The Muse (37 page)

She nodded and then at seeing his quizzical expression, “What?  Are you asking if I want to go?”

“Yes,
chérie
.”

“Why wouldn’t I?  Of course I’ll go.”  His hesitation surprised her.  “Graham, forgive me for saying so, but it seems as if it is you that maybe does not want to go to Everfell.  Am I right?”

He shrugged.  “No.  I
do
want to go.  I want to take you to Everfell.  It is so fine and grand, architecturally significant.  I think you will enjoy it, and you should definitely see it.  And I wish to see my family.  It’s just—”

“What is it, my darling?” She rested her hand on his forearm.

He sounded melancholy again.  “It’s just that I wish I could take you away.  Just us.  Away from everyone, away from duties, and responsibilities, and requirements.  I really want to take you to Ireland, to Donadea, but it is not fitting to return there so soon after being away from England for a year.”

Imogene put her hands up to his face.  “I love you.  I know you will get your wish sometime, and I am sure it will be all that you hope for.  It gives us something lovely to look forward to.  In the meantime you can tell me all about Donadea and I will cherish hearing your stories of what must be a most magical place if you love it so much.”

He did not speak, but rather nodded his acceptance.  It did give Imogene some comfort to see her sensible words had earned her one of his rare, but shining smiles.

Their guests were announced at that moment by a footman, and they moved greet them.

Imogene observed Graham in his role as congenial host, able to accommodate the tastes and interests of his guests. He welcomed Byron warmly and proceeded to engage him in conversation about his travels to Greece and Arabia. To her surprise, Byron’s manners were irreproachable in Graham’s presence, and she was pleased to know he could follow decorum when it suited him. Maybe Tristan had schooled him before their arrival.

Imogene sat back, content to observe and listen to Byron regale them with stories about his travels. Over dinner, the topic turned to Greece and the Parthenon was mentioned. Graham remarked that he and Imogene had toured the British Museum and had opportunity to see the Parthenon Marbles.

“Lady Rothvale, you are very quiet tonight.  What have you to say about the marbles?” Byron inquired.

“You wish a woman’s opinion on the whims of government?”

“Yes, I do,” he challenged.

“Well, the carvings themselves are remarkable, one of a kind.  Most of them are friezes so they are not carved in all of their dimensions, but flat on the back where they were attached to the Parthenon. I will confess, that seeing them cut apart and lying on the floors was bothersome. I dearly hope the final presentation of the marbles will be done with dignity as befitting works of such importance. They should be mounted on the walls in their display, I think.” She paused to gauge reactions to her definite opinions. “But all of this is just superfluous to the fact they are here in England and most likely will stay here.” Bestowing a tentative glance at Byron, she guessed, “I think you are asking me, did I agree with their removal from their place of origin?” She saw his slight nod of agreement. “While I can comprehend the argument for preserving priceless artifacts from within a country whose political situation is unstable and that the risk of losing said artifacts is possible.  Even so, I am not sure I can condone Lord Elgin’s transference of the marbles to England.”

Graham beamed at her from across the table with a look of pride as they awaited her view on the matter.  He encouraged her with a quick wink. She forged on, “My reason is that the Parthenon is a temple, an ancient place of worship, a shrine.  The manifestation of the gods themselves preserved in exquisite sculpture encircling it.  ’Twould seem profane to desecrate a shrine by dismantling it, even if the religion is an ancient and pagan one.  I cannot deem it was righteous to take them.  Even if the Greeks have fallen upon hard times, and cannot preserve what is theirs, the fact remains that the Parthenon friezes
are
the property of the nation of Greece.  I wonder at the concept of them being available for sale at all.  I can only imagine what the ancient Greek philosophers would have to say about England, in her presumption to rob away from Athens, her history, her art, her sacred temple gods.”

The three men stared at her after she finished her argument, but Byron was the first to chime in.  “Lady Rothvale, my dear cousin, it is refreshing to meet a woman who is not only endowed with beauty, but a working brain as well.  You make an eloquent argument, but I agree with you in that nothing so sensible will likely come into the minds of those in government.  They must feel obligated to dither and argue, and in their way of delaying action, so wrestle control and permanent possession of their loot.”  I am sure it is as you have suggested, and that the marbles are unquestionably here to stay.”

“I thank you for the compliment, your lordship.  I do not know you well enough yet to gauge your sincerity in claiming kinship with me.  Do you really and truly believe us to share family blood, or are you merely bestowing flattery?”

“Yes,” was his maddening reply, “and I insist that you call me George,
Cousin
Imogene.”

He turned his attention on Graham then. “Rothvale, how did you ever secure her?  The gods surely favoured you with providence in finding and winning such a wife,” Byron said admiringly.

“I asked her to dance at a ball, and she, in her benevolence, agreed to it.”  Graham looked reminiscent. “Your comment about the gods showing favour is accurate, Byron, because I can remember that exact sentiment flying through my mind when Imogene graced me with that first stunning smile.”

“I wish I had spied her first.”

Imogene thought Graham was generously tolerant in his response. “Oh come now, Byron, you do not strike me as a man quite yet content to settle into marriage.  Your prodigious fame and celebrity must make great demands on you.  How could a wife possibly fit into all of that?”

