And Only to Deceive

29

"I am surprised and delighted to see you dressed in such an inappropriate color!" Andrew cried when he saw me.

I ignored his good humor. "Sit, Andrew." I handed him the telegram. "Could you please explain this?"

"I don't understand," he began. "How is this possible? We shall have to change our course of action, but that is not-"

"I do not think it is quite so simple, Andrew. The Anglican Church Missionary Society states rather clearly that they have never heard of Mr. Wesley Prescott. Whoever that man is, he obviously is not recently returned from the mission at which my husband is recovering."

"Yes, I am quite stunned."

"I find that rather hard to believe," I said, looking directly at him. "After all, aren't you the one who gave Mr. Prescott my wedding photo?"

"Emily...how could you think-"

"Spare me the lies. I know you removed it from Renoir's studio. Enlighten me, Andrew. What is going on?"

He closed his eyes and sighed before speaking. "All right, you have found me out. I should never have done it. I don't know any better than you whether Philip is alive or dead. When you told me you wanted to go to Africa with us, I realized that if we discovered that Philip is in fact dead, I would have the perfect opportunity to renew my suit for your hand. If you could only imagine the hope this brought to my heart! But I began to fear that your friends would convince you that the trip would be too dangerous, too hopeless. I thought Prescott's story would ensure that nothing could keep you from traveling with me. I never meant to hurt you, Emily. You already had good reason to believe that Philip is alive. I only wanted to give you further confirmation."

"You have manipulated my emotions in an unforgivable way, Mr. Palmer. The game is up, and you may as well accept the fact that I shall never marry a man of so little principle."

He bristled visibly when I said this and leapt from his chair. "I admit that what I did was wrong. Obviously you have never desperately loved someone who did not return the emotion. You may insult me if you choose, but I will suggest that you consider your husband more carefully before you call me unprincipled. Perhaps you did not know Philip so well as you think."

"I can assure you that I am painfully aware of his shortcomings."

"And should I assume that you are prepared to overlook his blatant disregard for all things decent?" He flung the telegram to the ground. "Of course you are! Rich aristocrats will do anything to avoid scandal."

"I do not like your temper."

"Forgive me. It infuriates me. People like Ashton, Hargreaves-they always get what they want. He never deserved you."

"You feel this way, yet you were prepared to travel to Africa to rescue him?"

"You know my feelings for you. I would do anything to bring you joy. Lord, what a fool I have been!" He stomped out of the room without a word of good-bye.

Thirty minutes later I received an impassioned note from him begging my forgiveness and informing me that he planned to leave for Africa in two days' time, with or without me.

And so my adventure in Paris began to draw to a close. Cécile's meeting with Caravaggio would confirm the identity of our villain. Then I would figure out a way to stop the thefts and return Philip's stolen originals to the British Museum. Much though I hated the idea of letting Andrew and Arthur go to Africa without me, I could not travel with them. I drafted a letter to Lord Lytton at the embassy, giving him what information I had about Philip's possible survival and asking him to help me organize an official search party. I considered the possibility of having my husband's body exhumed but did not think my evidence sufficient to merit such a thing. Furthermore, the scandal that would ensue from such an occurrence really would terrorize the entire Ashton family. This thought made me wonder if I should write to Philip's sister, informing her of the recent events and begging her husband's assistance.

By six o'clock, having completed neither letter to my satisfaction, I decided to go out to the parts of Paris that Philip, if he were still alive, would almost certainly forbid me to see. I dressed in a fine gown of black silk and headed straight for Montmartre, with every intention of visiting the Moulin Rouge. Reality struck me less than halfway there; I could not go to such a place unescorted, not to mention while I was still in mourning. Confining though society could be, I did not want to abandon it completely. Instead I went to the Café Mazarin. Being on the north side of the boulevard Montmartre, it technically would not have been appropriate for a lady, but my Baedeker's guide assured me that the clientele at this particular café were perfectly within the bounds of propriety.

I ordered the blanquette de veau, which was delicious, and ate slowly. Afterward I had an absinthe, which seemed a bit daring, and began to plan what I would do after Cécile's meeting with Caravaggio. The liqueur was rather awful, but I choked it down nonetheless as I contemplated my future. It would be preferable to stay in Paris rather than London while waiting for news of Philip. I had no desire to answer to my mother, deal with social obligations, or pretend that nothing was wrong until I knew my husband's fate. Then, if he was alive-and I did, despite my misgivings, desperately hope that he was-I would of course defer to his wishes. Most likely he would want to return to England immediately.

And if he was dead, I would not go back to London; I wanted to go to Santorini. There I could determine my true desires free from any outside influence. I would apply myself to learning Greek and explore every inch of the island while I mourned the loss of Philip for a second time.

Fortified by another absinthe, I thought of Aline Renoir and her marriage. Never again would I marry for less than the happiness she enjoyed, nor would I do it before I knew better what I wanted from my life. If Philip was alive, I would devote myself entirely to him, confident that together we could capture more than an adequate amount of passion. I hoped that he would support me as I tried to discover what a woman in my position could be other than a society wife. If he would not-I pushed the thought out of my mind, sat back, and spent the rest of the evening reveling in the Parisian atmosphere.

8 JUNE 1888

BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON

My last night as a bachelor. Hargreaves and I marked the occasion with a magnificent '47 port.

K's things have been sent from Grosvenor Square. She will find all in good order-Davis saw to the details rather than letting the maids do it. I hope she will be happy in my house.

It is far too late, yet I cannot seem to sleep. Must try, though, as I have no intention of getting much tomorrow night.