"I can assure you that I told her nothing that would bring her anything but comfort, Mother. She is disappointed at only catching a younger son."
"I think you are right. Luckily, she comes to the match with a fortune of her own, so they will live well."
"As long as her husband doesn't spend all her money," I said.
"You shouldn't be so cynical, my dear. It's most unbecoming. I don't know what has happened to you lately." She sniffed in the direction of my windows, curtains thrown open to let in the sun. "At any rate, I have just come from Lady Elliott's. She is hosting a small dinner Wednesday next and would like to include you in the party. It will be a suitable occasion for you to begin your gradual return to society."
The thought of Lady Elliott's party was only slightly less hideous to me than crossing the Channel on a stormy day. Lady Elliott, my mother's closest friend, would be certain to join in hounding me the entire time, criticizing my clothing (too light-colored), my house (too much light), and my new reading habits (not light enough). I checked to see that I had covered Philip's beautifully bound copy of the Iliad with Ivy's letter and sighed.
"I don't think I'm ready, Mother."
"You cannot hide in your grief forever."
"I thought you wanted me to emulate our queen."
"Not literally, child. Your idea of mourning is very odd to me. Liberal with your clothing, conservative with social engagements. I'm not sure what to make of it."
"You needn't make anything of it. My clothing is perfectly appropriate. Mr. Worth handled the details himself, and I wore nothing but bombazine for an entire year. As for society..." I hesitated, not sure what I wanted to say. I certainly didn't want to imprison myself but also did not want to be cornered into accepting invitations from all of my mother's ghastly friends. "I'm afraid it is too painful for me to return to society in London. It only reminds me of Philip."
"I'm sure you feel it keenly," my mother answered, giving me more sympathy than she ever had before in her life. "It puts me in mind of the depth of emotion our queen still shows to her dear, departed husband." I thought it best to ignore this sentiment.
"Therefore, I have decided to go to Paris," I said, surprising even myself.
"Paris?"
"Yes. Philip and I did not stop there on our wedding trip, so there will be no bittersweet memories." I paused for effect. "I have had a letter from Ivy today. She and Robert will be there for the next few weeks, and I mean to visit them. I shall also see Mr. Worth about some new dresses and perhaps go to the Louvre. Philip wanted to take me there." I watched my mother's face.
"You cannot think of traveling alone," she began, and then stopped suddenly. "I do not like this, Emily. It doesn't seem appropriate in the least."
"Why not?" I countered, feeling slightly guilty for inventing stories about my deceased spouse. "It would make Philip happy."
"Philip would be happy to know that you are being cared for by family. If you are not comfortable in London, which I admit is somewhat understandable, why don't you go see his sister? She would be delighted to have you."
The thought of a prolonged stay with any of Philip's family was insupportable. They, who really grieved his loss, and I, who would have to pretend that I knew him: a disastrous combination.
"No. I am going to Paris. It's already decided. I shall have you and Father to dinner before I leave."
"Who will be your chaperone? I cannot make the trip on such short notice."
I breathed a sigh of relief, not having had time to even consider a response to the possibility of her wanting to join me. "I shall bring my maid. I am no longer an unmarried woman, Mother, and am quite capable of traveling on my own. Besides, Ivy will be there, and loads of people go after the Season. I'm sure I won't be lonely."
"I didn't imagine you would be gone so long. Surely you will return to England before Christmas?" She shook her head. "I don't think I should allow it."
"Happily, the decision is mine, Mother. I am a widow and in sole control of my actions." Not sure of how to respond to such a statement from her daughter, my mother retreated into the safe world of society gossip. I had left cards for several people that week and hoped violently that one, if not all, of them would interrupt us before I went mad listening to the usual litany of wedding plans, broken engagements, and suggestions for improving my home's décor. Fortunately, the butler announced a visitor.
"Lord Palmer to see you, madam," Davis stated regally. I told him to send the gentleman in, and soon we were laughing in the company of a truly delightful old man. He was one of the few people my husband and I had entertained in the days we spent together in London before his final trip to Africa. Eventually, as I knew it must, the conversation turned to Philip.
"Such a tragic loss," Lord Palmer said. "But we shall move on, and you, young lady, have a bright future before you." I began to wonder if I should reconsider my opinion of my guest.
"This is exactly what I've been telling her," my mother said. "She cannot sit in this house forever. We must get her back into society."
"Philip was as dear to me as my own sons," Lord Palmer continued, as I silently thanked him for ignoring my mother's comment. "We spent many pleasant afternoons in the British Museum."
"Are you interested in Greece, Lord Palmer?"
"More so even than Philip, my dear. I dabbled in archaeology in my younger years, but that story shall have to wait until another day."
"I've been reading the Iliad. It's marvelous."
"Capital. Whose side do you take? Achilles or Hector?"
"Hector, without question. Achilles is far too arrogant."
"It is so difficult to occupy oneself while in mourning," my mother said, glaring at me.
"I must admit to being surprised by the poem. I would not have thought the tale of a war would so engross me. Yet I cannot help but wonder if I should have read an overview of Greek mythology before jumping straight into Homer?"
"I'm sure Philip has The Age of Fable in the library. You may find it helpful to familiarize yourself with it."
"Is that Thomas Bulfinch? Yes, I've seen it on a shelf."
"Emily is a great reader," my mother said.
"He discusses the Iliad. Having a rudimentary knowledge of the story will allow you to focus more on the poetry."
"An excellent point, Lord Palmer. I shall take your advice and look at Bulfinch this afternoon."
"Do your sons enjoy classics, too?" my mother asked. As always, she amazed me with her ability to stay focused on her never-wavering goal of marrying me off to whatever eligible person she could. I knew what stirred her interest in Lord Palmer's sons. I could see her counting the months until I would be out of mourning.
"Unfortunately, not."
"Are they married now, Lord Palmer?" My mother looked directly at me as she spoke; we both knew she was fully cognizant of the marital status of every English nobleman over the age of twenty-five.
"Not yet," he replied. "This talk of antiquities reminds me of a question I wanted to ask you, Lady Ashton. Before his death Philip showed me a monograph he was writing."
"I must say, Lord Palmer," my mother began, "I never knew that Philip was such an intellectual man."
"He was much deeper than many people knew, Lady Bromley." Lord Palmer turned to me again. "I returned the manuscript to him with some comments. Do you think I could have it back? I should so much like to have it published. Make it a bit of a memorial to him."
"That would be lovely." My mother smiled. I wasn't sure what to think. "Emily would be so grateful for your assistance. She would never be capable of putting such a thing together herself."