And Only to Deceive (22 page)

“However did you get that done?” I gasped, looking at the Hall of Mirrors, the latest addition to her spectacular dollhouse. The detail stunned me. Cecile assured me that every bit of tiny gilt trim, the twenty crystal chandeliers, and the seventeen beveled mirrors perfectly mimicked the originals.

“You know better than most people that anything can be accomplished with enough money,” she said, adjusting some of the golden maidens holding elaborate candelabras that stood at intervals along the walls. “Your friend Monsieur Pontiero has turned out to be a most skilled miniaturist. He painted the ceilings for me.”

I bent down to look at my former drawing master’s work and felt duly impressed. “Never having seen the original, I shall have to take your word for the authenticity. That Monsieur Pontiero’s work is exquisite cannot be questioned.”

“Much has changed in the
palais,
but what can be expected to happen after the revolution?” She shrugged. “Next time you come to Paris, I shall take you there.”

“Philip would love that; I know that he wanted to take me to Paris,” I said with a sigh.

“None of this romantic nonsense,
chérie
. I said you, not Philip. He will be left with the impressionists or at the Louvre. Love him if you will, but I am not sure that I would enjoy his company.”

“You are dreadful, Cécile,” I moaned.

“I am too old to be subjected to your foolish sentiments,” she said, smiling. “What would I have to say to a man whose prime entertainment is hunting exotic beasts? What conversation could we have?”

“His interests include many other things, Cécile. Be fair.” I did not like the fact that she had focused on my only real fear in being reunited with my husband. “Do not forget that he is also an avid collector of art.”

“Yes, I had put that out of my mind.” She picked up a tiny table and dusted it off with her handkerchief. “Perhaps I shall find that he is not hopeless.”

“Thank you,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Do you think he will continue his habit of prolonged hunting trips? It hardly seems fair to you.”

“I admit that is a subject that has given me some cause for concern, but there is no use speculating. I shall discuss it with him after we return home.”

“I do wish you had chosen a husband who did not enjoy such an odious activity,” Cécile said, returning the table to its place in a lovely little receiving room.

“Yes, I know. I secretly hope that he will be put off the entire business after his last safari.”

“Somehow I doubt that is likely. But I will try to withhold judgment of the man until I have met him. In the meantime I do have a fine surprise for you this afternoon. I told Renoir that we will bring lunch to his studio.”

“That will be marvelous. You haven’t told him about Philip, have you?” Brutus and Caesar had followed us and engaged themselves in a
battle with the hem of my skirt. Having tired of the skirmish, I removed them one at a time and handed them to Cécile, who put them on a wide windowsill. They seemed to enjoy the view and did not trouble me further.

“No, I have told no one. I did not think it would be prudent until you produced the man himself. You say your evidence that he is alive is good, and I do agree with you, but”—she tapped my arm with her fan—“I am not convinced, Kallista. It all is too fantastical. Do not be angry with me, but I agree with your handsome friend Monsieur Hargreaves.”

“Colin! But, Cécile, I am almost certain that he is behind all this forgery trouble. How could you take his side?”

“I would welcome a criminal with his face into any room of my house,” she said slyly.

“You are trying to shock me but shall not succeed,” I said, smiling and shaking my head. “But really, Cécile, I am afraid we were completely deceived by him.”

“I am not sure that it matters,” she said, shrugging. “Forget about these forgeries. Leave it to Philip, if you really think he is alive.”

“If I did not think he were alive, I would not be traveling to Africa.”

“I am not sure that is true, Kallista. Whatever the outcome, I hope that you are not disappointed.” She finished rearranging the furniture in one of her tiny dollhouse bedrooms and turned to face me. “Let’s speak of something more interesting. Did you know that our infamous cat burglar is still at large? Madame Bouchard, who lives just three houses from me, lost a diamond necklace that had been in her family for generations. It seems the thief will never be caught.”

“I hope you are careful about locking your windows, Cécile. I’d hate to see any of your jewelry go missing.”

“It would take more than locks to keep out such a clever criminal.”

