A Terrible Beauty (12 page)

I did not hear Margaret approaching until she spoke. “You really must have something to eat. I've asked Mrs. Katevatis to bring dinner to us up here. It is diabolically early for it, of course, but given that we missed luncheon and never had even a bite of something with tea this afternoon, I thought nourishment in order.”

“Thank you,” I said, not turning around to look at her.

“Are you crying?” she asked. A choked sob was my only response. She embraced me. “I take it you truly believe him now?”

“Yes,” I said, unable to stop my tears.

“This is a dreadful business, Emily, but you must look upon it as even more exciting than the most scandalous novel you have ever read. Can you imagine what Mary Elizabeth Braddon could do with such a plot?”

I laughed, despite myself. “She would probably have someone push me down a well.”

“I am glad to hear you laugh. Regardless of what Colin learns from the solicitor, nothing can wrench the two of you apart. Even if you must divorce Philip and then marry Colin again, is that so very bad?”

“The scandal—”

“When have you given so much as a fig about scandal?” she asked. “Only think what it would do to your mother! I am of a mind to advise you to insist on divorce and remarriage even if it is not strictly necessary, just to aggravate her.”

I laughed again, this time more heartily. “She would be well and truly put out, probably forever.”

“And, hence, stop interfering. She might even abandon her much-vaunted efforts to impose upon you her views of child-rearing.”

“Let us not get carried away, Margaret,” I said. “She would never abandon that. They are, after all—”

“The only male heirs your father has,” she finished for me. “Poor Henry. I can't pictures him as an earl.”

“He is only a little over three. Give him time.”

“It is good to see you smile.” She dabbed at my face with her handkerchief. “Now, before Jeremy comes up and disturbs us you must tell me everything. What did Philip say?”

“We spoke of our wedding night.”

“No!” I thought her eyes might pop out of her head. “In detail?”

“Nothing like
that
, of course. Well, not precisely, at least. He remembered a kiss.”

“A kiss that you, too, remember?” she asked. I nodded. “Well, then, I suppose I must outright reject any doubts about him being whom he claims.”

“I am afraid so,” I said. “No one else could have known the details of what occurred between us.”

“Will you tell Colin?”

“I tell Colin everything.”

“You might, my dear, want to amend that policy ever so slightly, if only in this single case. No one could object to keeping private moments shared with your first husband from your second.”

“I agree in principle, but it is rather more complicated when one is confronted with both spouses simultaneously.”

“Do what you like, but if you do not heed my advice, I shall be standing here, ready to remind you of my words when it all goes badly wrong.”

“You are kindness itself, Margaret,” I said. “Whatever would I do without you?”

 

Philip

Magnesia on the Maeander

Turkey, 1892

Philip felt surprise at finding his work selling antiquities so fulfilling, although it did on occasion pain him to no longer be able to afford for himself the sort of prize pieces he had acquired as the Viscount Ashton with no regard for their cost. He had thought, when he first began the work, he would like to open a gallery of his own, but as winter slipped into spring and he traveled back to Asia Minor, where he and his friend Reiner were excavating with Carl Humann at the newly discovered Magnesia on the Maeander, he realized his passion lay in archaeology.

Kallista had married Hargreaves. He had read the announcement in
The Times
. He could no longer pretend she would ever again be his, and had, instead, to find something else on which to focus. Excavation proved a worthy successor, stimulating him physically and mentally, and bringing him endless satisfaction.

The dig filled him with exhilaration like nothing before. No thrill could compare to brushing away centuries of dirt to expose a perfectly carved statue, fixing together the fragments of a beautifully painted vase so it looked all but new, or restoring to their original glory the columns of a temple to Zeus. Collecting became almost an afterthought to him now, and he decided not to return to the shop in Vienna when the season ended. He would focus solely on this excavation, on its treasures and on the ancient people whose sandaled feet trod upon the pavement he helped to uncover. Scholarship brought more satisfaction than commerce.

