And Only to Deceive (8 page)

17 M
AY
1887
B
ERKELEY
S
QUARE,
L
ONDON

I
SHALL NEVER FORGET THE SCENE THAT GREETED ME WHEN
I opened the door to my suite. Everything was in a state of complete disarray: books strewn about the floor, their pages crumpled and torn; the contents of drawers dumped; my drawing supplies scattered about the room. The magnificent portrait Renoir painted of me had been ripped from its frame. Happily, the canvas itself was not damaged, the only bright spot in a hideous mess. As I stood looking at the painting, the man sent to attend to my fire walked through the open door and rushed to my side.

“Please sit down, Lady Ashton. I will get help immediately.” Within a few moments, Monsieur Beaulieu, the manager of the hotel, arrived with a bottle of smelling salts that I quickly refused; I do not faint. I did, however, accept the glass of Armagnac he offered, and before long the police had arrived. Never had I been more grateful for the perfect English spoken by the staff of the Meurice. I speak French fluently, but, upset as I was, it was much easier to answer their questions in my native tongue while Monsieur Beaulieu translated.

“What on earth has happened here?” Andrew burst into the room. “I was in the lobby and heard of the commotion. Are you hurt, Emily?”

“No, I’m fine. It was like this when I entered the room.”

“Is anything missing?”

“I really haven’t had the opportunity to determine that, Andrew.”

“How can I assist you?”

“I’m all right. Monsieur Beaulieu has been remarkably helpful.”

“I should hope so, after the security of his hotel has been this lacking. How did the thief open the door?”

“It appears that the lock was forced,” Monsieur Beaulieu replied. “I assure you, Mr. Palmer, that the lobby has been fully staffed all day. I am as shocked as you that someone could enter the hotel and do such a thing.”

“It’s not your fault, Monsieur Beaulieu,” I said, looking at Andrew. “Andrew, could you please fetch Robert and Ivy for me?”

“Are they still in town?”

“They leave for Italy tomorrow.”

“I wish they were going to London. I could arrange for you to travel with them. You should not stay here any longer.” He left the room before I could reply, and soon returned with my friends, who agreed that I should make plans to go home. Nothing had been stolen from my rooms, leading the police to suspect that the burglar had been interrupted mid-task.

“What if he had still been here when you returned, Emily? What then? You really must go home,” Robert said.

“There’s no reason that I should leave.”

“What if he comes back?” Ivy asked.

“Your burglar obviously did not get what he came for,” Andrew said. “I believe it’s likely that he would come back. Were he simply a sneak thief, he would have taken anything of value, and even if interrupted, would not have left empty-handed. Something would be missing. The fact that nothing is gone indicates to me that this man thinks you have something of great value. Perhaps he did not have time to complete his search of your belongings. At any rate, he’ll certainly return.”

“If you decide to stay, Lady Ashton, I can have your rooms changed to another location in the hotel,” Monsieur Beaulieu said.

“You cannot think of staying!” Ivy interjected. “What if he returns when you are in your room? I cannot bear the thought of it.”

I was not wholly convinced but will admit freely that I no longer felt entirely comfortable.

“It does seem odd, doesn’t it, that a burglar would have taken the time to remove Renoir’s painting from the frame and then left it?” I said.

The most senior police officer looked down at me and winced slightly. “Madame, perhaps his taste in art precluded him from taking such a work.”

Two of the hotel staff restored my rooms to their original condition while Meg hovered over them, shooting menacing glances whenever she could. The episode had done nothing to improve her opinion of the French in general, and, unfortunately, she did little to hide her attitude. Robert and Ivy offered to stay in so that I wouldn’t be alone, but I refused to let them cancel their plans for their final evening in Paris. Instead I sent a note to Cécile asking if I could spend the night with her. She replied immediately, saying that her carriage was waiting for me outside the Meurice. She had planned to dine in that evening with Margaret, whom she had befriended immediately after seeing her lovely dress at Mr. Bennett’s, and assured me that they were both eager to see me.

“Mon Dieu!”
Cécile exclaimed when I arrived at her house. “My poor girl! Thank goodness you kept your jewelry in the hotel safe.”

“Nothing was stolen. It’s very odd, don’t you think?” I asked after recounting all the details of the incident.

“An inefficient crook, I imagine. I, too, am surprised he did not take the Renoir, but impressionist paintings don’t command high prices. Our friends do not receive the level of recognition they deserve.”

“I suppose you’re right. My sketchbook is destroyed—all the pages torn out and scattered about the floor. Your books, Margaret, are damaged but not unreadable. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t think about it. It’s nothing,” she replied, sitting next to me.

“I am convinced that the man I’ve seen following me is involved in this,” I said. “The police assured me they would search for him but thought it was unlikely that they would meet with any success. But why would he follow me all the way to Paris to break into my hotel? Other than the Renoir, which clearly was not his object, I’ve nothing of consequence here that I didn’t have in London.”

