2. A Brother and Sister Tour a Temple
CHAPTER 2
A brOTHER AND SISTER TOUR A TEMPLE
M eanwhile, in the Parthenon
As her brother stood at the ancient wall near the Parthenon, his gaze taking in the city of Athens below, Jane Fitzsimmons glanced down the front of her gown to discover the hem displaying a band of dust. It was as if she had dipped the bottom of her skirt into a vat of dirt with the intent of adding a gray stripe along her hemline.
If she’d had any idea her brother Antonio, heir to the Reardon viscountcy, had intended for them to climb the hill and the steep marble steps leading up to the Acropolis on this day, she would have never chosen such a dark colored gown.
Made of navy British silk and wool with a V-neck fitted bodice and full sleeves cuffed at the bottom and gathered at the upper arm with lace-trimmed bows, the walking gown was far too warm for late August in Athens. At least the bell skirt, featuring a drape of furbelows over a crinoline of starched linen, seemed to keep her legs cool.
She had acquired the made-to-order costume from a ladies’ tailoring department in Bath only a few days before their departure from England, having learned with little notice she would be joining her brother on his Grand Tour. She was sure the modiste charged her father more given the quick turnaround required to fill the order.
“But why?” she had asked when their mother told her of the plan.
Maria Paloma Silvestri y Arístegui de Benavides Fitzsimmons, Viscountess Reardon, had sighed one of those deep sighs only mothers were allowed to make when their youngest questioned their authority. “Because you need to travel, my dear. See the world as I did.”
Her mother had seen the world—or at least some of the Continent and part of England—because she had been born in Spain, the daughter of the seventh Conde of Albacete.
“ Besides, your father and I will be in London for the Season, and I know you despise the capital,” Maria had added, arching a dark brow to emphasize her point.
Her mother had the right of it. Despite having spent nearly her entire life preparing for her come-out at the beginning of last year’s Season—learning French, taking dancing lessons with a dance master, learning to paint and draw and embroider and play the piano-forté—she had discovered a Season was exhausting. Attending balls, soirées , and the theatre would have been more than enough, but then there were the musicales and garden parties. The afternoon teas in the parlors of matrons who could derail her come-out with a single word of censure.
Then there were the men.
Always attentive men. Young bucks, outfitted in the latest top coats and colorful embroidered waistcoats, who wore pantaloons so tight, they threatened to burst their seams should they so much as bend a knee. The older gentlemen, some widowers and some who had waited entirely too long to start their nurseries, oozed desperation as they sought her for dances and then paid calls the following day, bringing with them bouquets of hot house flowers whose scents always seemed to clash with their overpowering colognes.
If she never again smelled the scent of lime, it would be too soon.
A Season spent touring Europe, especially the countries bordering the Mediterranean, was far preferable to another Season in London.
Antonio had insisted they make the ascent to the Parthenon that morning, though, only their second day in the capital of Greece. “Marcus will meet us there , ” he said with excitement as he held a note that had been delivered by a footman to their rooms at the Hotel Aiolos.
Designed by architect StamatisKleanthis, the two-story, three-year-old hotel was located at the corner of Aiolou and Adrianou in the Plaka neighborhood. Although she had expected their accommodations to be simple, they were surprisingly elegant and comfortable. There were even balconies with wrought iron railings from which she could see the very temple in which they now stood.
“ Eleven o’clock at the Parthenon. We should take a basket of food ,” Antonio suggested.
“Marcus?” she remembered repeating.
“Marcus Henley, heir to the Henley viscountcy and son of the famous archaeologist,” he replied, acting as if she should have known the young man. “Have you already forgotten meeting him and his sister? They were the ones who were assisting me when we arrived here in town yesterday.” Then his frown had deepened. “You met him last year in London. At one of the balls we attended.”
She had been tempted to remind him he hadn’t introduced her to either of the Henleys, but Anthony had been so excited to see a friend from England, she supposed he could be forgiven the oversight.
Given her visceral reaction to seeing Mr. Henley, she was almost glad she hadn’t been forced to put voice to a greeting. Never had the sight of a young man of her brother’s age had her so discombobulated.
She didn’t even know why her heart had begun to race or why her breathing had suddenly hitched. Marcus Henley surely wasn’t the most handsome man she had ever seen, but there was something about his masculinity—the manner in which he carried himself and the fit of his clothes—that set him apart from those who had vied for her attentions in London.
For an Englishman, his face was entirely too wide and too tanned, his hair a shade of light brown devoid of waves or curls. His jaw seemed terribly square, and his nose appeared a bit wider than most, but then it probably wouldn’t turn into one of those hooked noses she found rather revolting on the older gentlemen. He was also too broad across the chest, as if he had been performing physical labor.
He probably had been if he was following in his father’s footsteps as an archaeologist.
Digging in the dirt.
Although the thought should have left her wrinkling her nose in disgust, it instead had her experiencing a series of tingles she found both frightening and exciting.
Whatever was wrong with her?
“ I know him from Oxford, of course,” Antonio had added, when she didn’t immediately respond.