10 J
ANUARY
1888
EN ROUTE TO
C
AIRO

C
ÉCILE SENT THREE FOOTMEN TO ARRANGE HER LUNCHEON
at Renoir’s, with spectacular results. They created an indoor picnic, spreading thick blankets over the floor and placing vase after vase of hothouse flowers around the room. These blossoms combined with a blazing fire in the stove to give the effect of a lovely midsummer day. Renoir suffered greatly from arthritis and did not have the money to heat his studio to a temperature warm enough to ease his symptoms; Cécile had concocted her picnic in order to give him an afternoon of relief from the damp autumn day. I had no doubt that her footmen had also left sufficient wood to keep the stove burning hot for several more weeks. We sat on the blankets and shared an elegant feast:
mousse de foie gras, pâtisseries génoises, saumon à la zingari,
a variety of
chaud-froids,
and countless other dishes.

“I am delighted to see your work again, Monsieur Renoir,” I observed, looking at the canvases that filled the studio. “Your paintings are like the music of Mozart: perfectly pleasing.”

“
Merci,
Kallista,” he replied, beaming. “I have the most beautiful model; all I must do is imitate her.” Aline, who had spent the morning sitting for him, did not blush but instead leaned over and kissed her husband full on the mouth.

“How are Monet and the others?” I asked.

“Fine, fine,” Monsieur Renoir answered. “Will you be in Paris long enough to travel to Giverny?”

“Unfortunately not.”

“Kallista has merely stopped over on her way to Africa.” Apparently Cécile had decided to reveal my secret.

“Mon Dieu!”
Aline rolled her eyes. “What will you see there?”

“Egypt, Aline. I shall not be satisfied until I have laid eyes on the Great Pyramid.” I glared at Cécile, not sure if I wanted to tell Renoir that Philip still lived. “Autumn is a lovely time to go, you know.”

“I would imagine so,” Aline said. “Seems a hopeless place. Desolate. I suppose a person might recognize a sort of stark beauty in it.”

“I should like to go,” her husband interjected. “If only to see the sunlight in the desert. The light must bring out a myriad of colors in the sand.”

“Well, I shall stay home.” Aline shrugged. “Paris is far superior.”

“No one questions that,” Renoir replied.

“I suppose you could persuade me to join you.” Aline stroked Renoir’s face. I averted my eyes, not wanting to intrude on a private moment.

“You see, Kallista—that is what marriage should be,” Cécile commented. “Will you have it with Philip?” Thankfully, Renoir and Aline, utterly captivated by each other, appeared not to hear her.

“I shall not discuss it, Cécile. Please do not insist upon bringing up the subject,” I retorted, quite certain that Philip would emphatically disapprove of such a public display of affection. His behavior in such matters had always been perfectly proper. Unless his near-death experience had changed him significantly, I anticipated that any displays of his devotion would be limited to our bedroom, where they would be warmly returned.

“It is something you should consider,
chérie,
before it is too late.” Cécile waved her hand in the air as if fending off an irritating insect and sighed loudly.

“You are surprisingly melancholy today, Cécile,” Renoir observed. “Have you been crossed in love?”

Cecile laughed. “Hardly. I am only hoping that our
chère
Kallista is not about to be.”

“Ah!” Aline gasped, grabbing my hand. “Have you fallen in love? How delightful! Who is he? I hope he is French?”

“No, no, please, you misunderstand. Cécile, you will force me to address the topic I am trying so hard to avoid.” My friend threw her hands in the air as if to indicate that she had no control over the matter.

“Let the child have her secret if she wishes,” Aline said. Then, in a tone of close confidence she whispered to me, “There is nothing more glorious than passionate love. When you find it, nothing will compare.”

“Thank you, Aline.” I did not know how to respond. Truly, I hoped I was passionately in love with Philip, although such a judgment proved difficult to make after having had no contact with the object of my affections for nearly two years. I knew that seeing him again would be exquisite, but I did have some lingering doubts as the moment of our reunion grew nearer by the day. His hunting bothered me, the forgery business plagued me, and I continued to worry that he would not appreciate the changes in my character since his disappearance. I did not question for a moment that he loved me very dearly; his journal proved that. But how passionate could that love have been if he left me so easily after an abbreviated wedding trip? Clearly he preferred the idea of a safari with his friends to the company and comforts of his wife.

“I have found that in love everything falls into place when you least expect it. When you are convinced there is no hope, your heart is saved,” Aline said.

“Unless, of course, it is broken instead,” Renoir said, sitting behind his wife. “Aline likes to speak in absolutes that are not always reasonable. It is one of the most charming things about her.” He hugged her.

“In matters of love, it is preferable to be hopeful rather than a pessimist,” Cécile stated matter-of-factly. “I think you are trying admirably to do that, Kallista, even if I do not always agree with your choice of lover.”

