A Terrible Beauty (10 page)

“The storm?” Jeremy asked.

“I don't think so, as nothing else in the camp suffered a similar fate. It is as if someone did it deliberately.”

“How terrible,” I said. “Who would do such a thing?”

“I haven't the slightest idea,” Herr Reiner said. “But he must be told.”

“Inside,” Jeremy said. “No point delaying the inevitable.”

The others were still in the music room, where Margaret was playing a rousing rendition of “Say Au Revoir and not Goodbye,” a song I found particularly inappropriate in the present circumstances. Colin pulled me aside at once. “Come upstairs,” he said. “I want to speak with you privately.”

The shutters in our bedroom remained closed all day against the heat of the sun, keeping the room deliciously cool. Colin pushed the door shut behind us and pulled me roughly to him, kissing me with the intensity of fire. I tangled my fingers in his curls, barely able to catch my breath. He raised me slightly off the ground, my toes leaving the tiled floor, and moved toward the bed, stopping when he reached it and setting me gently back on my feet.

“Apologies,” he said, taking half a step back from me. “This is not the time.” He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. “I cannot lose you.”

I took his face in my hands. “There is no question of that. It is only … what are we to do with him?” Suddenly I could not bear the oppressive darkness of the room. I went onto the balcony, slipping through the door so as not to let hot air into the house. Colin followed me, bringing with him the ewer of water and two glasses that had stood on a bedside table. I flopped onto a chair as he passed me a drink. He went to the edge, looked over, and then sat beside me, pulling his chair close.

“No one is below. We may speak freely, but should keep our voices down,” he said. I nodded. “My emotions are a tumult, but I am more concerned for you. Are you all right?”

“As right as anyone could be in the circumstances,” I said. “Do you think it really is Philip?”

“I was wholly incredulous at first, despite the physical similarities—”

“His nose looks different than I remember,” I interrupted.

“Yes, but he explained it has been broken. That does alter one's appearance. I imagine the scar on his chin came at the same time. The time he says he spent in Africa and at archaeological sites would explain the lines on his face—he is a walking example of why your mother insists you carry a parasol in the sun—and of course we all change over the course of a decade.”

“Yes, alas,” I said. “And the scar on his leg? You recognized it?”

“I can't say so with precision. I saw the wound that caused it, and the scar looks like a good match. You, er, may have…” He cleared his throat. “You may have seen it more—”

“I was only vaguely aware of it.” The words tumbled from my mouth and I scrambled to change the direction of our conversation. “Did you recognize him as your dearest friend? Not physically, I mean.”

“When you left with Bainbridge, we picked up conversation as if we had spent no time apart,” Colin said. “His manner and his way of thinking have not changed.”

“What did the two of you speak about?”

“He is distressed at having come to us and wants everything to go on as if nothing has happened. He will return to the dig, and we to our lives.”

“What about his family?” I asked. “Do they know he is alive?”

“No, and he is adamant that they not know.”

“He is a viscount. He can't just walk away from his responsibilities.”

“He did that years ago, and is confident the estate is in good hands with his nephew—”

“Who is only twelve years old,” I said.

“And away at school, yes. The boy's father and Ashton's sister have matters well in hand. He has no desire to take back the title. He finds the life of an archaeologist suits him, and regrets only that he agreed to come to Santorini, as the decision has now caused you pain.” A shadow crossed my husband's face.

“He had to know if he was working here eventually we would find out,” I crossed my arms. “I visit Ancient Thera several times a year. It is only good fortune that has kept him from being exposed before now.”

“Please do not judge him so harshly, Emily. If he is telling the truth, he is in an untenable situation. When he realized you were in love with me, it nearly killed him, and it took him years to move on from the blow,” Colin said. “But now he has, and if he came here with the secret hope that he might, perhaps, be able to see you from afar once in a while, it is a small sin.”

“Is he telling the truth?” I asked.

“The evidence points to it, for now at least. I cannot reconcile the breadth of his knowledge of our shared experiences any other way, but I cannot say with absolute certainty.”

“You speak most calmly for someone who only a few minutes ago was acting as desperate as I feel,” I said. A breeze kicked up from the sea, bringing welcome relief from the heat.

“Calm is my best armor,” he said, his jaw firm. “I do not know the legal specifics of our situation. Whether our marriage—”

“Is valid.” I bit my lip. “Jeremy and I were discussing the same thing.”

“Is Bainbridge a solicitor now?”

“Don't be unkind. He is only trying to help.”

“Forgive me.” He stood and started to pace the length of the balcony, running his hand through his hair. “He has been a good friend to you, and for that I am grateful.”

“Should we contact someone? I worry for the boys—”

“They are legitimate. There is no question of that.” No one would dare disagree with Colin when he spoke in that tone.

“No?” I asked.

“The court would declare them so even if our marriage—” He stopped talking, tipped his head up to the sky, and blew out a long breath. “How can this be happening?”

“I tried to run, you know,” I said. “I couldn't bear to face it. Escape seemed the best option.”

“If you hadn't come back when you did I would have set off for St. Petersburg in search of you.”

“How did you know I was considering Russia?”

“You've always wanted to go. Whenever I'm sent there for my work, you beg to come along. Furthermore, I am well aware of your admiration for all things Fabergé.”

“You know me so well.” I tried to smile, but pain seared through me. How much longer would we be allowed these private moments if I were legally someone else's wife?

Colin sat back down, pulled me onto his lap, and kissed me again.

“You cannot do this in broad daylight,” I said.

“Why not? On the privacy of our own balcony? With the door to our chamber locked behind us?”

“Is it still our own balcony?” I asked, burying my face in his neck. “I am most appreciative of this man's not wanting to cause us further distress, but can it be as simple as him returning to his camp and us remaining here? There is more going on here, Colin, and I am afraid he may need our help.”

