And Only to Deceive (4 page)

“Do I amuse you, Mr. Hargreaves?” I asked severely.

“Yes, you do, Lady Ashton. You are trying too hard to be polite. Why would you want to spend the rest of the year attending the somber, boring dinners and teas acceptable for a widow newly out of deep mourning? I believe I share your view of society.”

“Of course one couldn’t do without it,” I said.

“No, I suppose not. It does provide us with a set of arcane rules of behavior and, as Trollope so aptly called it, a marriage market. And I
will admit to finding great pleasure in a ball, so I imagine we shouldn’t abolish the entire system.”

“Quite right. What would you men do if there were no ladies to watch riding on Rotten Row in the morning?”

“I am certain it could lead to nothing good,” he replied, leaning toward me conspiratorially. I offered him a drink, which he accepted gratefully, crossing the room to pour it himself rather than making me get up from my comfortable seat.

“I think that I shall have to give you an open invitation to drink my whiskey whenever you are here; I’ve no idea what I shall do with it otherwise.”

“You could drink it yourself.”

“An excellent suggestion certain to terrorize my mother,” I said enthusiastically. “Ladies should drink only sherry, you know, and I’ve always detested it.” He smiled and handed me a glass. I took one sip and cringed. “Foul stuff.”

He laughed. “I think you shall have to rely on other methods of tormenting her.”

“Perhaps I shall try port next. Davis tells me there are cases and cases of it in the cellar.” I twirled the undrinkable golden liquid in my glass, and we sat quietly for a moment. “I imagine you and Philip spent many pleasant evenings in this room.”

“We did, Lady Ashton.” He looked at me rather pointedly. “It was in this room after a ball at Lady Elliott’s that he first told me he had fallen in love with you. He watched you avoid the attentions of a baron, two viscounts, and an extremely elderly duke.”

“Philip wanted to succeed where other viscounts had failed.”

“Hardly. He told me he had seen a lady spurn several very eligible men and that this clearly indicated she wanted something more than a title and a comfortable allowance.”

I didn’t know what to say; I had never considered the matter. A good marriage was my parents’ goal for me, though not one in which I had
any particular interest. As I have already said, I felt no inclination toward the institution other than as a means of escaping my mother’s house, but could hardly admit this to Mr. Hargreaves.

“A young lady rarely knows what she wants. At any rate, her wishes are largely irrelevant, so it is best that she not form too many opinions about any of her suitors,” I quipped, trying to sound lighthearted.

“But you obviously formed an opinion of Ashton. You accepted his proposal immediately and after very little courtship.”

My heart sank in my chest. “Yes, I did.” There was nothing else to say, so I sat in silence for some time.

“I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Ashton. This conversation is inappropriate on every level. I should not force you to think about painful topics. Please do not imagine that your husband ever spoke of you in an indelicate fashion. It is only natural that he would confide in his best friend.”

“Of course. You are forgiven, Mr. Hargreaves. How could I find offense in anything you say after you have so kindly arranged my trip to Paris?” I refilled his glass and changed the subject. “Will you leave London for the country soon?”

“Probably not. Like you, I prefer to travel abroad.”

“Then perhaps our paths will cross again in Paris,” I suggested.

“I would enjoy that very much.”

We conversed for another quarter of an hour, until it was time to dress for dinner, at which point he rose to leave.

“Mr. Hargreaves,” I said as he headed toward the door. He turned to me. “I think we may dispense with formality. Please call me by my Christian name.”

“Thank you, Emily. I’m honored.” His smile was excessively charming and brightened his dark eyes most attractively.

5 A
PRIL
1887
B
ERKELEY
S
QUARE,
L
ONDON

W
ITHIN ANOTHER WEEK
I
FOUND MYSELF COMFORTABLY
settled into a sumptuous suite of rooms overlooking the Jardin des Tuileries in the Hôtel Meurice on the rue de Rivoli. I saw Ivy soon after my arrival and was delighted to find my friend enjoying her honeymoon. Although she and Robert were pleased to see me, I couldn’t help but notice that they seemed concerned that I had no immediate plan to return to England. I confess that after they left for Switzerland, I felt quite lonely, almost regretting my decision not to bring a companion with me. Walks in the Tuileries filled my mornings, and I took tea with other English guests at the hotel, and before many days had passed, I grew accustomed to the rhythm of the city.

Being alone in Paris was quite different from being alone in the house in London, although I suppose this was largely due to my own state of mind. Having entered the period of half mourning, I could now go about as I pleased, and people in Paris seemed less concerned with the demise of my husband than those in London did. In London I felt self-conscious when I began leaving my house after my husband’s death, as if everyone who saw me knew that I hadn’t really mourned him. In Paris I knew that no one would give me a second thought. I rarely encountered anyone who knew Philip personally, and therefore I avoided those uncomfortable encounters with people who wanted to talk about him. My social standing did cause me to be invited to a number of soirées, dinners, and parties, but I felt no need to attend any that did not interest me, confident that my mother would not appear from behind a bush in the Tuileries to scold me for refusing an invitation.

