"I never considered Philip as having a childhood. Silly, isn't it?" No response from the proper Davis. "What was he like?"

"Always getting into trouble, Lady Ashton. Climbing the roof, scaling garden walls, digging huge, muddy holes. Used to mount what seemed to him at the time grand expeditions through the grounds of the estate."

"Then I am pleased to know that he was able to go on real expeditions as an adult."

"Yes, Lady Ashton." He stood silently for a moment. "Will that be all?"

I nodded, and he left me alone. I took another sip of the port, which really was good, and thought how enjoyable it was to behave in a way no one expected. I was trying to picture a smaller version of Philip tromping through the forests of his manor pretending to hunt for elephants when, for no apparent reason, I remembered the Praxiteles bust of Apollo that Monsieur Fournier had mentioned in Paris. Certain that it was not in the house, I went to Philip's desk and took out his journal, which I had put in one of the drawers shortly after it was sent to me from Africa. During our wedding trip, he had written in the book almost constantly and seemed to record many purchases that we made; I hoped to find such an entry for the bust.

Flipping through the leather-bound book, I came across sketch after sketch of various antiquities, but nothing that could be Apollo. Philip's technique was careless at best, but he managed to create a decent impression of the pieces he drew. Finally, toward the end of the volume, I found it: Apollo, hastily drawn, with "Paris?" written under him, with no indication that my husband had located, let alone purchased, the bust. I was about to return the journal to its drawer when I noticed a sentence written farther up on the page.


K lovelier than ever tonight. She still rarely looks at me when we speak, but am confident this will change. Paris had to convince Helen, after all, and I've no assistance from Aphrodite.


I decided to read more, going back to the beginning of the volume. Here I found Philip's version of our courtship and marriage, the plans for his safaris, comments on Homer, and general musings about the state of the British Empire. I laughed as I read his account of a dreadful evening spent with the Callums, none of the family attempting to hide their desire that he marry Emma, whose flirting had been particularly disgraceful that night. His lament on the pains of being a gentleman was particularly witty.

Soon came the story Colin had told me of the night Philip fell in love with me. Seeing on paper, in his own handwriting, the description of this event that meant so much to him and went largely unnoticed by me, I felt tears well in my eyes. He considered me his Helen. Of course I had to read more.

That he despised my mother surprised me; that this feeling began because she never left us alone in the drawing room before our marriage thrilled me. What would he have done had we been left alone? I loved the five pages he wrote planning what to say to my father when he asked for my hand, but not as much as those written in joyous rapture after I accepted his proposal.

I closed my eyes and tried with all my might to remember the details of that day. I know I had been arguing with my mother when he arrived and that she'd sat in a corner of the room embroidering, shooting menacing glances at me whenever she thought Philip wasn't looking. I realize now that she must have known he was going to propose; my father would have told her. She was probably terrified I would refuse him.

Distracted from my social duties by anger, I had wandered over to the window and stood in front of it looking into the street. Philip had walked up beside me.

"Emily, it cannot have escaped your notice that my feelings for you have grown daily at an astounding rate." I did not reply. "Never before have I known a woman with such spirit, such grace, and such beauty. When I think of the life I have before me, I cannot bear to imagine it without you." He took my hand and looked intently into my eyes. "Emily, will you do me the honor of being my wife?"

I was utterly shocked. Certainly he had called more often than other gentlemen of my acquaintance, but I had never noticed any particular attachment on his part; I obviously had none. Looking back, I realize that, my primary concern being avoiding marriage, I had never given much consideration to any of my suitors. As I looked at him, and at my mother peering anxiously toward us, I decided I would rather have him than her.

"Yes, Philip. I will marry you."

A bright smile spread across his face, and his light eyes sparkled. "You make me the happiest of men." He squeezed my hand. "May I kiss you?" I nodded and turned my cheek toward him; sitting in the library now, I remembered the feel of his lips against it and the warmth of his breath as he whispered, "I love you, Emily."


I thought I would go mad with desire when she presented that perfect ivory cheek for me to kiss. Had her blasted mother the courtesy to leave us alone for even a moment, I would have taken the opportunity to fully explore every inch of her rosebud lips. For that, I am afraid, I shall have to wait.


I closed the book and placed it on the table beside me. For a moment it felt as if I had been reading a particularly satisfactory novel in which the heroine had won the love of her hero. But I was the heroine, and the hero was dead, dead before I had even the remotest interest in him. I started to cry, softly at first, then with all-consuming sobs that I could hardly control. I went back to Philip's desk and opened the drawer from which I had taken his journal. In it I had also placed a photograph he had given to me shortly after our engagement. I pried it out of its elaborate frame, clutched it to my chest, and ran from the library, up the stairs to my bedroom. Meg rushed in from the dressing room, but I waved her away, falling asleep sometime later, still dressed and holding Philip's picture.


I should have spent the next morning leaving cards for my friends to alert them to my return to town, but I found the idea of doing so completely unappealing. Instead I took both breakfast and lunch in my room and did not ring for Meg to help me dress until nearly one o'clock in the afternoon. My head ached, and my eyes were red and swollen from crying. By two o'clock I had returned to my place in the library to resume reading Philip's journal. While I was in the midst of an admittedly tedious account of a grouse hunt, Davis entered the room.

