A Terrible Beauty

 

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About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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For my father, who, when I was little, told me a Greek myth every morning on the way to school, instilling in me forever a love of all things classical.

For my mother, who combines Aphrodite's beauty with Athena's wisdom.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Myriad thanks to …

Charlie Spicer, genius editor who always pushes me to be a better writer.

Andy Martin, Melissa Hastings, Paul Hochman, Sarah Melnyk, April Osborn, Tom Robinson, David Rotstein, Annie Kronenberg, and Anne Hawkins. A truly wonderful team.

Tom Cherwin, copyeditor extraordinaire.

Don Huff, for making beautiful maps.

Joe Konrath, who told me years ago that Philip had to come back.

Vasso Kavala, Apollonia van Bergen, Malia Zaidi, and Karin Gruedl, whose extensive knowledge of German ensured Fritz speaks his native language correctly.

David Thomas, for inside information on Cambridge student life.

Edward Gutting, phenomenal classicist, for checking my ancient Greek. Any lingering mistakes are my own.

As always, my writer pals and dear friends, who make every single day brighter: Brett Battles, Rob Browne, Bill Cameron, Christina Chen, Kristy Claiborne, Jon Clinch, Charlie Cumming, Zarina Docken, Jamie Freveletti, Chris Gortner, Tracy Grant, Nick Hawkins, Robert Hicks, Elizabeth Letts, Carrie Medders, Javier Ramirez, Deanna Raybourn, Missy Rightley, Renee Rosen, and Lauren Willig.

Xander Tyska, whose breadth of knowledge across so many subjects constantly impresses and amazes me. Best research assistant ever.

My parents, always.

Andrew, because he is quite simply the best.

 

Ah, no wonder

the men of Troy and Argives under arms have suffered

years of agony all for her, for such a woman.

Beauty, terrible beauty!

—The Iliad,
Homer,
TRANSLATED BY ROBERT FAGLES

 

Prologue

London

December, 1888

I looked at the profusion of mourning jewelry spread across my dressing table and sighed. A commotion coming from the corridor warned me of my mother's approach, so I selected a cameo brooch and a pair of small dangling earrings.

“Please remove the rest, Meg,” I said to my maid, who was hovering behind me. “If Mother had her way I'd be wearing all the jet in Whitby. Has Miss Cavendish arrived?”

“She has, madam, but I'm afraid Lady Bromley won't let her come up,” Meg said. “She does not want you to be further upset.”

“You can assure her I am not in any danger of becoming more upset.” I pressed my lips together and leaned toward the mirror in order to better fasten the earrings into place. Had my mother even the slightest awareness of anything beyond her own thoughts, she would have noticed that I was less upset than I ought to have been; indeed, I should have been traumatized. Only a few months ago, I had been a bride. Now I was a widow, swathed in crape, my handsome young husband having died on safari in Africa. A pain shot through my head, and I rubbed my temples. He had been handsome, hadn't he?

The door to the room opened and my mother bustled in, a vision of mourning perfection. If anyone might have been able to coax jet into sparkling, it was Lady Catherine Bromley. “We must leave for the church almost at once. Why are you not yet ready?”

“I want to see Ivy. Please let her come up,” I said.

“Your friend has no business upsetting you,” my mother replied. “I sent her home. You will see her after we return from the cemetery—” She stopped and scowled at me. “Have you been crying?”

“No.” I clipped the brooch onto my bodice.

“Very good. I realize that a widow—especially one so young as you—is often unable to avoid showing signs of tender emotions on the occasion of her husband's death.” She frowned and picked up the bonnet she had selected for me to wear. “One must maintain one's dignity at a funeral. Weeping would be unseemly.”

“There is no danger I shall weep,” I said.

“I have never been more proud of you, Emily,” she said. “Well, perhaps on your wedding day, but I always thought you could do better than a viscount. You should have had a duke.” This was the closest my mother had come to complimenting me in as long as I could remember. She motioned for me to stand, which I did. She did not attempt to hide the fact that she was appraising my appearance, no doubt already considering strategies to get me a duke the second time around—after, of course, an appropriate interval of mourning. Resisting the urge to tell her I would never marry again, I smoothed my skirt and pulled on a pair of black gloves so new I had to fight to get my hands into them. My gown was horrifyingly elegant in its cut, but decorated only with dull jet beads, perfectly capturing the incompatible extremes required by fashionable mourning. I draped a heavy, silk-lined mantle around my shoulders and my mother tied my bonnet under my chin. Its veils reached almost to the floor. “Fortunately, crape hides nearly everything, so you need not fear should a few tears escape,” she said.

She ought not have worried.

I heard hardly a word spoken during the service at St. Margaret's, although I am assured the sermon was particularly poignant. Not much fans the flames of rhetorical inspiration more than the death of a young man. The smell of incense, which ordinarily conjured in me images of exotic biblical lands, today struck me as acrid and harsh. I did not raise my eyes from the ground, even when the eight pallbearers rose to carry Philip's coffin to the waiting hearse. My mother ushered me into the aisle behind them, and I felt my sister-in-law clasp my gloved hand. I could not bear to look at her.