"I'm afraid I wouldn't know where to begin to find any of his papers."
"I'd be happy to take a quick look through his library. They're certain to be there. Not now, of course. Think about it and send me a note. I don't wish to inconvenience you in the slightest." Lord Palmer rubbed his bald head as he spoke.
The conversation turned general again, and I listened halfheartedly, preferring to consider instead what I was going to do in Paris. By the time I found myself alone, I realized I would need a considerable amount of assistance in arranging the details and promptly wrote a note to the only man I knew who had suggested to me that he was adept at making travel arrangements. After putting it in the hands of one of my footmen, I found a copy of Baedeker's guide to Paris and retired with it to the window seat in the library, quite pleased with myself. Glancing up from the book, I looked outside. Directly across from the window, staring at the façade of my house from a bench in Berkeley Square, sat the man who had watched me in the British Museum.
"I believe that takes care of everything. I've given you your tickets, and your suite at the Hôtel Meurice will be ready when you arrive in Paris. It is not so large an establishment as the Continental, but I think you will find it much more elegant. Monsieur Beaulieu, the manager, will meet you at the station himself." Four days had passed, and I found myself once again in the library with Colin Hargreaves, who had responded immediately to my plea for help.
"I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Hargreaves," I said, smiling at him.
"I confess your note surprised me. I didn't think you would want to leave London so soon." He had a way of maintaining eye contact during conversation that was almost unnerving.
"Neither did I." I watched him brush his hand through his tousled hair. "To be quite honest, I decided to go purely out of desire to avoid social obligations." He laughed. "Please don't misunderstand," I continued. "There are many excellent diversions to be found in society, but at the moment I find myself unequal to-I'm not ready to-" I stammered on in this incoherent manner for several moments, until his laughter became too loud to ignore.
"Do I amuse you, Mr. Hargreaves?" I asked severely.
"Yes, you do, Lady Ashton. You are trying too hard to be polite. Why would you want to spend the rest of the year attending the somber, boring dinners and teas acceptable for a widow newly out of deep mourning? I believe I share your view of society."
"Of course one couldn't do without it," I said.
"No, I suppose not. It does provide us with a set of arcane rules of behavior and, as Trollope so aptly called it, a marriage market. And I will admit to finding great pleasure in a ball, so I imagine we shouldn't abolish the entire system."
"Quite right. What would you men do if there were no ladies to watch riding on Rotten Row in the morning?"
"I am certain it could lead to nothing good," he replied, leaning toward me conspiratorially. I offered him a drink, which he accepted gratefully, crossing the room to pour it himself rather than making me get up from my comfortable seat.
"I think that I shall have to give you an open invitation to drink my whiskey whenever you are here; I've no idea what I shall do with it otherwise."
"You could drink it yourself."
"An excellent suggestion certain to terrorize my mother," I said enthusiastically. "Ladies should drink only sherry, you know, and I've always detested it." He smiled and handed me a glass. I took one sip and cringed. "Foul stuff."
He laughed. "I think you shall have to rely on other methods of tormenting her."
"Perhaps I shall try port next. Davis tells me there are cases and cases of it in the cellar." I twirled the undrinkable golden liquid in my glass, and we sat quietly for a moment. "I imagine you and Philip spent many pleasant evenings in this room."
"We did, Lady Ashton." He looked at me rather pointedly. "It was in this room after a ball at Lady Elliott's that he first told me he had fallen in love with you. He watched you avoid the attentions of a baron, two viscounts, and an extremely elderly duke."
"Philip wanted to succeed where other viscounts had failed."
"Hardly. He told me he had seen a lady spurn several very eligible men and that this clearly indicated she wanted something more than a title and a comfortable allowance."
I didn't know what to say; I had never considered the matter. A good marriage was my parents' goal for me, though not one in which I had any particular interest. As I have already said, I felt no inclination toward the institution other than as a means of escaping my mother's house, but could hardly admit this to Mr. Hargreaves.
"A young lady rarely knows what she wants. At any rate, her wishes are largely irrelevant, so it is best that she not form too many opinions about any of her suitors," I quipped, trying to sound lighthearted.
"But you obviously formed an opinion of Ashton. You accepted his proposal immediately and after very little courtship."
My heart sank in my chest. "Yes, I did." There was nothing else to say, so I sat in silence for some time.
"I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Ashton. This conversation is inappropriate on every level. I should not force you to think about painful topics. Please do not imagine that your husband ever spoke of you in an indelicate fashion. It is only natural that he would confide in his best friend."
"Of course. You are forgiven, Mr. Hargreaves. How could I find offense in anything you say after you have so kindly arranged my trip to Paris?" I refilled his glass and changed the subject. "Will you leave London for the country soon?"
"Probably not. Like you, I prefer to travel abroad."
"Then perhaps our paths will cross again in Paris," I suggested.
"I would enjoy that very much."
We conversed for another quarter of an hour, until it was time to dress for dinner, at which point he rose to leave.
"Mr. Hargreaves," I said as he headed toward the door. He turned to me. "I think we may dispense with formality. Please call me by my Christian name."
"Thank you, Emily. I'm honored." His smile was excessively charming and brightened his dark eyes most attractively.
5 APRIL 1887
BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
Much though I love the African plains, it is impossible to deny the superior comfort of a house in London.
Have taken a desk in the Reading Room at the British Library in what I hope will not end up a vain effort at making progress on my research during the summer. My friends are less likely to disturb me there than at home, and close proximity to the museum's artifacts is apt to bring inspiration. As I seem to spend more and more time in town every year, I am considering a significant expansion of my collection of antiquities-could then have a gallery here as well as at Ashton Hall.
4
Within another week I found myself comfortably settled into a sumptuous suite of rooms overlooking the Jardin des Tuileries in the Hôtel Meurice on the rue de Rivoli. I saw Ivy soon after my arrival and was delighted to find my friend enjoying her honeymoon. Although she and Robert were pleased to see me, I couldn't help but notice that they seemed concerned that I had no immediate plan to return to England. I confess that after they left for Switzerland, I felt quite lonely, almost regretting my decision not to bring a companion with me. Walks in the Tuileries filled my mornings, and I took tea with other English guests at the hotel, and before many days had passed, I grew accustomed to the rhythm of the city.
Being alone in Paris was quite different from being alone in the house in London, although I suppose this was largely due to my own state of mind. Having entered the period of half mourning, I could now go about as I pleased, and people in Paris seemed less concerned with the demise of my husband than those in London did. In London I felt self-conscious when I began leaving my house after my husband's death, as if everyone who saw me knew that I hadn't really mourned him. In Paris I knew that no one would give me a second thought. I rarely encountered anyone who knew Philip personally, and therefore I avoided those uncomfortable encounters with people who wanted to talk about him. My social standing did cause me to be invited to a number of soirées, dinners, and parties, but I felt no need to attend any that did not interest me, confident that my mother would not appear from behind a bush in the Tuileries to scold me for refusing an invitation.