“I have no lover, Cécile!” I cried with mock indignation.

“Speaking of lovers, Kallista.” Renoir turned to me. “I have meant for some time to return this to you.” He opened the drawer in a small table standing near him. After rummaging through the contents, he looked a bit confused. “I was certain it was there.”

“What is it?” I asked, curious.

He walked over to a chest and lifted its lid. “Not here either.” He sighed. “Where on earth could I have put it?” He dug through several painting cases and a large bag, each time coming up empty-handed. He shook his head. “I just had it. I showed it to Monsieur Palmer when he came here not three weeks ago.”

“What, Monsieur Renoir?” I asked, my voice growing more urgent. “What is it you seek?”

“The lovely photograph from your wedding day that I used when I painted your portrait. Lord Ashton left it with me when he departed for his safari.”

4 F
EBRUARY
1888
E
AST
A
FRICA

I
EXCUSED MYSELF FROM MY FRIENDS, TELLING THEM
that I wanted to be alone, and shot out of Renoir’s studio. They followed me to the door, obviously concerned, and I could hear Cécile calling for me to come back as I ran down the rue Saint-Georges, pulling my cape close around me. Although I did not know precisely where I was, I remembered Renoir’s saying that the Opéra was only a short distance from him. When I reached the rue La Fayette, I asked the first person I saw which way to turn and soon found myself in front of the grand building. Seeking refuge under its curved arches, I leaned against the wall, my chest heaving from exertion. My heart pounded so forcefully that I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, and I felt as if I would faint. I knew that something had gone deeply, deeply wrong. I opened my reticule and pulled out two pictures from it: the first my portrait of Philip; the second the one for which Renoir had searched.

Clearly Philip could not have sent my wedding picture to England with Mr. Prescott if he had left it in Renoir’s possession. Renoir certainly had no cause to deceive me in the matter; if anything, it made perfect sense that the photograph remained with him when Philip left for Africa. It would have taken Renoir longer to paint the portrait than the brief time my husband had spent in Paris on his fateful trip. And what of Andrew? I had no idea that he’d returned to Paris only a few weeks ago; he had not mentioned it to me. The timing would mean that he’d left England soon after I refused his proposal. Perhaps he had traveled in an effort to mend his broken heart. Regardless, it appeared that Andrew must have taken the picture from the studio after Renoir showed it to
him. How else could it have come back to England? But what could have motivated Andrew to do such a thing? Surely not petty revenge after my rejection.

Worrying about why Andrew had done it troubled me, but not nearly as much as what it might imply about Philip’s current status. My confidence in finding my husband alive began to ebb, and as I felt it drift away, tears streamed down my face. Realizing that I looked rather conspicuous, I decided to keep walking; I did not want Cécile or any of my friends to find me just yet. Most of all I did not want to return to the Meurice, where I was certain to see the Palmers.

I headed away from the Opéra, keeping my head down lest I see anyone who might recognize me, and walked as quickly as I could all the way to the Cité, where I sought refuge at Sainte-Chapelle. The day not being especially bright, there were few tourists inside the church; the stained glass could not be viewed at its best under a cloud-filled sky. I sat on a bench facing the southern wall with its glorious windows, not particularly caring what I saw. Confident that no one would search for me here, I dropped my head into my hands and sobbed quietly.

The sun began to set, and as my surroundings grew increasingly dark, I felt comforted by the absence of light in the medieval chapel. Too soon an elderly man approached me and told me the hour had come for the building to close. Seeing my swollen face and red-rimmed eyes, he suggested that I move to Notre-Dame, where I would find only the choir closed to visitors. I took his advice and spent an immensely soothing length of time in the nave of the magnificent cathedral. My mind somewhat cleared, I decided to walk the length of the Cité to the Pont-Neuf, my favorite of Paris’s many bridges.

I stopped near the center of the bridge as it approached the Right Bank and relished the commanding view I had of the Louvre. The moon’s brightness as it slipped out from behind a cloud shocked my eyes after the easy candlelight of Notre-Dame, and I considered returning to the cathedral. Before I could make up my mind, I heard a man’s voice
calling my name. I turned around, startled, and was utterly astonished to see Colin Hargreaves striding toward me.

“Emily!” he cried, grabbing both of my arms. “What are you thinking, standing here by yourself in the middle of the night?”

“Good evening, Mr. Hargreaves. It’s quite delightful to see you, too,” I quipped. “It is hardly the middle of the night. I don’t think it’s later than eight o’clock.”