“Whatever he may or may not need, he will not take me from you, my dear. That is the only certainty before us.”

 

Philip

Vienna, 1891

The excavation season—what a thrilling season!—in Turkey finished, Reiner had returned to Munich. Ashton, however, flush with earned income for the first time in his life and full of excitement after months spent unearthing treasures (even tiny ones), went to Vienna, where he had arranged to spend the winter working for a well-respected antiquities dealer. It had occurred to him that he perhaps ought not use his proper name, as eventually someone might draw a connection between Philip Ashton, archaeologist, and the Viscount Ashton, who had a reputation of sorts in the world of classical scholarship. “Philip,” he decided, was innocuous and common enough to never draw attention on its own, but he adopted “Chapman” as his new surname, after his favorite translator of Homer's works. Mr. Chapman—how funny to be a “mister” after all these years!—had proved an asset to the team in Turkey, and looked forward to returning there in the spring. But for now, he had Vienna, a city he had always loved. It would be the perfect place to usher in the New Year.

No longer could he afford his favorite suite at the Hotel Imperial, so he rented rooms in a quiet part of town. He took to frequenting a café not far from his digs, and spent most evenings there, delighting in political and philosophical conversation with the other regulars. None of them knew him from his past life, but they all accepted him as one of their own after he gave a particularly passionate defense of Nietzsche's work. In the span of a few weeks, he had created another new world for himself, one in which no one judged him based on title or income. One quiet night early in the winter, an elegant lady, the picture of perfect sophistication, called out to him, her voice husky and rich.

“Can it be the Viscount Ashton?” She stared openly at him, her bright eyes dancing. “You must know just how shocked I am to see you. You look remarkably well for a dead man.”

“Forgive me, I wasn't expecting—”

“You cannot claim surprise to learn I spend far too much time in this neighborhood,” she said. “It is a favorite haunt of Hargreaves's, although he has always preferred Café Griensteidl to this place, despite the fact that his rooms are so nearby. I am certain you know that almost as well as I, but for rather different reasons. Sit with me, Ashton. I am a countess now—I have married since you last saw me—so we are both titled. Perhaps now we are equals you will call me Kristiana, despite the fact you never would before. I always wondered if that was because we did not know each other well enough or because you did not approve of my relationship with our mutual friend. Why are you in Vienna? He is already gone, you know.”

“It is a long and convoluted story. I was in Africa longer than anyone knew,” he said, sitting across from her and motioning for the waiter to bring him a coffee.

“I would imagine so, as everyone believes you are dead.”

“I am surprised the news traveled all this way.”

“It caused quite a sensation at the time. Hargreaves was devastated.” Her tone suggested to Philip that she and his friend had fallen out since then.

“Do you still see him?” he asked. He prayed she would not notice the hope in his voice; it was beneath him. He ought not wish such a thing on Kallista.

“Only when my work necessitates it,” she said. The waiter returned with fresh coffee for them both. She stirred hers despite putting neither sugar nor cream in it. “
Mein schatz
has, shall we say, moved on.”

“To my wife.”

“Yes.” The countess licked the spoon before returning it to her saucer. “Wicked man. They are to be married, you know.”

This hit Philip like the blow of a hammer on an anvil. “Married?”

“Don't look so crushed.” She folded the newspaper she had been reading and set it to the side. “It wounded me as well, and I wasn't supposed to be dead. Which returns me to a subject about which I am most curious. Why did you disappear? I never suspected you had the constitution to follow Hargreaves's path of employment, yet—”

“She cannot marry him.” His chest clenched, first with panic and then with growing anger.

The countess leaned away and draped her arm over the back of her chair. The posture ought to have looked strained, but instead her insouciance lent an air of permanent and sophisticated elegance to her every gesture. “Why shouldn't she? You haven't gone back to her. Are you forbidden to let her know you are alive?”

“Forbidden? No, of course not. I intended to let her know, but then I saw Hargreaves kiss her. Can you imagine how that felt? She did not mourn me.”

The countess laughed. “I know we were never close, but I had not taken you to be so sentimental. Whatever did you expect her to do? Mimic your tedious queen and keep to her widow's weeds forever?”

“Of course not,” he said. “I only—” He closed his eyes. “One would like to think it not quite so easy to get on with one's life after such a tragedy.”

“I understand her mourning to have been rather unconventional, if you must know, but I assure you she did grieve.” She shook her head and shrugged. “You must not want her back. If you did, you would have made your presence known at once, regardless of what you had seen. One would expect someone in your situation to have been catalyzed to intervene by the incident. The fact you did not tells me you are not sure you still want her.”

“You could not be more wrong, Countess. I adore her.”

“I insist you call me Kristiana,” she said, leaning forward and placing her hand on top of his on the table. “I cannot tolerate formality from the dead. So you adore her. Did you follow her to Vienna? She has been here with him, you know.”

“I did not know that,” he said. “My work brought me here, not my wife.”

“Your work?” Her lips curled into a wry smile. “How curious. Do tell me—what is your profession?”

“I am employed in an antiquities shop during the winter. For the rest of the year I pursue archaeology.”

“An odd cover, but I know better than to ask questions,” she said. “I presume you are no longer using the name Ashton.”

“No. I have become Philip Chapman,” he said.

Her eyebrows raised. “Suffice it to say I am aghast to learn you, Hargreaves, and I are in the same business. I always pegged you as an overeager dilettante.”

He did not correct her error. “I am aghast as well. I would never have thought so refined a lady would engage in that line of work. He never told me, but you have given yourself away.”

“Surely you suspected.” She fluttered her eyelashes like an ingénue. “I always thought that was why you disapproved of me.”

“I do not disapprove of you,” he said. “So they were both here, in Vienna?”