"No, I couldn't," I sighed.

"Is this Andrew Palmer?" Margaret asked. I nodded; she wrinkled her nose and turned to Ivy. "Do you like him?"

"He's from a very good family."

"He doesn't seem particularly interesting."

"Mr. Palmer is the rare sort of man who does not expect a lady to be completely at the mercy of society. I like him very much."

"I will bow to your superior judgment, Emily," Margaret said, grinning. "I suppose there are many stupider men."

"I must be off," Ivy said, glancing at her watch. "If we are to leave Paris tomorrow morning, I must oversee my packing. I'm so sorry not to have the chance to visit with you, Margaret, but I know that you and Emily want to discuss Homer, and that is a subject on which I would have very little to say."

"You should read him, Ivy," Margaret said.

"He's marvelous," I added.

"I shall leave him to the two of you with little regret."

"She is a sweet, simple thing, isn't she?" Margaret observed after Ivy's departure.

"The dearest person I've ever met."

"Well-on to the task at hand. I think you should start by reading this series of lectures given by Matthew Arnold, the first professor at Oxford to lecture in English instead of Latin." She handed a monograph to me as she spoke. "He discusses the merits and shortcomings of various translations of Homer. How long are you going to be in Paris?"

"I have no fixed plan."

"I'm leaving for London at the end of the week to attend a series of lectures at University College. You should consider coming with me."

"I do not want to return to London yet."

"As you wish. If only I knew someone in Paris who could begin to teach you Greek."

"There is no urgency. For the moment I am content with Homer in translation, despite its deficiencies. The poetry captivates me absolutely."

"Understandable."

"I am so grateful for your guidance. We have a little time before Mr. Palmer will call for me, and I fully intend to keep you occupied for every moment I can."

"'The beauteous warrior now arrays for fight, / In gilded arms magnificently bright,'" Margaret quoted. "Let us begin."

Because our time was so limited, she suggested that we read aloud from Pope's translation of the Iliad. Although of the two of us she alone possessed any academic knowledge of Homer's great work, I surprised us both by being able to read it with a remarkably dramatic flair. Margaret was delighted and urged me to stand on a chair, book in hand. I quickly warmed to my subject and found myself speaking in as noble a voice as I could muster:

Declare, O Muse! in what ill-fated hour

Sprung the fierce strife, from what offended power?

Latona's son a dire contagion spread,

And heap'd the camp with mountains of the dead;

The King of Men his rev'rend priest defied,

And for the King's offence, the people died.

So engrossed was I in the poem that I did not notice Mr. Palmer enter the room until he was directly in front of me. The look of amazement on his face made me start to laugh; I lost my balance and tripped off the chair but managed not to fall completely, no small accomplishment in a corset.

"We will have to continue this tomorrow, Emily," Margaret said, laughing.

"I shall have read Mr. Arnold's lectures by then," I replied.

As she departed, Mr. Palmer turned to me. "Dare I ask what was going on here?"

"Best not to." I smiled, taking the arm he offered me.

We went downstairs and set off in his hired carriage. The late-afternoon light is lovely in Paris; I was contemplating its soft tone against the old stone of the city's buildings when my companion interrupted my thoughts.

"You'll excuse my forthrightness, Lady Ashton, but I am struck by your beauty."

"Thank you," I murmured.

"I am pleased that you agreed to accompany me today, even though I suspect you did so primarily to soften the blow of turning down my invitation to the theater."

"Imagine no such thing, Mr. Palmer. I accept and decline invitations as I choose, neither to soothe ruffled feathers nor out of a sense of obligation."

"Excellent. That must be the luxury of being a widow."

"I would hardly consider it a luxury. Had I better sense, I would have adopted the policy while I still lived in my mother's house."

"I see I have found a kindred spirit of rebellion in you."

"I am not a rebel."

"Believe what you want; I will hold my own opinions." We arrived at the Bois and joined the parade of carriages traveling through the park next to footpaths filled with fashionable ladies and gentlemen. Many acquaintances passed us; we waved to all and paused to speak to a few of them.

"There's Lady Elliott. Please don't stop for her," I begged. "She's a great friend of my mother's who has recently arrived in Paris. I haven't responded to her note and would prefer not to see her."