He buckled his pith helmet under his chin and waved to Professor Humann as he set off in the direction of the Temple of Artemis. Every step he took on Turkish soil—land once called Ionia, part of the Greek empire, and the place that held the ancient city of Troy, a site more important to Philip than any other in the world—brought him closer to the heroes of his childhood.

Even as a small boy, he had felt a deep connection to classical mythology, but nothing had affected him more profoundly than reading
The Iliad
. If only he had discovered his archaeological fervor before Heinrich Schliemann, the German archaeologist who shared his obsession with Homer's stories, had died, he might have had the good fortune to excavate with him at Troy. He had heard rumors that one of Schliemann's team, Wilhelm Dörpfeld, might mount an expedition of his own, and if those plans came to fruition, Philip was determined to be part of the crew. He might have lost Kallista, but he could accept the city of Homer's epic as worthy consolation.

 

8

Some (initially, myself included) might have objected to our planned picnic with the archaeologists so soon after the tragic death of their colleague, but we Britons do not allow ourselves to become mired in despair, and evidently the Germans felt much the same. I woke up early on the morning of our outing to Ancient Thera and slipped onto the balcony off our bedroom while Colin still slumbered, his thick curls unruly and the bedsheet pulled down nearly to his waist, exposing the well-developed muscles of his bare chest. The scene looked almost ethereal through the mosquito netting hanging over the bed. Adonis himself would have wept to see such physical perfection. Had my husband not so thoroughly exhausted himself the previous night after we had left our friends huddled downstairs over a backgammon board, I would have been tempted to wake him, but as things stood, I felt he had earned his rest.

Mrs. Katevatis, knowing my habit of rising early, and far before Colin, had, along with a bowl of fruit, left outside our door for me a small pot of mountain tea, brewed from the Sideritis flower, a beverage the Greeks viewed as treatment for nearly any ill. I found it refreshing and always took a cup before breakfast when on Santorini. Helios and his chariot had already begun their daily ride across the sky behind me, and the rosy streaks of sunrise had started to permeate the western view, dyeing the water of the caldera a dark violet splashed with indigo. I had hardly finished my first cup of tea when Colin padded onto the balcony, the sheet bunched around his waist.

“If you are trying to present me with a distraction certain to keep me from Ancient Thera, I will tell you immediately you have succeeded,” I said. “You should not show yourself outside in such a state.”

“No one can see me but you,” he said, looking skeptically at my teacup.

“Would you like some?” I asked.

“Mountain tea? I shall hold out and hope for something more drinkable.”

“Do you mean to torment me, coming out here like that?”

“Not at all,” he said. He split open a pomegranate from the bowl on the table, scooped out some seeds with his fingers, and fed them to me, their tart sweetness mingling with the salty tang of his skin. “I am only trying to ensure you remember, when archaeological fervor strikes you later today, that there are other things, equally diverting, to be done at home.”

“Only equally diverting?”

“That, my dear, remains to be seen,” he said. “I am fully aware of how much you adore ruins.” He went inside and turned his attention to his morning ablutions, while I was left to resent having to eat the rest of the pomegranate seeds without his titillating assistance. I could hear him humming the overture to
Don Giovanni
in the bathroom. Eventually silence and a whiff of shaving lotion told me he had finished, leaving the room free for my use. I finished my last cup of tea, took a final look over the caldera, and went inside.

Colin, moving faster than he ordinarily did in the morning, was already dressed, although his damp curls, his rolled-up shirtsleeves, and the jacket carelessly tossed over his shoulder suggested he had not taken much care with his appearance. To my mind, he looked even more handsome than usual. He kissed me as I passed him on my way to the bathroom and went downstairs in search of good, English tea.

Meg, my lady's maid, seldom traveled to Greece with me anymore unless I felt she required a holiday of her own. I rarely dressed in a conventional manner on Santorini, preferring instead to spend my days in cool cotton caftans or breezy tea gowns when inside and well-tailored suits that did not require a corset when exploring the island. As none of these items required assistance beyond that which my husband could supply, and as I was capable of braiding my long hair and pinning it on top of my head, I had not needed Meg to come with me. I laced my ankle-high boots and adjusted my skirt—adapted from those currently favored for bicycling—before buttoning my slim jacket. Pith helmet in hand, I collected the others and we set off for Thera.