At that point, she had merely sighed. While Antonio had been off making new friends at Oxford during his three years at university, she had been left behind at their family estate near Bath, forced to learn all the skills necessary to attract a husband and run an aristocrat’s household.
She pulled the glove from her left hand and used her thumb to wiggle the ruby betrothal ring she had accepted from David, Viscount Penton and the future Marquess of Devonville.
Overwhelmed by the number of suitors she had attracted during her time in London, she had been impressed by the amiable young man who had saved her from ruination in the gardens during a ball. David was far too young to be considering marriage, but he had made her an offer she couldn’t refuse—a betrothal meant to help fend off unwanted suitors. Should she meet another she really wanted to wed, she had his blessing to break off their betrothal. Otherwise, she would be available to marry him when he was of a mind to actually settle down to the life of a married aristocrat.
She had thought he wouldn’t be of a mind to marry until he was seven-and-twenty, which suited her just fine.
At the time.
Now, a year later, she was having second thoughts. Could she really wait until she was five-and-twenty—or even older—to marry David?
“ A h, here’s Henley’s heir now,” Antonio said, turning from his perusal of Athens when he spotted a young man carefully picking his way through the half-buried rubble that covered the surface of the Acropolis.
Jane surreptitiously shook out her bell skirt in an effort to rid her hem of its ring of dirt and turned to face Marcus Henley.
With his attention on the ground in front of him, Marcus didn’t stop until he was near enough to slug Antonio’s shoulder with one fist while using his other hand to grab Antonio’s for a vigorous handshake. “You look rather well for someone who has only arrived in the last day,” he said, his greeting sounding more like an accusation. “I take it the hotel is comfortable?”
“It is indeed,” Antonio replied. “And the trip from Thessaloniki wasn’t arduous,” he added. “Well, not for me, at least. My poor sister suffered with the less than ideal accommodations, though.”
Jane resisted the urge to scoff at hearing her brother’s assessment of the ship on which he had arranged their passage to the Athens port at Piraeus. Yes, her cabin had been on the small side, but all of the cabins had been tiny on the Greek steamship that frequently made the passage from Thessaloniki to Athens as well as a few Aegean islands before heading back north. “My brother exaggerates,” she said when Marcus faced her and dipped a low bow.
He took her gloved hand and brushed his lips over the silk fabric. “I’m sorry we were not reintroduced yesterday,” he said.
She managed an equally deep curtsy and was forced to pull her hand from his slight grip when he didn’t let go. For a moment, she regretted having done so.
“Oh, that’s my fault,” Antonio said with surprise. “I was sure you two would remember having met last year.”
“Of course I remember,” Marcus said. “But given the parade of young bucks seeking your attention that evening, I rather imagine you have quite forgotten me.”
Jane widened her eyes. “Not you, of course, but I admit your name escaped my memory.”
Antonio chuckled. “Allow me. Miss Jane Fitzsimmons, may I have the honor of introducing Mr. Marcus Henley?” her brother asked. “Marcus is the heir to the Henley viscountcy.”
“Mr. Henley,” she said, giving him a nod. She was certain her face was red with embarrassment and hoped the shade cast by the brim of her hat hid it. She was also fairly sure the young man swallowed as he openly stared at her. His white cravat, still stiff despite the day’s heat, hid his throat from view, though.
“Miss Jane,” he murmured. He turned to her brother, his eyes wide. “You might have warned me she was more gorgeous than when I last met her,” he accused.
Had any other man said what he had in her presence—and they had on several occasions—Jane’s usual response would have been to scoff, roll her eyes in an effort to hide her revulsion, and say something insipid like, “You’re too kind, sir.”
She did nothing of the sort on this day.
Instead she simply stared at him, unable to form any words.
How could he appear even more arresting than he had the day before?
“Watch yourself, my friend,” Antonio warned. “She’s under my protection whilst we’re on this tour, and I shan’t abide any antics that might ruin her.”
Jane’s mouth opened as if she planned to argue, but she couldn’t yet form any words to counter her brother’s.
Whatever was wrong with her?
At least a dozen young bucks in London had said similar words directly to her face the year before, and she had been quite prepared with a suitable response, one that not only thanked them for their consideration but also made it clear their attentions were not welcome.
Today she feared she was appearing as a fish in an aquarium, her mouth opening and closing with not so much as a bubble emerging.
Marcus lifted a hand to his chest, the sound he emitted a clear indication he took offense at hearing Antonio’s warning. “I would never do anything to besmirch your sister’s honor,” he insisted. When he returned his attention to her, he lifted a shoulder. “Please, understand I am speaking words of truth when I say you are a vision of loveliness, Miss Jane.”
She nodded her head, sure her face was still bright red, and not only from the growing heat of the day. “It’s very kind of you to say, Mr. Henley.”
“Oh, do call me Marcus.” He inhaled as if he intended to say something more, but he instead turned back to Antonio. “So, allow me to give you a tour of the place. My brother is around here somewhere...” He surveyed the area around them, leaning his head back as he directed his attention around the side of a column toward the Erechtheion. “He’s been studying the caryatids on the north side of that temple over there,” he said, lifting a hand in a dismissive wave. “Before the local man in charge of this place puts him to work.”