“It would have been more difficult for him to rob your house in town. Your servants would have raised an alarm,” Cécile replied. “He is not so inconspicuous as our cat burglar.”

“Yes, but what if one of my servants was his accomplice? Before I came to Paris, my butler informed me that he had fired one of the footmen for rifling through Philip’s desk. I wonder what I possess that is so interesting.” I told them about the note I had found in Philip’s guide to the British Museum.

“The footman was probably looking for some small trinket to sell. It’s not such an uncommon situation,” Margaret said. “I doubt he had more nefarious plans. As for the note, it’s most likely been sitting in that book for years and years, probably put there by Philip. I don’t see how it could possibly be related to what is happening to you now.”

“I suppose you are right,” I said, not entirely satisfied. “But I would very much like to know the story behind it.”

“Are you going to stay in Paris?” Margaret asked.

“I have not decided.”

“It would be terrible if you felt you must flee to London after such an occurrence,” Cécile said.

“I have mixed feelings about leaving but must admit that I’m quite interested to see if my mysterious friend will turn up again in London. Meg would be delighted to go home, of course. She insists she knew that something dreadful would happen if we stayed in France for any length of time.”

“I have my maid looking after her. Odette is charming and very clever; I think they will get along well. Perhaps a small step toward changing her perceptions?”

“It would be nice.” I laughed. “But I fear there is little hope of that.”

“I think you should return to London,” Margaret said matter-of-factly. “But not because I’m afraid the thief will return.”

“Why then?” I asked.

“Because I think you would benefit from attending the lecture series
I told you about this afternoon.” She turned to Cécile. “Don’t you agree?”

“I suppose so, although I’m certain you could find many equally interesting opportunities in Paris, Kallista.” She looked at me. “But I think you have already decided that Margaret would make an excellent traveling companion.”

“I admit that the idea of the lectures appeals to me greatly.”

“Then it’s settled,” Margaret said in her firm, bright voice. “You will leave with me, and I will depend on you to offer me asylum at regular intervals. I’m staying with a friend of my mother’s who may well bore me to death.”

“We must have some champagne. It is, after all, almost your last night in Paris. We are not going out, but we must make something of the occasion.” Cécile rang for the footman, who returned with a bottle and three tall glasses. “Has Worth finished your dresses?” she asked as the footman filled the glasses.

“No, but he will send them to his London shop for the final fittings.”

“Excellent. I look forward to seeing you in the blue gown.”

“Yes, I shall have to return to Paris at once when I’m out of mourning,” I said with a smile.

I retired early that evening, more tired than I realized. Margaret and I departed on the first train Thursday morning, and before long we were welcomed to London by a particularly dreary day.

20 M
AY
1887
B
ERKELEY
S
QUARE,
L
ONDON

I
HAD ALWAYS CONSIDERED THE HOUSE IN
B
ERKELEY
Square as Philip’s and, even after living in it for more than two years, thought of myself as a visitor. Upon returning from Paris, however, I felt the pleasant sensation of homecoming as I looked up at the elegant Georgian edifice, with its classical lines and tall windows. The entire upstairs staff queued up next to the baroque staircase in the entrance hall to welcome me back, and Davis seemed genuinely pleased to see me return. He assured me that everyone on staff would be on the alert for any sign of the man who had followed me and that it would not be possible for the thief, whoever he was, to break into my house. Cook outdid herself at dinner. According to the lower footman, who had a tendency to speak to me while he served, she wanted to make sure that I felt no culinary loss at my return to England, where she was certain the beef was superior to any that could be found in France.

After dinner I retired to the library and looked for something to read. The book I had carried on my honeymoon caught my eye, and I picked it up as I rang the bell for Davis.

“Would you bring me some port?” I tried to sound nonchalant and a bit sophisticated as I spoke.

“Port? Perhaps your ladyship would prefer sherry, if I may be so bold as to make a suggestion.”

“I believe that my husband had a fine cellar, did he not?”

“Yes, madam.”

“I see no reason that it should go to waste so long as I am in the house, and I’ve never cared for sherry.”

“Which port would you like, madam?”

I looked at him searchingly. “I have no idea, Davis. Could you make a professional recommendation?”

“The ’47 would be an excellent choice.”

“That will be fine,” I said, noticing that my solemn butler nearly smiled as he disappeared in search of the port. I looked at the book in my hand and wrinkled my nose.
Lady Audley’s Secret
was not the book a young bride ought to have taken on her wedding trip, and my mother had forbidden me to pack it. I, of course, had not listened to her and began reading the story of the gorgeous Lucy almost as soon as our train pulled out of Victoria Station. If Philip disapproved, he did not show it, laughing instead when he saw what I was doing. He asked that I promise never to push him down a well, as Lucy did her husband to avoid being exposed as a bigamist. I remember assuring him that, as I had no intention of being married to more than one man, he had little to worry about, but that one never could be too careful around wells. I also noted with some satisfaction that he knew the plot and so must have read the book himself.

