And Only to Deceive

6

Dinner at café Anglais never failed to delight me, and on the evening of Ivy's party, the esteemed chef outdid himself. Ivy spared no expense on the menu, and I am convinced that we had a meal nearly as extravagant as "Le Dîner des Trois Empereurs" hosted years ago by the restaurant. If anything, ours was better. Czar Alexander II had complained that he did not have foie gras; the chef told him it was out of season. Not so for us on that evening. I have no idea how, but the staff managed to find foie gras in the summer. Every course was exquisite, but it was the simple preparation of the delicacy for which the czar had longed that brought me unprecedented bliss. It was smoother than butter in my mouth.

The party broke up quickly after dessert. Colin offered to escort me home and asked the waiter to get us a cab, but when we stepped out of the restaurant, I asked if we could walk instead. The evening was cool, and the air felt marvelous, especially after I had so thoroughly stuffed myself. The atmosphere of the city bore little similarity to that of London. In Paris one felt buoyed by a sweeping energy that intensified emotions, made colors softer, and seemed to make even the act of drawing breath a tactile pleasure.

"I mean it when I say I have no desire to return to London," I said, looking up at the clear sky.

"I am quite in sympathy with you, although I would not discount the pleasures of London so completely. I do not think you have had the opportunity to thoroughly investigate them."

"I know you are correct, but I cannot separate London from my mother, and until that is possible, I shall never be comfortable there."

"I think if you agreed to marry an old, crusty duke with a large fortune, produced several dozen children, and asked for her advice on every possible occasion, you would get along with her famously."

I laughed. "You appear to spend little time in England. What do you do?"

"Nothing too different from your husband."

"You'll forgive me, Mr. Hargreaves, but we weren't married long. I can't say that I really know what Philip did, other than hunt in Africa."

"That certainly encompassed a lot of our time, although recently more of Ashton's than my own." His voice grew quiet as he spoke of his friend. "We determined, while at Cambridge, that we would visit every famous site from classical antiquity. Caused quite a scene in the harbor at Rhodes looking for the remains of the Colossus, which, I may point out, don't appear to be there."

"Misguided youth," I said with a smile.

"Quite. I met that fellow Schliemann in Berlin, and he gave me excellent directions to the site he believes is ancient Troy."

"Did you go there?"

"No. We started with the Colossus because we knew a chap at university who was headed for Cyprus and figured we could travel with him as far as Rhodes. After the next term, we went to Rome but soon became distracted from the project as we both took on more responsibilities."

"I should love to see it."

"Rome?"

"No, I quite prefer the Greeks. I'd like to go to Troy."

Colin laughed. "I cannot picture you trudging through the Turkish countryside."

"I thought you had liberal views on what women should be allowed to do. It's not as if I were suggesting joining one of your hideous hunts. I imagine that there aren't wild animals behind every rock in Turkey waiting to charge at helpless humans."

"I wouldn't object in principle to your going to Troy, but I will admit that I don't view you as an adventurous type." His eyes searched my own.

"Beast! You don't know me at all."

"Would you have the wardrobe?" He was laughing, and I realized he was teasing me.

"Isn't Ephesus in Turkey? Perhaps I could visit there on the same trip. I'll send you a note from the Temple of Artemis, where I assure you I will not appear in evening clothes."

"I didn't realize you had an interest in antiquity."

"Philip inspired me."

We had reached the rue de Rivoli and were nearly at the Meurice. "Let's keep walking; I would like to see the river at night." We turned away from the hotel and walked until we reached the Pont-Neuf. The air had grown chilly, and I had not worn even a light wrap; Colin stood near me to shield me from the wind blowing over the bridge.

"Can you imagine how many people have crossed this bridge?" I asked. "It must be three hundred years old. Do you think that Marie Antoinette ever stood here and looked across the Seine at the city?"

"Hardly. I think she would have had a greater appreciation for the views at Versailles."

"We consider this bridge old, but if it were in Athens, would anyone even comment on it? I shouldn't be impressed with anything less than two thousand years old if I were in Greece."

"Then you would miss some particularly fine Roman ruins, my dear. Why don't you plan a nice, civilized trip to Athens on your way to Santorini when you go?"

"I shall have to see how it fits with my plan to visit Troy."