“Work?” Antonio repeated, his gaze directed to the Erechtheion.
Marcus nodded. “As you know, my father has accepted the assignment of finding one of the Greek temples that used to be located here,” he explained. “With the proviso Michael be put on a team with some of the other archaeologists working over there.” He waved in the direction of the Propylaea where, despite the distance, they could see several men dressed in suits. They looked as if they were having a serious discussion, their arms waving about as if to emphasize their point. “I expect they’ll have him doing most of the digging,” he added, grinning.
Jane moved to stand next to the fluted columns that made up the south side of the Parthenon, her attention going from the archaeologists Marcus mentioned to the Propylaea, where three young men were making their way past the columns there. Although one split off to disappear behind the dark Frankish tower, the other two hurried toward the Erechtheion. She inhaled softly.
“David?” she said, unaware she had said the name out loud.
“What’s this?” her brother asked, joining her at the edge of the temple floor to follow her line of sight.
“I... I think that’s David,” she said.
“David?” Marcus repeated. He noticeably stiffened.
“Viscount Penton,” Antonio stated. “You know him. He was at Oxford, although he was a year or two behind us. A rather amiable sort. In fact, he and Jane are betrothed,” he said, a dark brow arching as if in a tease.
Marcus turned to regard Jane with what appeared to be a look of hurt. “Betrothed?” he repeated.
Jane dipped her head. “We are. I have not seen him since last Season, though,” she said softly. “Are you friends with him?”
His features hardening into a scowl, Marcus shook his head. “I hardly know the boy. He’s an heir to a marquessate, though, so...” He shook his head, as if he had come to a disappointing conclusion.
Eager to keep his attention, she asked, “Might you know the young man who is with him?”
Antonio was quick to say, “That would be Thomas Forster.” He chuckled. “He’s the Earl of Gisborn’s spare heir. They must be on their Grand Tours, too.”
“And the other?” She waved to where she had last seen the tallest of the three.
Antonio and Marcus exchanged quick glances. “There was another?” Marcus asked in alarm. “With them?” When she nodded and indicated the small temple near the entrance, he added, “Um, if you’ll excuse me a moment, I should go check on my sister.” He bowed to Jane, who dipped a curtsy. “I’ll return shortly.”
“Your sister?” Antonio repeated in surprise.
“Diana. She’s doing some research in the Temple of Athena Nike,” Marcus explained.
“Would you like us to go with you?” Antonio started to follow Marcus, but at seeing his upraised hand, he paused.
“I would never forgive myself if you turned your ankle whilst traversing this field of rubble,” Marcus shouted. “I’ll only be a few minutes. Please, look around if you’d like—this is quite an impressive temple—and when I return, I’ll fill you in on what my father will be doing once he arrives.” He hurried off in the direction of the tower.
Jane glanced up at her brother. “He left his sister unescorted?” she asked, censure in her voice.
Antonio merely shrugged. “I’m quite sure Diana Henley can fend for herself,” he murmured.
“Tony,” she scolded softly.
“Marcus doesn’t speak very highly of her,” he said. “She’s her father’s daughter but from what he’s told me, she would have been better off born a boy, I think.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked, her attention finally going back to her brother when Marcus disappeared into the squarish temple next to the tower.
“Like Lord Henley, she’s apparently an archaeologist.”
“Oh, how interesting,” Jane said in awe.
“Hardly a suitable avocation for a young lady,” Antonio countered.
“Why?”
He turned and began studying the fluted columns making up the Parthenon. “Digging in the dirt all day?” he said absently. He stood next to a column and looked straight up before directing his gaze along the line of columns. “Huh,” he murmured.
“What is it?” she asked, mimicking her brother’s moves. Her eyes widened in awe. “It’s not a straight line,” she whispered. “The columns—they’re placed along the base, but it’s clearly curved.”
“The columns aren’t straight either,” he commented. “The sections are carved so they bow out about a third of the way up and then taper to form a smaller diameter at the top,” he said, a grin appearing. “The Greeks were all about proportion and tricking the eye to make their temples appear taller than they really were. Quite a feat, really, considering they didn’t have the benefit of machines to help with their construction.”
“They carved all this marble by hand,” Jane said as she stepped around the base of a column, tracing a gloved finger along the seam where the bottom drum of a column met the next one up. “And matched the fluting perfectly when they stacked them up,” she marveled.
“The alignment must have been a challenge,” Antonio remarked. “Although if I remember right, there are square holes cut in the middle of each drum. Once they were stacked one atop the other, a wooden dowel was inserted down the center to help keep everything aligned.”
By the time Antonio had finished his explanation, they had arrived at a corner column.
While Antonio’s attention was on the pediment up above, Jane scanned the flat area from the tower to the Propylaea and then to the Erechtheion. She lifted a gloved hand and waved when she realized both David Slater and Thomas Forster were waving in their direction. She smiled and then giggled for the first time since her departure from England.
Perhaps her stay in Athens would be more pleasant than she expected.