A Poisoned Season

18

My mother's efforts on behalf of my reputation were not in vain. Somehow, she managed to broker an uneasy peace between society and me. Although I was still not being invited to many of the best parties, no one dared to openly cut me, and my situation could only improve after the following week's tea with the queen. And so I learned that there are, in fact, benefits to having an absolute dragon for a mother, and I loved her for it. I know not what my mother said to Lady Elliott, but I received from her a gracious note of apology and a belated invitation to a soirée she was hosting. I sent a gracious note of my own, determined to remain above reproach, but declined the invitation. My mother might want me to change my behavior, but she had to have realistic expectations. Although I was not about to embrace all the nonsense required by society, I was going to make a very deliberate effort to make sure that no one ever felt belittled by me for having chosen to play all its games.

I took to spending days when the weather was fine in the park but avoided the fashionable sections. This chagrined my mother, who shuddered at the thought of running into people from Bayswater or, worse, those who rowed boats on the Serpentine, but she managed to keep most of her criticisms to herself.

Relishing the shade provided by a large plane tree, I sat in the same spot each day, hoping that this predictable routine would draw the attention of my admirer, who had remained silent for far too long. I would bring my Greek with me, and work at translating the Odyssey while attempting to take note of anyone who seemed to be watching me. Not once, however, either while walking to or from the park, or while I was sitting in it, did I notice anything suspicious. It was a grave disappointment.

One morning, as the sun slipped behind an ominous-looking cloud, I was gathering my books, not wanting to be caught in the rain, when a small, very dirty boy ran up to me.

"Are you Lady Ashton?" he asked.

"I am. Who are you?"

"Johnny. A gent asked me to bring you these." He handed over a thick bundle of letters held together with a blue ribbon. The handwriting was that of Léonard.

"What gentleman?"

"He's right over there." The boy pointed behind me, and I whipped around as fast as I could but saw no one. When I turned back, he had started running away from me in the opposite direction.

"Johnny, wait!" I cried, setting off after him. I was able to keep him in sight for a few minutes, but my heeled boots and fashionable gown made me no match for his speed, and I stopped, out of breath, the letters still in my hand. A quick survey of the area told me that my quest was futile. The boy had disappeared, and the gentleman, too...if he had even been there in the first place. I walked back to the bench, only to find that my books, my notebook, and my pencil were gone.

This took my breath away more than the running had. My copy of the Odyssey had been Philip's. It was bound in the finest Moroccan leather and matched his Iliad. He had written his name on the front page and made very light pencil marks to highlight his favorite passages. I felt sick. I had taken to copying down those passages in the original Greek, as I had done with the Iliad before, but was only halfway through the volume. Now I would never know what he thought of the rest of the book. And his nephew, the new viscount, whom Philip had hoped would share his love of all things classical, had lost another connection to his uncle.

buried these thoughts as best I could and went home. At least I had the letters. Back in my library, I did not sit at my desk — Philip's desk — but instead took the bundle to the window seat and began to read. I raced through the first three without pausing, grateful that I was fluent in French. But as I started in on the fourth, two things struck me. First, that my admirer, who I assumed had sent them to me, had left no note of his own, and second, that I had not the slightest clue what I hoped to find in them.

I pulled Marie Antoinette's letters out from the desk drawer in which I had placed them — the same drawer in which I kept Philip's journal, and the sight of that familiar book at once warmed my heart. I picked it up for just a moment and opened it but did not read even one sentence. Somehow, the feel of the ink on the pages brought me comfort, as if they had the power to forgive me for having lost the Odyssey, and I decided to continue my work at the desk. I took stock of the letters. There were thirty-six altogether: sixteen of them written by the queen, twenty by Léonard. I sorted through both sets, laying them out by date, so that they could be read in the sequence written, but this strategy brought no new illumination. The correspondence provided only a mundane account of the queen's days in prison, with the revelation of not a single significant detail.

Jane Stilleman's trial was to begin before long, and I had let myself run amuck with this foolish notion that reading hundred-year-old letters would somehow help me find David Francis's murderer. I was now hideously short of time and could not afford to squander any more. The letters, my admirer, and Charles Berry were proving to be nothing more than fruitless distractions. Davis rallied me from this unpleasant thought by announcing that Ivy was waiting for me in the drawing room.