Colin shook his head and took my arm. I let him guide me back to the hotel, but not before contemplating at some length the pleasure I derived from his standing so close to me.

Colin called on me the next afternoon, and I confess I was delighted to see him. I planned to dine in my rooms that evening and invited him to join me. He readily accepted.

"What time shall I return?" he asked. "I'll only need to dress."

"Don't be silly," I replied. "We shan't dress. I ordered a light supper and asked to have it early. It's only the two of us, and I don't think there are society spies lurking to reveal the fact that we intend to dine in afternoon clothes. I imagine that Meg will be suitably shocked, but she'll most likely recover."

"I thought ladies enjoy dressing for dinner."

"I'd enjoy it more if I could wear something other than mourning clothes."

"Yes, I can see that. Nonetheless it does you credit to honor your husband."

"I mean no disrespect to Philip," I said, hesitating.

"Of course not. I know you loved him."

I closed my eyes and sighed.

"I'm so sorry."

"Please do not apologize, Colin. But I cannot live the rest of my life being constantly reminded of my dead husband." I stopped. "I don't mean to sound cold. Do you understand?"

"I think I do," he said, and paused. "I should very much like to have a conversation with you during which I do not feel the memory of Philip looming over us." He looked in my eyes. "Do I offend you?"

"Not at all," I assured him, feeling a strange sort of thrill at being unable to remove my gaze from his. "I did not know Philip as well as perhaps I ought to have. Our marriage was very short."

"It takes considerable time for true companionship to develop," he said. "You need say nothing more on the subject. Tell me your plans instead. When do you intend to travel to Santorini?"

"I'm not sure. Paris has been remarkable, and I have no intention of leaving anytime soon."

"How long do you think you will stay?"

"I don't know. I won't be out of mourning until nearly Christmas, so I can't really do anything until then. I may as well be here as anywhere."

"You're only in half mourning," he said, running his hand through his thick hair, something he seemed to do rather frequently. I wondered if it was this habit that kept him from adopting the style of wearing it slicked back as Philip had.

"Yes, but that's really nothing spectacular. You can go wherever you want, just as long as you make certain not to have too good a time. And no dancing, of course."

"Do you like to dance?"

"I adore it."

"I admit that I've never given much thought to the practices of mourning. Do you think they have helped you manage your grief?"

"Not particularly." I smiled, liking his direct manner. "Tread lightly, my friend, lest our conversation return again to Philip."

"Men do not have to abide by such rigorous rules, yet I cannot believe they mourn their wives less than women do their husbands. Perhaps we ask too much of you ladies."

"A very enlightened comment. I'm most impressed," I said, smiling. "But in all seriousness, I think it's terribly unfair."

Colin leaned back in his chair and stared at me. After some time I wondered if I should speak but found myself mesmerized by his dark eyes.

"Dance with me, Emily," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Dance with me."

"There's no music."

"I'll hum."

"I shouldn't. I'm in mourning."

"You're not dead," he said, standing, never taking his eyes off me. I gave him my hand, and we began to waltz in what little open space my sitting room offered. His grace surprised me, but not as much as the way my skin responded to his touch. The feeling of his hand on my waist caused me to breathe deeply, and when at last he released me, my hands trembled as I stumbled back to my seat.

"I think I should go," he said quietly.

"Yes, you're probably right," I agreed, not sure what to think. "But we haven't had dinner."

"I find that I am no longer hungry." His eyes shone with an intensity I had not seen before in anyone. He kissed my hand, his lips lingering longer than strictly necessary, and rushed from my rooms.

21 APRIL 1887

BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON

Met a stunning girl at the Brandons' last night-Earl Bromley's daughter. Could not dance with her, as her card was already full. Dreaded encounter with Miss Huxley worse than expected. Will have words with Anne for having introduced me to her. Not only is she capable of speaking for fully a quarter of an hour without drawing breath (and on topics so boring that a mere three hours later I can't recall a single one), she has a way of clinging to a chap's arm that suggests she has no intention of ever letting go. Managed to eventually pry her away and sicced her on Hargreaves, who was unable to escape with as much ease as I did, not having the option of handing her off to a more handsome friend.

Have given thought to Lord Palmer's views on Hector v. Achilles and cannot agree. Hector is what man can strive to become; Achilles is that of which he can only dream. Who would not prefer the latter?