And Only to Deceive (18 page)

I cringed to think of anyone, least of all Philip, reading them. Written entirely out of duty, they contained little more than impersonal reports on my daily activities and any news I had of his nieces and nephew. They certainly were not love letters that could have provided him comfort. I hated that Colin had read them, and I glared at him now.

“I do not have the vaguest idea what the letters said. I was exhausted physically and mentally. Ashton’s pulse was very weak despite his fever. We both knew he did not have long to live.

“As ill as he was, he kept speaking of you and begging me to promise that you would go to Santorini. But you already know that. Gradually he
grew less coherent and spoke as if you were with him, always addressing you as Kallista. By the time the sun had set, he had lost consciousness and never regained it. It was the worst twenty-four hours of my life.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ivy said softly.

“So you see, Emily,” he began, taking my hand again, “there is simply no possibility that Philip is still alive. I never left his side. I watched as he took his final, labored breaths and did not release his hand from mine until his body had grown cold.”

“He could have been in a coma, Colin. You are not a physician,” I snapped, and pulled my hand away. “I do not claim to have an explanation for what has happened, but clearly if Philip is writing to Arthur Palmer, he is not dead.” I did not want Colin to think I suspected him of foul play so did not question outright his account of Philip’s last night.

“If, through some extraordinary series of events, he is alive, and I must say again that I cannot even imagine such a circumstance, don’t you think he would have contacted you before now? Surely he would write to
you
before Arthur Palmer? Think hard on this, Emily. None of it makes sense.”

It wouldn’t have made sense had I chosen to believe Colin’s version of the story; he was truly a clever man. Logically I still was not thoroughly convinced that Philip was alive, but emotionally I desperately wanted him to be. As I was in possession of no definitive evidence to support either view, I decided to hope for the best.

“None of us knows what Philip has been through,” I retorted. “To recover from an illness as severe as the one you claim to have witnessed would have left him incapacitated for some time. He may even have lost his memory. We have no idea who took him in, who cared for him. Whoever it was would have no idea of his patient’s identity.”

“Emily, it has been more than a year and a half. Be reasonable. I know how much you want to believe that he is alive; I share your feelings.” He stood again and turned to face me. “But it is not possible. He died in Africa from a terrible, savage fever. I cannot imagine where this
letter of Arthur’s came from; most likely it was misdirected, mishandled, and delivered extremely late. I wish it had never happened. You should not be forced to face the loss of a loved one more than once.”

Now, as I looked into Colin’s eyes, I was certain that he was at the heart of this intrigue. He knew all too well that the first time I had faced Philip’s death, I had not mourned my husband. Colin’s cool demeanor and soothing voice seemed condescending and patronizing; he was trying to manipulate me.

“I would think that, as Philip’s best friend, you would insist upon thoroughly investigating this situation,” I said.

“Believe me, Emily, if I thought there was even the smallest chance that Ashton is alive, I would already be on my way to Africa.”

“I have no interest in arguing with you, Colin,” I said, dismissing him. “Please leave me.” I shook my head as the door closed behind him. “I thought perhaps he would show some guilt. Obviously I was wrong.”

“Do you think there is any truth in what he said?” Ivy asked.

“Yes, up until the part where he claims Philip died. His calm in facing the subject unnerved me.”

“I must admit I find it difficult to believe that he could have harmed Philip,” Ivy said quietly.

“Think of what a man of Colin’s status would suffer if exposed as having orchestrated a series of major thefts from the British Museum. Desperation has driven many a man to do the unthinkable.”

“I know you are right, Emily. Our reasons for suspecting Colin’s involvement in the matter of the forgeries are sound, yet the question of what really happened in Africa still troubles me.”

“Perhaps all of our questions on that subject will shortly be answered by Philip himself,” I said, the smile returning to my face. “Colin’s story should not fluster us. We were naïve to have thought he might say anything else. Did we really expect that he would admit to abandoning his dying friend as he praised his own good fortune? Of course he would not. He has merely recounted to us the story he has told everyone since
his return to Cairo after the hunt. He has had a considerable length of time to rehearse his performance. I do not think we should put too much weight on it. We would have been better to say nothing to him.”

“Well, we do know that the letter does not seem to have ruffled Colin’s feathers in the least. Clearly he believes that he still controls the game,” Ivy said.

“His confidence will prove his undoing.”

5 O
CTOBER
1887
G
RAND
H
ÔTEL D
’A
NGLETERRE
, A
THENS

“I
DON’T THINK
I’
VE EVER SEEN YOU SO DISTRACTED!”
Margaret exclaimed as we sat together in the library discussing Homer. “You just agreed with me that Achilles is a superior male.”

“Did I?” My eyebrows shot up. “I’m sorry, Margaret. My mind is not entirely here today.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. I just miss Philip and find myself spending more time than I ought wondering what our life together might have become.” I felt more than a bit guilty at not telling my friend what had motivated these thoughts, but I could not bring myself to tell her that I hoped my husband was, in fact, alive. I still did not want anyone to point out the logical implausibility of such a thing’s proving to be true.

“There’s nothing surprising in that. But focus instead on the reality of the situation, Emily. Take comfort in the fact that no matter how wondrous he seems in death, in life Philip was a typical English nobleman. He may not have reacted well to your having decided to educate yourself.”