We kept horses on the island, preferring them to the ubiquitous donkeys for everything other than the trek up from the port, and I had named them after the immortal steeds who pulled Helios' chariot across the sky each day: Aethon, Aeos, Phlegon, and Pyrois. Adelphos had them ready for us behind the house, and I mounted Pyrois, brushing his soft coat with my hand before pulling on my gloves and urging him to the trail that would lead us to towering Mesa Vouno on the other side of the island.

I have already described the steep road leading up to the site of the ancient city. As our noble beasts picked their way along the arduous path, I thought of all those who had made the trip before us, and considered with awe the sheer arrogance it must have taken to decide to build a city at such a height. No enemy army ever conquered it—its natural defenses were too great—and it remained populated and undisturbed through the days of the Roman Empire into the eighth century.

“Roman engineering,” Margaret said, admiring the road. “Always a marvel.”

“This far predates the Romans,” I said. “Or else how could Theras have built the city?”

“I do not doubt he fashioned some sort of a road, but it is the Romans who engineered it to the precise state we find it today.”

“They were remarkable copyists, the Romans,” I said, ignoring her comment. “Yet who could blame them for wanting to steal every bit of Greek culture? Not every civilization can achieve what the Greeks did on its own.”

“Are you planning to argue all day, or only at select intervals?” Jeremy asked. “Hargreaves, back me on this matter. I propose no more than three fifteen-minute intervals every twenty-four hours during which you lovely ladies can duel over your respective historical passions. The rest of the time, I implore you to leave us in peace.”

“You cannot claim the Greeks had the engineering skills of the Romans.” Margaret paused neither to draw breath nor to respond to Jeremy. “Only consider the aqueducts—”

A cry interrupted what I am certain would have proved a lengthy and detailed lecture. “Ho!” Philip and Herr Reiner stood near the top of the road, waving and shouting to welcome us to their camp. Whatever damage had been inflicted during the storm and its aftermath had now been remedied, and the scene was one of precise organization. Three small tents stood in a neat row, evenly spaced in front of a large fire pit. Two larger tents on the other side of the plateau, Herr Reiner explained, housed their tools and the artifacts they uncovered.

“We have beer or water for you if you require immediate refreshment,” Herr Reiner said, a broad smile on his face. His features, even and strong, were not precisely handsome, but imbued him with the appearance of reliability. We assured him we needed nothing; our canteens had kept us hydrated en route.

“I am pleased, as I am quite desperate to show you the ruins,” Philip said. “Shall we explore?” He ushered us, ladies first, up the path to the top of Mesa Vouno.

“This pass where we have placed our camp, between Mesa Vouno and Profitis Ilias, the neighboring hill, is called Sellada,” Fritz said. “Ahead of us, there”—he pointed—“we have found what appears to be a sanctuary. I suggest we continue to the city itself rather than start below. I know you have been here before, Lady Emily, but I am certain you will agree we have accomplished quite a bit since the time of your last visit.”

The path snaked up the hillside, passing an early Christian church—built far too recently to be of interest to me—before flattening out and continuing in a straight line along the edge of the high plateau. From here, the awe-inspiring view stretched endlessly across the sea to other islands far in the distance. Directly below us was the black beach at Kamari, one of the two Ancient Theran harbors, the second, at Perissa, visible to our south.

“On a clear day, one can see all the way to Crete,” Philip said. “It takes little imagination to understand the strategic value of the site. One could keep an eye on an enormous swath of the Aegean from here.”

Wildflowers lined both sides of the narrow path. The bursts of color springing from the dark, volcanic soil would soon fall victim to the burning heat of summer, but for now they were like the splashes of paint on an artist's palette. Colin squeezed my hand and grinned. “You are in your element here, standing guard over the ancient seas.” He spoke quietly, so as not to be overheard, his lips close to my ear.