"Mr. Colin Hargreaves to see you, madam. Shall I show him into the drawing room?"

I felt myself flush. "Tell him I'm not at home."

"Yes, madam." Davis turned to exit the room, and I called to stop him.

"Wait! I may as well see him. Bring him here, Davis. I prefer it to the drawing room."

I did not rise when Colin entered the library, and I barely glanced up to acknowledge his presence. "What a surprise, Mr. Hargreaves," I said coolly.

"I know I'm calling at a beastly hour, but I just saw Arthur Palmer at his club, and he told me what happened in Paris. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Thank you for your concern."

"You look truly unwell. Shall I ask Davis to fetch you some tea?"

"No, please. I want nothing."

"This is about more than the break-in, isn't it, Emily? Palmer said you were utterly composed through all of it, yet-forgive me-you look dreadful now."

I gazed at his handsome face and sympathetic eyes and started to cry again.

He knelt in front of me and took my hands in his. "What is it?"

"I...I miss Philip, Colin. I really miss him."

"Of course you do, especially after going through such a ghastly experience. Had he been with you, you wouldn't have had to deal with the police yourself or worry about how you would get home."

"No, that's not what I mean." I stood up and walked away from him. "I don't know why I'm telling you any of this."

"I hope you consider me a friend, Emily, in spite of the things I said to you in the Louvre. Please believe me when I say that I never meant to offend you."

"It all seems rather irrelevant now at any rate," I said with a sigh. "You should be the last person I would trust with this information."

"You can depend on me, Emily. I would never deceive you."

"But you were my husband's best friend."

"Whatever he did, Emily, I can help you."

"Whatever he did? I would say that he never did anything; I was the one entirely at fault."

"You? How are you involved? Did it begin on your wedding trip?"

"No, it started as soon as I met him." His dark eyes fixed on my own, and I felt rather confused. "I don't think we are discussing the same subject. To what are you referring?"

"No-please, go ahead. I must be confused. What is troubling you?"

"I never loved Philip. I never even tried to get to know him; I only married him to get away from my mother." I paused and looked at Colin, who stood immobile, his mouth slightly open, as if he were unable to speak. "I see that you are shocked."

"Yes, I am," he said quietly.

"But now, now that he is dead, I have spent more than a year hearing from every person I meet how wonderful he was. I have read his journal, learned of his interests, his passions, and I find myself quite desperately in love with him." Having said it out loud, the statement seemed ridiculous even to me.

Colin moved closer to me, his eyes locked on mine. "I don't know what to say."

"Please don't think me coldhearted. I don't believe I knew myself well enough when he courted me to love anyone. I would give anything to go back and begin again."

"Thank God he never knew. He loved you completely and thought you kept a distance from him because you were innocent."

"I can tell from your tone that you are angry with me."

"Not angry. Maybe disappointed."

"Then you are unfair. My mother raised me, with the express purpose of marrying me off to the richest, highest-ranking peer possible. I never had any say in the matter. I could not study what I wished, could not pursue any interests other than those she thought I should have, and learned years and years ago that romantic feelings would have nothing to do with my marriage. Can you blame me for distancing myself from my suitors?"

"Perhaps not, but one might hope that the woman who has accepted one's proposal would at least try to make the marriage a happy one."

"I never said we were not happy. Quite the contrary. I should never have told you any of this." I stormed across the room.

"I have always thought the upbringing of young ladies to be significantly lacking. Now I have my proof."

"Can you not at least give me credit for recognizing the man he was, even if I have done so belatedly? It is not as if I married him and loved someone else. And believe me, realizing that I love him now, after his death, is punishment enough for anything I have done." Colin stared at the floor and said nothing. "I know I made him happy, Colin." I picked up the journal and shoved it toward him. "Read this if you don't believe me. He was utterly satisfied; pity me for missing my chance to share in his bliss."

"I know better than anyone how happy you made him. He told me daily." His eyes met mine again. "I suppose I am disappointed that you have shattered the myth of the perfect marriage for me."

"Really, Colin," I said.

"I am truly sorry for you that you could fail to see such love when it was in front of you." I found the intensity with which he looked at me irritating.

"Thank you. You're an excellent confidant, Colin," I snapped. "I feel much better now."

"You were right. You never should have told me any of this. I am at a loss for what to say."

"Perhaps you could change the subject. When you came in, you thought I wanted to talk about something else. What was it?"

"Nothing, really. I thought it concerned business Ashton conducted on your wedding trip. Clearly I was mistaken."

"Clearly." Evidently I would have to change the subject. "I do have a matter of business of my own with which I could use your assistance. I would like to set up some sort of memorial to Philip, maybe something at the British Museum, I'm not really certain."

"I believe it would be best if you took it up with your solicitor, Emily." I opened my mouth to speak, but he raised his hand and continued before I could form a single word. "Do not imagine I am angry with you. I think, though, that I should like the remainder of my involvement with you to be completely severed from your involvement with Ashton."