“It’s already dark, so the hour is irrelevant. Have you no regard for your safety?”

“At present, no, I do not. I thank you for your kind inquiry.” I turned my face from him and looked back at the river.

“Thank God I happened upon you. What on earth are you doing? You’ve been crying. Pray, tell me what is the matter. Have your friends abandoned you?” He placed his gloved hand gently on my cheek; the sensation was so comforting that I did not ask him to remove it.

“Quite the contrary, I assure you. They are most likely mad with worry after my hasty departure,” I said, trying to smile. “So much has happened today.”

He put a hand to my lips and pulled me close to him. “My poor girl. There is no need to discuss it if you would rather not.” I let my head rest against his chest in a most inappropriate fashion. He said nothing further until I pulled away from him.

“Thank you for solacing my wretchedness. Truly, I have had a most disturbing day.”

“Can you trust me with your worries?” he asked, his voice deep. I tilted my head and looked into his dark eyes. A funny choice of words, I thought.
Can
I trust him? Not knowing the answer to that question, I remained silent.

“I do not want to pressure you into a confidence, Emily. You are too dear to me.” This revelation should have startled me, but I found that it did not; in fact, it seemed completely natural. I met his gaze and parted my lips to speak. Before I could utter a sound, he embraced me and began
kissing me with an urgency I had never before felt. Despite myself, I relaxed in his arms, returning his kisses at least as passionately as he bestowed them on me. Soon I touched his hair and tried to pull him closer to me, as if that were even possible. Then, all at once, I thought of Philip. I pushed Colin away from me and slapped him soundly on the cheek, aware of the unfairness of my action even as I did it. He did not flinch.

“I deserve that,” he said calmly, looking me straight in the face. “But I am afraid that I cannot apologize to you. Kissing you is, without a doubt, the most ungentlemanly thing I have ever done. However, to beg your forgiveness would be completely dishonest, because, given the same opportunity, I would do it again.”

“How could you do that when you know Philip may be alive?” I cried, trying unsuccessfully to slow my breath to a normal rate of respiration.

“I would never have done such a thing if I thought there were even the slimmest hope of such a possibility. You know that, Emily. He was my best friend.”

“I do not know what to think,” I said, my head spinning. The only thing of which I felt certain was the intense anger inspired by the man standing across from me.

“I shall not pretend to know all that is troubling you at the moment, although I think I have a fairly good idea. I can only offer clarification of my own actions. I am very much in love with you, Emily,” he said huskily, raising my chin in an attempt to force me to look at him. “I have been since I had the good fortune to escort you home from Café Anglais during your last visit to Paris. I adore the fact that you have so willingly shed the restrictive mantle of your upbringing, and love absolutely the woman you have become. I want to argue about Homer with you, help you learn Greek, take you to see Ephesus.”

“And what do you expect me to say to that?” I asked, finally able to meet his eyes.

“I expect nothing. Forgive me if I have offended you. I would never want to bring you any discomfort.”

“That is precisely what you have succeeded in doing, Mr. Hargreaves,” I said, my heart pounding. “I have never sought love from you, and your conduct tonight has ensured that my feelings on the subject shall never be any different. Would you be so kind as to hail a cab for me? I should like to return to my rooms.” He did as I asked immediately and helped me up to my seat.

“Know that you can call on me at any time if you are in trouble. I could not live with myself if anything happened to you, Emily.”

“I hope I should have better sense than to put my trust in you ever again, Mr. Hargreaves.”

Much to my chagrin, he kissed my hand very sweetly, looking intensely into my eyes the entire time. I had nothing to say.

I
DID NOT RETURN
to the Meurice but instead directed the driver to take me to Cécile’s house. As the cab took me across the river to the Left Bank, I could not stop thinking about what had transpired between Colin and myself on the Pont-Neuf. Try though I did to redirect my thoughts, my mind remained full of the memory of his body pressed against mine. It horrified me that a man whom I believed to have played a significant role in the disappearance, if not demise, of my husband could elicit such a physical response from me. I shuddered, wondering if our encounter had been an attempt by Colin to distract me from my purpose. The cab approached Cécile’s grand house on the boulevard Saint-Germain, where my friend opened the door for me herself. I was thankful she had remained home for the evening, and after she scolded me violently for running off so thoughtlessly, she embraced me and sat me down next to her in the blue drawing room.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so flushed, Kallista. I know that my reprimand cannot have affected you so greatly. Pray, what is going on?”