Davis returned with my port as I was lost in this memory, and I jumped a bit when I realized he was standing next to my chair.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the glass he presented to me. I looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I shall like it?”

“The 1847 was the best vintage of the century, madam. It does not disappoint.”

I took a small sip and sat for a moment. “Delicious.” Now my butler did smile. “I saw that, Davis. You shall never be able to intimidate me again now that I know you smile.” He clearly did not know how to respond. “I’ve been sitting here thinking about Lord Ashton. You worked for him for many years, didn’t you?”

“I was in his father’s household when Lord Ashton was a boy.”

“I never considered Philip as having a childhood. Silly, isn’t it?” No response from the proper Davis. “What was he like?”

“Always getting into trouble, Lady Ashton. Climbing the roof, scaling garden walls, digging huge, muddy holes. Used to mount what seemed to him at the time grand expeditions through the grounds of the estate.”

“Then I am pleased to know that he was able to go on real expeditions as an adult.”

“Yes, Lady Ashton.” He stood silently for a moment. “Will that be all?”

I nodded, and he left me alone. I took another sip of the port, which really was good, and thought how enjoyable it was to behave in a way no one expected. I was trying to picture a smaller version of Philip tromping through the forests of his manor pretending to hunt for elephants when, for no apparent reason, I remembered the Praxiteles bust of Apollo that Monsieur Fournier had mentioned in Paris. Certain that it was not in the house, I went to Philip’s desk and took out his journal, which I had put in one of the drawers shortly after it was sent to me from Africa. During our wedding trip, he had written in the book almost constantly and seemed to record many purchases that we made; I hoped to find such an entry for the bust.

Flipping through the leather-bound book, I came across sketch after sketch of various antiquities, but nothing that could be Apollo. Philip’s technique was careless at best, but he managed to create a decent impression of the pieces he drew. Finally, toward the end of the volume, I found it: Apollo, hastily drawn, with
“Paris?”
written under him, with no indication that my husband had located, let alone purchased, the bust. I was about to return the journal to its drawer when I noticed a sentence written farther up on the page.

I decided to read more, going back to the beginning of the volume. Here I found Philip’s version of our courtship and marriage, the plans
for his safaris, comments on Homer, and general musings about the state of the British Empire. I laughed as I read his account of a dreadful evening spent with the Callums, none of the family attempting to hide their desire that he marry Emma, whose flirting had been particularly disgraceful that night. His lament on the pains of being a gentleman was particularly witty.

Soon came the story Colin had told me of the night Philip fell in love with me. Seeing on paper, in his own handwriting, the description of this event that meant so much to him and went largely unnoticed by me, I felt tears well in my eyes. He considered me his Helen. Of course I had to read more.

That he despised my mother surprised me; that this feeling began because she never left us alone in the drawing room before our marriage thrilled me. What would he have done had we been left alone? I loved the five pages he wrote planning what to say to my father when he asked for my hand, but not as much as those written in joyous rapture after I accepted his proposal.

I closed my eyes and tried with all my might to remember the details of that day. I know I had been arguing with my mother when he arrived and that she’d sat in a corner of the room embroidering, shooting menacing glances at me whenever she thought Philip wasn’t looking. I realize now that she must have known he was going to propose; my father would have told her. She was probably terrified I would refuse him.

Distracted from my social duties by anger, I had wandered over to the window and stood in front of it looking into the street. Philip had walked up beside me.

“Emily, it cannot have escaped your notice that my feelings for you have grown daily at an astounding rate.” I did not reply. “Never before have I known a woman with such spirit, such grace, and such beauty. When I think of the life I have before me, I cannot bear to imagine it without you.” He took my hand and looked intently into my eyes. “Emily, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

I was utterly shocked. Certainly he had called more often than other gentlemen of my acquaintance, but I had never noticed any particular attachment on his part; I obviously had none. Looking back, I realize that, my primary concern being avoiding marriage, I had never given much consideration to any of my suitors. As I looked at him, and at my mother peering anxiously toward us, I decided I would rather have him than her.

“Yes, Philip. I will marry you.”

A bright smile spread across his face, and his light eyes sparkled. “You make me the happiest of men.” He squeezed my hand. “May I kiss you?” I nodded and turned my cheek toward him; sitting in the library now, I remembered the feel of his lips against it and the warmth of his breath as he whispered, “I love you, Emily.”