"You should have brought her here," I said as I breezed past him into the hallway.

"Your callers seem to have their own opinions about what room they would like to be received in, madam. Who am I to argue?"

Ivy was not sitting when I entered the room. "Good afternoon, Emily," she said, all formal courtesy.

"Heavens, Ivy! What's the matter?"

"I came here to apologize for not having done anything to assist you these past weeks. I've been entirely remiss as a friend." I pulled her down next to me on the settee.

"Why is it always too early for port when we are faced with these sorts of conversations?" My question did not draw even the slightest smile to her face. "I'm perfectly aware that I've put you in far too many awkward situations. If anything, it's I who should be apologizing to you."

"You deserve a friend who understands you better, Emily. Colin brought you to the opera. Margaret and Jeremy persuaded her parents to join you. Your own mother has come to your aid. But all I have done is sit, listen to the gossip, and say nothing more than that I can't believe you would do such a thing."

"Your job is not to disprove these rumors."

"No, but I should have at least tried to offer an impassioned defense of your character."

"I'm not sure that my character would stand up to an impassioned defense."

She still would not smile. "I'm so sorry, Emily. I've just become so embroiled in my own troubles that I've no longer time to manage yours." I was not certain whether she meant this as an explanation or a good-bye. "I need to return this to you." She handed me the book she'd been holding: my copy of Mount Royal.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I never had the chance to finish it."

"What are these troubles, Ivy? Are you and Robert still having difficulties?"

"Yes, but it's more than that. Lord Fortescue is heaping pressure on him, and —"

"And Lord Fortescue doesn't think it becomes the wife of a future cabinet minister to consort with a fallen woman?"

"You always were too clever," she said.

"I have such a low opinion of Lord Fortescue that nothing you could tell me about him would shock me. What has he done now?"

"He wants you off the guest list for my ball and has had very sharp words with Robert over our friendship."

"I'm sorry, Ivy."

"I've insisted on keeping you on the list. Robert was very kind about it."

"I'll stay home if it will make things easier for you."

"No. You must come. I just wish all this would stop, because, Emily, in the end, my loyalty has to lie with Robert."

"Of course," I said. "How are you enjoying your charity work with the Duchess of Petherwick?"

"It's absolutely dreadful. I think I shall scream if I have to embroider one more christening robe. I can hardly stand the sight of baby clothes."

"So you're not..."

"No," she answered quickly, averting her eyes.

"This is not your fault, Ivy."

"How can I ever know that?" she asked.

"Couldn't you tell Robert that you'd prefer to do your good works elsewhere?"

"The Duke of Petherwick is a valuable political ally."

"You are a very good wife, Ivy. Robert is a fortunate man." I didn't like to see her slipping into melancholy. "So tell me about the duchess. Do you think the marriage is a happy one?"

"She's quite content," Ivy said, perking up. "It surprises me. He's so much older than her!"

"And she's the second wife."

"And he has children nearly as old as she."

"Poor woman," I said.

"Best I can tell she has a baby every time her husband so much as glances at her."

"Doubly poor woman."

This made Ivy laugh. "I suppose you're right. Though at the moment, it sounds like perfection to me."

"Not every time he looks at you, my dear. As lovely as you are, you'd be saddled with an inordinate number of children."

She blushed. "I'd be satisfied with two or three."

"Keep Mount Royal, will you? Read it at night when you're waiting for Robert to come home. Leave your door open. Call to him when he comes in. Tell him that you can't sleep."

"He doesn't like my reading —"

"Throw the book under your bed when you hear him coming. I know you don't feel right going to him, Ivy, and I understand your hesitation to do so. But surely there's nothing wrong with greeting him when he returns if you're awake?"

"Perhaps, Emily, perhaps. I might need more than one book, though. He stays out terribly late."

"I can happily provide you with as many books as you would like." I took her by the arm and led her to the library. "Why did you insist that Davis put you in the drawing room?"

"No nefarious reason. I've always liked the way the room is decorated and wanted to steal ideas for my own house."

"I was afraid you'd come here prepared to throw me over," I said as I opened the door to the library. "What has happened here?" The letters that I had so carefully laid out on the desk were no longer as I had left them. Instead, they had been placed in two neat stacks, and closer inspection revealed that the two final letters written by Léonard were gone.