Tasha Alexander - A Poisoned Season

I was in greece by the end of the following week, having traveled through Paris to give Cécile her earrings and to collect her, Caesar, and Brutus. I wanted her in Greece with me and knew that I could not have her without her dogs. Colin was no longer in France, having been summoned by Buckingham Palace to Vienna to work on I knew not what. I missed him but was content to be back on Santorini, basking in the warm sun, unable to get enough of the salty air.

Mrs. White had been quite altered by her stay at the villa; I hardly recognized her when I arrived. Mrs. Katevatis, my cook, had been horrified when she first saw the woman and immediately took her under wing. She fed her all the wonderful Greek food I had come to love, and before long Mrs. White had started to gain weight and eventually lost altogether the gaunt, pained expression that I had seen when I first met her. Edward thrived on the island, chasing Cécile's dogs and following Adelphos, Mrs. Katevatis's son, everywhere. Edward idolized the older boy. The trip had done both mother and son immeasurable good.

I let Mrs. White explain to the child who his father had been, and after she had finished, I presented him with a gift from Beatrice: Marie Antoinette's pink diamond. He was too young to understand the significance of the stone and its history, but someday he would, and I hoped it would bring him some measure of happiness.

We fell into a happy routine at the villa, and as always when I was in Greece, I thought that I should never want to leave. Cécile and Mr. Papadakos, the village woodworker, had completed the miniature rendering of Pericles' Athens they had started on in the spring and were now working on a re-creation of the temple of Artemis at Ephesus. I studied my Greek, dividing my time between reading Homer and practicing the modern language by conversing with the villagers.

We ate breakfast outside whenever the weather was fine, and on this day the sky was bluer than ever, and the Aegean Sea spread below us like a great swathe of sapphire silk. I was reading the mail and nearly jumped out of my seat when I opened the first letter in the pile.

"I cannot believe it!"

"What is it?" Cécile asked.

"Mr. Bingham has donated the silver libation bowl to the British Museum."

"I am most impressed. You have mastered the art of persuasion."

"Don't get too excited. He says that he did it only because he could no longer stand being bothered by me with such astounding regularity. Excellent phrase, don't you think? Astounding regularity. 'It is as if, Lady Ashton, you are the tide, banging away at a delicate seashore, oblivious to the effect of your battery on the sand.'" I laughed. "I'd far prefer to be the ocean than the sand."

"Kallista, you have a visitor," Mrs. Katevatis called to me from the kitchen window. "He's said he would wait for you on the cliff path."

Now I did jump from my seat, knowing instantly that there was only one gentleman who would come all the way to Imerovigli to call on me. The village, perched high atop a cliff on the island, was connected to the city of Thíra by a path that offered spectacular views. I walked along it nearly every day, and it was here, months ago, that Colin had proposed to me. Today when I found him, he was looking over the caldera at the remains of the ancient volcano, but he turned to face me as soon as he heard me approaching.

"I have to admit that, in the end, you did win our bet," Colin said, taking my hands. "So I've come to Greece as you demanded."

"Here only out of duty?" I asked, smiling, wondering how I could have forgot how perfectly handsome he was.

"There are some duties a gentleman prefers to others."

"How was Vienna?"

"I've actually come from London. I had some business there."

"Anything that would interest me?" I asked, fully expecting his usual reply to this question.

"Yes, actually. I hope it will all interest you. But first, I've some gossip I think you'll be pleased to hear."

"What?"

"Lord Pembroke has caused a scandal that has shaken the aristocracy to its core."

"Dare I even hope? What did he do?"

"He eloped to Gretna Green with Isabelle Routledge."

"He didn't!"

"He did."

"That is most welcome news," I said. "My faith in the English gentleman is restored."

"I'm glad to hear it. Now for the rest." He pulled some papers out of the pocket of his white flannel jacket. "Your solicitor sent this. It's a list of houses he thinks might suit you in London."

"Oh." I took the paper from him and glanced at it, hating the thought of having to set up an entire house, dreading the emptiness of it, and feeling a piercing disappointment that such impersonal business had brought him to me.

"Anne confirmed that there is no need for you to feel that you can't stay at Berkeley Square."

"That's kind of her."

"I hope that the rest of these will change your mind about purchasing a house altogether. I cannot leave my estate to you, Emily, and I am aware of the difficult position in which that could place you. I can't break the entail, but I can do this." He handed me two pieces of paper.

I gasped as I looked at the one on top. "A deed for the books in your library?"

"All of them. They're yours, whether you marry me or not. I've settled them irrevocably on you."

The next paper made me laugh out loud. "Your port? You're giving me all of your port?"

"I do hope you won't object to my keeping the whiskey." Our eyes met, and I thought I could stand there forever drinking in his love for me. He brought his hand to my cheek, gently, barely touching it, but the sensation was completely overwhelming; it had been so long that I could hardly remember the feeling of his skin on mine.

"Colin —"

"Emily, will you have me?" he whispered.

"I've done an excellent job resisting you up to now, but when faced with your books and your port..." I took his hand. "You were quite right when you told me a person could find in The Greek Anthology a passage appropriate for nearly any situation. ' I am armed against Love with a breastplate of Reason, neither shall he conquer me, one against one; yes, I a mortal will contend with him the immortal: but if he have Bacchus to second him, what can I do alone against the two?'"

"I knew you wouldn't be able to pass up the port," he said.

"Does this mean I get my kiss?"

He bent down and brought his lips to mine, but not before he had slipped the ancient band of gold and lapis lazuli onto my finger. I can say without hesitation that all the time I'd waited had served only to heighten the moment; never before had there been such a kiss.

Myriad thanks to...

Jennifer Civiletto and Anne Hawkins, my two favorite people in the world of publishing: editor and agent extraordinaire.

Danielle Bartlett and Tom Robinson, tireless publicists who work miracles.

Laura Klynstra, for the stunning cover design. Nobody does it better.

Kristy Kiernan and Elizabeth Letts, who read, edit, neurote, comfort, celebrate, and still manage to write their own books. What's wrong with talking on the phone three times a day?

Marcus Sakey, who not only found a title for this book (a seemingly impossible task) but also led me to the wonderful poem by W. H. Auden that so perfectly frames the story.

Jon Clinch, Rachel Cole, Zarina Docken, Melanie Lynne Hauser, Renee Rosen, and Sachin Waikar, for keeping writing from becoming an isolating endeavor.

Bente Gallagher, for reading an early version of this manuscript in record time and providing almost instantaneous feedback.

Shiloh D'Orazio and the crew at the Five Points Starbucks, for keeping me well supplied with chai and letting me sit for hours on end. Jon Allen, we all miss you!

Christina Chen, Tammy Humphries, Carrie Medders, and Missy Rightley, for being the most steadfast friends a person could have.

B.S.R.: Yes, I could have finished the book without your mountain retreat, but the experience wouldn't have been nearly so idyllic.

Gary and Stacie Gutting, who consistently go above and beyond the call of parental duty, even volunteering to read for me in the middle of the night.

Anastasia Sertl, for constant inspiration.

Matt and Xander, who are forced to tolerate substandard meals and a house full of dust buffaloes, not bunnies, while I'm writing. You deserve far more than thanks.

Tasha Alexander is a graduate of Notre Dame and the author of And Only to Deceive. She lives in Franklin, Tennessee.