I closed the book and placed it on the table beside me. For a moment it felt as if I had been reading a particularly satisfactory novel in which the heroine had won the love of her hero. But I was the heroine, and the hero was dead, dead before I had even the remotest interest in him. I started to cry, softly at first, then with all-consuming sobs that I could hardly control. I went back to Philip’s desk and opened the drawer from which I had taken his journal. In it I had also placed a photograph he had given to me shortly after our engagement. I pried it out of its elaborate frame, clutched it to my chest, and ran from the library, up the stairs to my bedroom. Meg rushed in from the dressing room, but I waved her away, falling asleep sometime later, still dressed and holding Philip’s picture.

I
SHOULD HAVE SPENT
the next morning leaving cards for my friends to alert them to my return to town, but I found the idea of doing so completely unappealing. Instead I took both breakfast and lunch in my room and did not ring for Meg to help me dress until nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. My head ached, and my eyes were red and swollen from crying. By two o’clock I had returned to my place in the library to resume reading Philip’s journal. While I was in the midst of an admittedly tedious account of a grouse hunt, Davis entered the room.

“Mr. Colin Hargreaves to see you, madam. Shall I show him into the drawing room?”

I felt myself flush. “Tell him I’m not at home.”

“Yes, madam.” Davis turned to exit the room, and I called to stop him.

“Wait! I may as well see him. Bring him here, Davis. I prefer it to the drawing room.”

I did not rise when Colin entered the library, and I barely glanced up to acknowledge his presence. “What a surprise, Mr. Hargreaves,” I said coolly.

“I know I’m calling at a beastly hour, but I just saw Arthur Palmer at his club, and he told me what happened in Paris. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”

“You look truly unwell. Shall I ask Davis to fetch you some tea?”

“No, please. I want nothing.”

“This is about more than the break-in, isn’t it, Emily? Palmer said you were utterly composed through all of it, yet—forgive me—you look dreadful now.”

I gazed at his handsome face and sympathetic eyes and started to cry again.

He knelt in front of me and took my hands in his. “What is it?”

“I…I miss Philip, Colin. I really miss him.”

“Of course you do, especially after going through such a ghastly experience. Had he been with you, you wouldn’t have had to deal with the police yourself or worry about how you would get home.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” I stood up and walked away from him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.”

“I hope you consider me a friend, Emily, in spite of the things I said to you in the Louvre. Please believe me when I say that I never meant to offend you.”

“It all seems rather irrelevant now at any rate,” I said with a sigh. “You should be the last person I would trust with this information.”

“You can depend on me, Emily. I would never deceive you.”

“But you were my husband’s best friend.”

“Whatever he did, Emily, I can help you.”

“Whatever he did? I would say that he never did anything; I was the one entirely at fault.”

“You? How are you involved? Did it begin on your wedding trip?”

“No, it started as soon as I met him.” His dark eyes fixed on my own, and I felt rather confused. “I don’t think we are discussing the same subject. To what are you referring?”

“No—please, go ahead. I must be confused. What is troubling you?”

“I never loved Philip. I never even tried to get to know him; I only married him to get away from my mother.” I paused and looked at Colin, who stood immobile, his mouth slightly open, as if he were unable to speak. “I see that you are shocked.”

“Yes, I am,” he said quietly.

“But now, now that he is dead, I have spent more than a year hearing from every person I meet how wonderful he was. I have read his journal, learned of his interests, his passions, and I find myself quite desperately in love with him.” Having said it out loud, the statement seemed ridiculous even to me.

Colin moved closer to me, his eyes locked on mine. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Please don’t think me coldhearted. I don’t believe I knew myself well enough when he courted me to love anyone. I would give anything to go back and begin again.”

“Thank God he never knew. He loved you completely and thought you kept a distance from him because you were innocent.”

“I can tell from your tone that you are angry with me.”

“Not angry. Maybe disappointed.”

“Then you are unfair. My mother raised me, with the express purpose of marrying me off to the richest, highest-ranking peer possible. I never had any say in the matter. I could not study what I wished, could not pursue any interests other than those she thought I should have, and learned years and years ago that romantic feelings would have nothing to do with my marriage. Can you blame me for distancing myself from my suitors?”

“Perhaps not, but one might hope that the woman who has accepted one’s proposal would at least try to make the marriage a happy one.”

“I never said we were not happy. Quite the contrary. I should never have told you any of this.” I stormed across the room.

“I have always thought the upbringing of young ladies to be significantly lacking. Now I have my proof.”

“Can you not at least give me credit for recognizing the man he was, even if I have done so belatedly? It is not as if I married him and loved someone else. And believe me, realizing that I love him now, after his death, is punishment enough for anything I have done.” Colin stared at the floor and said nothing. “I know I made him happy, Colin.” I picked up the journal and shoved it toward him. “Read this if you don’t believe me. He was utterly satisfied; pity
me
for missing my chance to share in his bliss.”