“You are probably right, but still, maybe I would have considered it just the same if my cousin had been known to me,” he sulked.

“Now gentlemen, I should say I do not care for you speaking of me as if I am not right here with my ears attuned to every word you say.” Imogene ended the topic for them.

“Please forgive us,
chérie,
it is very boorish behaviour on our parts.  Our society is sorely lacking of ladies tonight and all eyes are turned on you I am afraid.”  Graham smiled down to her.

Imogene inclined her head in acceptance of his apology and returned his smile.  They shared an intimate glance for just a moment.  Both of them remembering how they had spent the afternoon, and the pact they had made to be impervious to Byron’s gauche attentions. Tristan had to grin at Byron’s arched brows, his annoyance at Imogene’s obvious devotion to her husband clearly readable.

In an effort to change the topic of conversation, Tristan broached a new subject.  “Byron, how do you weigh on the notion of a gallery of portraits, for the nation, for England?  Graham and I have discussed it often, and keep abreast of any news of action toward that goal.  The idea has been much weighed about since the government let slip away that treasure trove of paintings that eventually went to the Hermitage and the Russians.  I dare to say it was a tragic loss of opportunity to found such a worthy institution as well as a loss to the nation,” he said regretfully.

“Hmmm, a national gallery you say?  What kind of portraits would go into it?”

“Famous individuals, historical figures, landscapes, anything really as long as it was quality, and worthy of representing England to her citizens,” Graham interjected.

“Mayhap a portrait of me could be included,” Byron suggested with a smirk.

“Ah, I know you are jesting, Byron, but your portrait is exactly the kind of work that should be included.  You are an English poet of note and your likeness should be preserved and gifted to the nation for prosperity.  Some day you will not be here on this good earth, and there should be a record of your likeness, so future generations can feel that they knew you in some small way.”

“Such the philosopher you are, Rothvale.”

“I am serious, Byron.  I would gladly commission a portrait of you.”  He turned to Tristan.  “Tristan, if you are of a mind, and he is willing, please consider my offer sincere and paint a portrait of him, by all means.”

“This talk of portraits reminds me I should still wish to watch Mallerton at work.  When will you next sit for him, Cousin?” Byron directed the question at her quite firmly.

Imogene could see his mind working, knowing he had no intentions of letting the matter go.  He wanted to coerce her because he was keeping her secret about the other portrait.  She wracked her brain for a solution, knowing that Graham would never allow Byron to observe an intimate portrait sitting. 
You are a devil of gargantuan proportions, Byron!

“Ah, George,” she said charmingly, “I have a proposition in regards to that.  Will you hear it?”

“Of course,” he replied, his face alight, thinking he would get his way after all.

Imogene took in the countenances of all three men as they trained their undivided attention on her.  Byron wore one of deceit; Tristan, one of amused anticipation; and Graham, one of foreboding.  She honored Byron with an enthralled glance before presenting her plan, praying he would accept it.  “Since you have expressed a sincere wish to observe Mr. Mallerton at his talent, what if
you
were to sit for
your
portrait during your stay here?  We could come and keep you company while you sit.  It would be for a worthy cause.  I believe it might benefit all of you in the end.”  Imogene looked at all three men individually before continuing. “George, you will have the opportunity to learn about the prospect of seeing Mr. Mallerton go about his excellent work, and he will get credit for it.  My husband will have a superbly executed painting, with which to gift to the nation for the portrait gallery when it is ultimately founded.  And lastly, your likeness will be preserved onto canvas for posterity and future generations, securing your contributions to the literary world as worthy of the highest honor.”

They all watched as Byron’s demeanour changed from interest to one of self-satisfaction.  He really did think quite highly of himself, falling easily into Imogene’s trap.  Extolling the importance of his image being preserved in honor of his literary talent, she snared him. “I think it is an excellent plan and I will agree to it, but only if you keep your promise to stay with me throughout the sittings—you know, ease the boredom of it.”

“YOU have my word,” Imogene replied serenely to Byron, looking down the table at Graham, whose expression was at that moment, filled with utter amazement at the genius of his wife. 
Unbelievable…my precious Imogene has captivated the most famous poet in England, if not the world. Thank God I found her before Byron ever did. 
Graham could not hold back the involuntary shudder that coursed through him at the thought of what Byron would have done with an innocent like Imogene.

And combined with her earlier questioning as to why he didn’t want to go for an extended visit to Everfell made him ache that he couldn’t tell her the real reason.

I am afraid and I wish I could take you far away.
 
I want to shield you from the ugliness that is brewing.  So you cannot know, and will not turn from me.

Later that night in the privacy of their bed, both of them pondered the interesting conversations they had shared with Byron.  “Well, thanks to you and your sharp mind,
chérie
, all survived the evening without great insult being thrown.  You have gifts and talents that astound me, Imogene.  The way you dealt with him was miraculous to behold.  He could not have refused you if he had wanted to, so securely you ensnared him.  Are you over the strain of it, my sweetheart?”

“Oh yes.  But before you thank me, please remember that we will still have to bear his company through the sittings.  And what is it about him that is so different?  I cannot put my finger on it, but strangely there is something about Byron that is atypical.  What is it do you think? And what of he and Tristan?  They are close friends?”

Graham sighed.  “I knew this day would come eventually.”