“Oh, Cécile, it’s just the photograph—” I stopped.

“You don’t fool me for one second,
chérie
. It’s been hours since you left Renoir’s studio.” She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized me. “Have you been alone this whole time?”

“Yes. No. I saw Mr. Hargreaves briefly and do not wish to discuss it.”

Knowing Cécile and her seemingly clairvoyant ability to detect clandestine romantic interludes, I felt certain that she knew exactly why my face had turned red. I sighed, resigned to the fact that I had little hope of escaping from a conversation during which I would be coaxed into revealing every detail of my encounter with Colin.

“Ah.” Cécile looked at me knowingly. “We shall discuss it later. Do not think that I shall forget; Monsieur Hargreaves fascinates me. But for the moment I am infinitely more concerned with your reasons for rushing out of Renoir’s. It is obvious, of course, that your missionary friend is not all that he appeared to be.”

“Clearly not.” I walked over to a dainty eighteenth-century desk and seated myself in its matching chair. “I think the time has come to consider very carefully what is going on. There are two problems before us: the first being the question of Philip. Is he alive or dead?” I did not look up as I said this. Despite having spent a great deal of time that afternoon trying to come to terms with the probability that my dear husband was in fact dead, I had failed miserably. “Second is the issue of the forgeries and thefts from the British Museum.”

“I fear this discussion calls for very strong coffee,” Cécile said, ringing for a servant. I frowned. “I realize that you despise it, but it will fortify you.”

“I suppose,” I replied, pulling a piece of paper from the desk’s drawer. “I shall take notes. Let us begin with the question of Philip.”

“What evidence do we have that suggests he is alive?”

“The letter Arthur received, the rumor Ivy heard, and the story Mr. Prescott told when he delivered the photograph to me. Obviously we cannot precisely trust Mr. Prescott. Philip did not give him that picture.”

“No. If anything, your good friend Andrew did,” said Cécile, directing her footman to place a large coffee tray on a table near her. I added an extravagant amount of cream and sugar to the hot brew she gave me, the end result being almost drinkable.

“I find it difficult to believe that he would do such a thing, but I must admit to the possibility,” I said. “I cannot imagine what would motivate him.”

“Did he have any other reason for desiring to go to Africa?” Cécile asked. “He certainly agreed quickly to making the trip. Could he have been too short on funds to go on safari this year? Perhaps he hoped to combine purposes, knowing that if he went to find Philip, you without question would insist on paying his way.”

“I suppose it is possible. But doesn’t it seem an extraordinary thing to do? I had already told him I would pay for everything.”

“He could have set the plan in motion before you told him, or he wanted to ensure that you wouldn’t change your mind.”

“Maybe he thought that my getting the picture in such a circumstance would put my mind at ease during what he knew would be a difficult trip. He may be reasonably confident that Philip is alive, and hoped to reassure me.”

“From what you have told me, it appears that Andrew is the type of man who likes drama and extravagance, so your explanation could be true. But it does seem unlikely.”

“I am going to wire the Anglican Church Missionary Society immediately, asking for more information on Mr. Prescott. Whatever the explanation, Andrew has not been truthful.”

We sat quietly for several minutes before Cécile interrupted the silence. “I am afraid that I do not trust Andrew much at this point, Kallista,” she stated flatly, shaking her head.

“Nor do I, and I do not wish to travel into Africa with a man whose motives are not perfectly clear.” The knowledge that Andrew had so deliberately deceived me hurt me deeply. I hardly knew what to think. “I don’t want to abandon Philip, but I cannot depart for Africa until I know why Andrew has lied to me.”

“Of course not,
chérie
. But for now there is nothing to do for Philip. And do you not find it strange that you have been thrust into the center
of
two
mysterious situations? Perhaps they are connected,” Cécile suggested.

“It is possible,” I admitted.

“Perhaps solving one question will lead toward the answer to the other.” Cécile fed a small biscuit to Caesar, who swallowed it before Brutus could attempt to steal the treat. Brutus begged for one of his own, but she refused him, doling out what she believed to be a small measure of justice against the dog’s namesake.

“There may be some sense in that, Cécile. At any rate, you are right that we cannot prove anything about Philip as long as I am in Paris.” I crumpled the piece of paper that I had filled with random scribbles and placed a clean one in its place. “I think we must determine from whom Philip purchased his stolen artifacts. That person may also have directed Mr. Attewater to make the copies.”