During this time I finished reading Chapman’s
Iliad
as well as
The Age of Fable
. Rather than turning my attention to the
Odyssey,
as I had originally planned, I delved into Pope’s translation of the
Iliad
. The Meurice was only a short walk from the Louvre, and I spent many afternoons there mesmerized by the exquisite collection of antiquities. After touring all the Salles Grecques, I returned to my sketchbook, starting with a fragment of the Parthenon friezes that depicted an Athenian girl and two priests. I could not reproduce the scene as accurately as I would have liked, and wished that I had paid better attention to the drawing master who had taught me at my mother’s house. But, my lack of skill notwithstanding, what better way to spend an afternoon than in a noble attempt to capture some of the Parthenon’s exquisite beauty? Every moment that I spent reading, sketching, or wandering through the museum brought me closer to the man I had married, a feeling I welcomed, although I was not quite sure why.

“There is a man waiting to see you, Lady Ashton,” my maid informed me as I returned to my rooms following one such excursion to the Louvre. “A Frenchman, madam,” she said, wrinkling her nose to show dissatisfaction. “I only agreed to let him wait because he said he was delivering something of Lord Ashton’s.”

“Meg, we are bound to see Frenchmen occasionally, given that we are in their country. Bring him to me. I’d like to see what he has.” A few moments later, she announced a Monsieur Renoir, who carried under his arm a good-size flat package wrapped in brown paper.

“Madame, I was devastated to learn of your husband’s death. It was a tragedy indeed.” His dark eyes burned intensely. “It pleases me more than you know to be able to deliver to you this picture.” He placed the package on a table away from the window. I opened it immediately and was shocked to see my own face.

I couldn’t speak. I had heard of the work of the impressionists but had seen few of their paintings. Renoir had captured the essence of my face while bringing to it a beauty I had never seen, colors and light dancing across the canvas.

“How did you paint this?” I sat down. “Please pardon me, but I am rather confused. Obviously, I did not sit for this portrait.”

“I hope you do not find it displeasing.”

“No. No. It’s lovely, Monsieur Renoir.”

“Lord Ashton stopped in Paris en route to Africa before his death. He showed me a photograph taken on your wedding day and asked that I paint a portrait of his bride. I had to rely on his descriptions of your coloring. Now that I see the original, I think he did you justice.”

“I hardly know what to say. Did you know my husband well?”

“
Oui,
madame. He did not buy his paintings from dealers but directly from the artists. He had an appreciation of impressionism not shared by many, which I like to think shows a greatness of mind. He dined with us whenever he came to Paris.”

“I had no idea.” I paused. “Did he pay you already?”

“My child, this is my wedding gift to the two of you. I only wish he could have seen it.”

“Thank you, sir. I shall treasure it.” Monsieur Renoir cocked his head and looked at his painting.

“
Portrait of Kallista
. I think it is one of my finest efforts.”

S
OON THEREAFTER
I
ACCEPTED
an invitation to tea at the apartment of Cécile du Lac, an older woman to whom I had been introduced at a dinner party. The note she sent struck me as surprisingly charming, and, having passed several rather uneventful days, I agreed to attend. Meg helped me into yet another gray dress and arranged my hair beautifully, all the time lamenting that I was not going to tea with, in her words, “a nice English lady.”

I have had the good fortune always to have lived in lovely homes. Large rooms, beautifully furnished, with fine collections of art adorning their walls. Madame du Lac’s house, however, was opulent beyond anything I had seen in a private residence. Her quarters surpassed even Buckingham Palace, although that may be more of a comment on the queen’s taste than on Madame du Lac’s. She received me in a sitting
room whose white-paneled walls and ornate ceiling were embellished with gilt flowers, cupids, and caryatids. A large mirror hung above a marble fireplace on which an enormous golden clock rested between two towering golden candlesticks. The parquet floor shone brightly, and the chairs placed around the room were upholstered in a pale, icy blue, all their wood gilded. Curtains in the same blue silk were tied back to reveal long windows. Madame du Lac seemed to belong in another time. Dressed in a flowing tea gown, she ushered me into this pleasantly bright room herself, motioning me toward one of the delicate chairs.

“Sit if you can, child, though how you can manage anything in that corset is a mystery to me.” I smiled politely, not having the nerve to say anything. “I’m afraid you shall find my manners somewhat lacking. I am old enough to disregard them. If that makes you uncomfortable, I am sorry for you.” She clapped her hands, and two tiny dogs appeared and jumped into her lap.

“I am perfectly comfortable, thank you,” I lied, still smiling. One of the dogs began nipping at the lace on her gown, and the other followed his lead.