"Are you a poor correspondent?"

"I should say not. Generally I am quite good at replying to letters."

"You mentioned that you and Ashton exchanged letters when he was in Africa."

"Well, as much as was possible. I heard from him more frequently before he actually reached the Dark Continent. I imagine mail service is somewhat lacking in the bush."

"Yes, it is."

"He sent me letters almost daily on the journey from London to Cairo. After that I did not hear from him again."

"Those letters must have brought you great comfort."

"I suppose they did. I've often thought of reading them again. Maybe I shall when I return to London."

"You did not bring them to Paris?"

"No, why would I?"

"No reason. I just thought you might like to have them with you." He was quiet for a while and then laughed.

I looked at him quizzically. "What?"

"I am laughing at myself for being jealous of your dead husband. It pleases me to know that you don't read his letters and journal nightly to console yourself."

"It never occurred to me to consider reading his journal. Really, Mr. Palmer, this is a strange conversation. I'd rather not speak of Philip."

"Of course, Lady Ashton. My apologies. Shall we hunt down Lady Elliott and invite her to join us?"

"Ivy's right-you are a beast."

"Brandon should keep better control of her; I cannot have my reputation so tarnished."

"I think you are tarnishing it yourself," I said.

"And now you laugh at me."

"No, not at you. But it is delightful to laugh again, even with someone who has such bizarre manners."

"I do hope you can overlook my eccentricities. I know I speak too frankly and meddle where I shouldn't. I have no tolerance for superficialities and like to find the honest truth about those I befriend. I should, perhaps, be more delicate when it comes to a subject like you and Ashton. You are too lovely to suffer any discomfort."

"I shall reserve the right to be direct and inappropriate when questioning you at some future time. In the meantime, however, do you see Emma Callum over there?" I had spotted her walking not far from our carriage.

"Isn't she recently engaged?"

"Yes. She's in Paris to select her trousseau."

"Well, I hope she exhibits better taste in choosing it than she did that dress."

"You are terrible, Mr. Palmer."

"Please call me Andrew. I don't like to be reminded of my station in life."

"Very well, Andrew. You may continue to call me Lady Ashton, as I very much enjoy being reminded of mine." He looked shocked. "Surely you know I am joking."

"I do like you very much, Emily."

We drove on, speaking freely to each other and laughing often. The afternoon passed quickly and happily, although the air turned chilly as the sun sank low in the sky. When at last I returned to the Meurice, I was quite cold. I paused at the desk to ask the maître d'hôtel to have someone sent up to tend to my fire, knowing that Meg would not return from her afternoon out for some time. He handed me several letters from England and a note from Colin, which I opened and read as I walked to my rooms. He was leaving Paris and wrote to say good-bye. I forced the paper back into its envelope and fumbled with my key, suddenly realizing that my door was already unlocked. Unlocked and partially open.


17 MAY 1887

BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON


Never thought I could be grateful to a dragon like Lady Bromley for anything but am forever in her debt for seating me next to her daughter at dinner tonight. Lady Emily's sharp wit took me completely by surprise-I expected nothing more than the usual trite commentary on the Season. Not sure I managed to say two words of sense to her all evening. Must call tomorrow.

Have found most extraordinary calyx-krater at Leighton's shop; 5th c., probably from Rhodes, depicting an athletic contest. Fournier was there, too; needless to say, bidding war ensued, but his fortune is no match for mine. Sanctimonious bastard. I won and told Leighton to send it directly to Murray at the Museum, knowing this would incense my rival, who hates to see anything go off the market in such a (relatively) permanent fashion. Am regretting this somewhat, as would have liked to keep the vase with my collection, at least temporarily, but could not help myself.

9

I shall never forget the scene that greeted me when I opened the door to my suite. Everything was in a state of complete disarray: books strewn about the floor, their pages crumpled and torn; the contents of drawers dumped; my drawing supplies scattered about the room. The magnificent portrait Renoir painted of me had been ripped from its frame. Happily, the canvas itself was not damaged, the only bright spot in a hideous mess. As I stood looking at the painting, the man sent to attend to my fire walked through the open door and rushed to my side.