“Perhaps.”

“Don’t be offended by this, Emily, but I think that if Philip were still alive, you would be in exactly the same position as Ivy.”

“And what is wrong with that?”

“Nothing, for Ivy. She is content with her role. I do not think you would be. Eventually you would have wanted more, and your husband probably would have been shocked, if not horrified, to realize that he had married a woman with an active mind. Was Philip so unlike Mr. Brandon?”

“I cannot say,” I said.

“Don’t be so melancholy,” she admonished me as she took her leave. “Seek solace in Homer. Your plight is far less than Hector’s.”

Resolved to take her advice, I dove into the
Iliad,
quickly losing myself in the poetry. I hardly heard Davis enter the room to announce Mr. Attewater, who had come to update me on the progress of my sculpture.

“Mr. Attewater, this looks delightful!” I exclaimed, peering closely at the sketches he held out before me and examining the paper on which they were drawn. “I am so pleased that you have already begun work on my commission.”

“I am a busy man, Lady Ashton, but I consider you to be one of my most important patrons. I have chosen Aphrodite as the subject of this sculpture because she, alone among the Olympian gods, approaches your own beauty.” He executed a perfect little bow as he spoke.

“There is no need to flatter me, Mr. Attewater; I have already agreed to pay you.”

“I assure you, Lady Ashton, that any compliments which spring from my lips are entirely genuine,” he said, puffing up his chest. “I am a man of high principles.” This comment made me laugh despite myself.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Attewater, I mean no offense.”

“It is nothing,” he replied. “I realize the contradiction in my person that stems from the nature of my work. But remember, only once have I strayed from my principles. Do not judge me based on the lack of scruples enjoyed by the majority of my patrons.”

“Let me assure you I do not, Mr. Attewater,” I said, smiling warmly at him. “I am very curious about your other patrons. I believe that I know one of them rather well.”

“I would imagine that you know any number of them. My pieces grace the collections of many aristocrats. Not everyone can afford originals, you know.”

“Yes, I am quite aware of that and know better than to press you for names.”

“I appreciate that, Lady Ashton,” he said. “This is a fine library, if I may say so, but shockingly short on art. Where did the viscount keep his collection?”

“Nearly all of it is in our country house. I do have a lovely bust of Apollo in the drawing room.”

“Oh, yes, the Praxiteles. We saw mine in the British Museum, didn’t we? A very difficult piece to complete,” he said, clearly proud of himself. “Not many could have pulled it off. Do you know who did yours?”

“Praxiteles, actually,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a bit embarrassing, I’m afraid.”

“My dear lady, I assure you that I do not hold it against you at all. I was already aware of that”—he paused, searching for a word—“habit of the viscount’s. I can guarantee you not only my absolute discretion but also of my respect for any man who has such a profound appreciation for beauty. A great man with a fortune at his disposal can hardly be blamed for wanting to own the original of such a thing.”

“I do not blame him for wanting it. Accepting that he went through with the purchase has been somewhat more difficult for me.”

“Had he not, my own work would not be so prominently placed in the museum for the pleasure of thousands,” Mr. Attewater replied. I almost pitied him, knowing how much it must bother him that he received no credit for his work by the viewing public.

“Please do not think that I consider your work unremarkable. It is the deception that troubles me.”

“I understand completely, Lady Ashton. It is the same concern that keeps my involvement a step away from where I would have to be if I wanted to become really well-off from selling my works.”

“That, Mr. Attewater, brings me back to the subject of my friend, the one who I believe is a customer of yours. Mr. Colin Hargreaves.”

“Why do you mention him, Lady Ashton?” he asked, looking rather concerned. “I have never told you that he is a patron of mine.”

“But he is, isn’t he?” I asked, trying to sound lighthearted.

“I’m afraid that I must stay true to my policy of not discussing clients.”

“So you admit that he is one?”

“I have said no such thing,” he stated, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. “Suffice it to say that he is a man who has a significant effect on my business.”

“How is that, Mr. Attewater?”

“Please, Lady Ashton, you will make things terribly difficult for me if you press the issue. I can neither confirm nor deny the name of anyone I work with. Should I start making exceptions, it would undermine my position greatly.”

“But you told me that Lord Ashton never contacted you,” I said.

“I did that, Lady Ashton, against my better judgment, because I could see the pain in your eyes. Do not ask more of me.”

“Did you ever contact Lord Ashton?”

“What makes you think I would?” he replied.

“I have found two notes that warned of grave danger. Both were written on heavy paper—like that on which you sketched your plan for my sculpture,” I said, walking over to the desk. I unlocked the drawer, pulled out the notes, and handed them to Mr. Attewater, who turned slightly pale.

“I had heard rumors. Nothing specific, mind you. Although I had no direct dealings with Lord Ashton, I knew of his reputation as an excellent patron and thought that he deserved to be warned.”

“What were these rumors?” I cried emphatically.

“People said he had angered a powerful person and was in danger. It had something to do with antiquities he had purchased, but I really know nothing else.” Although I pressed him, Mr. Attewater insisted that he was ignorant of further details, leaving me to wonder whom my husband had angered and why.

7 N
OVEMBER
1887
D
ARNLEY
H
OUSE,
K
ENT