remembered my own wedding day. At the time I had merely gone through the motions and done what was expected of me, all the while giving scant thought to what I was doing. Robert's eyes had shone when he saw Ivy approach him at the altar; I don't think I even looked at Philip as I walked toward him. Had his eyes brightened at the sight of his bride?
Within a week of Ivy's nuptials, Emma's engagement to the son of Lord Haverill was announced-the younger son of Lord Haverill. Hoping for something better, she had refused him until her parents insisted upon the engagement. I was immensely happy to see her get what she deserved.
Ivy and her new husband were spending their honeymoon on a grand European tour, with Paris as one of their stops. I was in the midst of reading a delightful letter from her when, once again, my mother descended upon me.
"Emily, Mrs. Callum tells me in the strictest confidence that you said some very pointed things to Emma about marriage. The poor girl is terrified now and is begging to be released from her engagement."