“Caesar! Brutus! Down!” she cried, removing them both from her dress and putting them on the floor, where they sat nearly motionless, staring up at her. “Do you have dogs?”

“I believe there are some hunting dogs on my husband’s estate. I have not been there.”

She did not pursue the subject. “I have been interested in speaking to you since seeing the lovely portrait Renoir painted for your husband. Very romantic, I thought.”

Had I not been so tightly laced, I would have squirmed in my seat, believing that I was once again caught having to pretend to have had a deep attachment to my poor husband. “He was a kind man,” I said noncommittally, wondering how soon I could leave without insulting her.

“You must have to suffer through conversations like this too often.

He was a man whom everyone admired. How terrible for you. You didn’t know him long, I believe?”

“No.”

“Did you know him at all?”

I froze, unsure what to say.

“Don’t be alarmed,
chérie
. I am not judging you. Like yours, my husband died soon after our marriage, and I was plagued by his friends. They all assumed I knew him as well as they did, when in fact I rarely conversed with him. The marriage had been arranged by our parents. We had nothing to do with the decision. After he died, it was quite embarrassing and very difficult to keep up the appearance of having been close to him.” Before I could begin to formulate a response to this, Madame du Lac pulled a tasseled bell cord; almost instantly, a servant in full livery that must have been designed to match the room appeared. “I drink only champagne. You do not mind?”

“Of course not.” I accepted a glass from her man and started to drink it slowly. Feeling a bit braver, I added that I had never before been served champagne for tea. This comment earned a hearty laugh from my hostess, and I joined in her merriment. The wine loosened my tongue, and soon the whole story of my marriage poured out. Madame proved to be a refreshingly sympathetic listener.

“My greatest difficulty has been just what you said, pretending to know him better than I did. I know that as time passes, people will stop mentioning him, and therein comes my problem. The more I learn about Philip, the more interesting he becomes to me. I made no effort to know him before his death, and I fear that is something I shall grow to regret deeply.”

“You had very little time to know the man, Kallista. I shall call you Kallista. It is vastly superior to Emily.”

“I assumed him to be transparent, like most people I meet in society. Now instead I find that he was a scholar of sorts, a patron of museums, and a friend to artists. I thought he was a stupid hunter.”

“Would you have behaved differently had you known any of these things before your marriage?”

I paused to consider her question. “I don’t think so,” I said at last. “I don’t think I should have had much interest in Greek antiquities or Homer or the impressionists then. My only real concern was avoiding my mother.”

“Then the fact that you were not interested in Philip is irrelevant. Had you known about his passions before his death, you most likely would have decided they were boring and wouldn’t be able to enjoy them so thoroughly now. They would mean as little to you as his hunting trophies do.”

“Perhaps you are right, but now I am filled with an overwhelming urge to learn everything about him that I can. When Mr. Hargreaves told me about the night Philip fell in love with me, I felt something inexplicable.”

“Don’t fall in love with your dead husband, Kallista. It can bring you no joy.” Madame du Lac motioned for the footman to refill our glasses.

“Oh! I would do nothing of the kind. But how can I help wanting to know more about him? Monsieur Renoir said he bought paintings, but there aren’t any impressionist works in our house. Perhaps they are in the country, although it seems unlikely. Where could they be?”

“I couldn’t begin to guess. Try not to spend too much time worrying about such things. You must enjoy Paris. What are your plans while you are here?”

“I have already achieved my primary goal of escaping London and can now think about what I should like to do next. Mr. Worth is coming to me Tuesday, so I can order some dresses, but other than that I don’t really have any plans.” Madame du Lac picked up an embroidery scissors out of her workbasket, rose from her chair, and snipped some material from the hem of her curtains. She handed me the swatch.

“Have him design you a dress in this color. I have never before seen anyone so flattered by a color as you are by this shade of blue.”

“Madame, I am still in mourning….”

“I insist that you call me Cécile. Otherwise you will make me feel old enough to be your grandmother, which I probably am. Silly custom, mourning clothes. Men wouldn’t stand for it. That’s why you rarely see them with more than a black armband. But it is different for us, and I surely don’t want to see you cut from society. The time will pass quickly, and before you know it, you will be able to wear what you wish.”

“Men don’t need mourning clothes because their suits are already dreary enough, don’t you think?”

“Quite right, Kallista,” Cécile said, laughing. “Make sure Worth has the dress ready for you.”

I thanked her and slipped the fabric into my bag. All the way back to the Meurice, I felt as if I were floating. As I stepped out of my carriage in front of the hotel, I once again had the unsettling sensation of being watched and was suddenly terrified that I would turn around and see the man with the dueling scar. I glanced furtively over both shoulders but saw no one suspicious; I quickly placed blame on my consumption of champagne too early in the afternoon. The next time I spent an afternoon with Cécile, I would have to insist upon tea.