A Terrible Beauty Read Online Free Page A

day, he looked up and called a greeting to a young woman who had just recently given birth to her first child, the infant now snuggled tight against her chest. The image stirred something in him, and he began to think about Kallista—Emily, his wife—and to consider how long he had been gone. Now that he had regained his health, he had no reason to delay his trip home, and he admitted, with a degree of reluctance he found nearly inconceivable, that he could not live the rest of his life with the Masai. He had to return to England.
    The next time Kimathi came to see him, they agreed he would start his journey when the moon was full again. When he left, Kimathi walked with him, the days blending into weeks, to the nearest European outpost, where Ashton persuaded a group of Germans en route to Cairo to let him join their party. The viscount promised remuneration as soon as they arrived in the Egyptian capital. Kimathi wept when they parted, but Ashton promised to return, determined they would hunt together again.
    Much as he had relished his time with the Masai, being back in the company of educated men quenched a thirst he had forgot he had. He had lost so much of what mattered to him during his time in Africa—his study of Greek, his writing, his antiquities, his wife—and when he’d learned three years had passed since that fateful day of his last safari, he’d begun to worry that going back to his old life might not be a simple endeavor.
    When they reached Cairo, the Germans refused to let Ashton give them anything in return for their hospitality, which proved fortunate for the Englishman. He never suspected he would have trouble securing a room at Shepheard’s Hotel, believing the manager would be sure to recognize him from previous visits. His assumption was foolish. The clerk at the desk, after consulting with the manager, told him that Philip, the Viscount Ashton, had perished in East Africa on safari years ago. His demise had been reported in all the papers and the management of Shepheard’s did not look kindly on those adopting false identities. Ashton demanded to speak to the manager himself, and the man, who did admit he looked familiar, stated firmly that he could not give him a room on credit if Ashton could not somehow prove his identity.
    He met the same resistance at the bank. Unable to access his funds, Ashton stormed into the office of the British consul, where he was treated with politeness and a great deal of pity before they ushered him out with the address of a physician they hoped might be able to treat his disorder.
    How foolish to have believed his appearance alone would make the world recognize he was still alive! He had nothing that proved his story. He had almost no possessions: just the clothing given to him by the Germans. He had no books, no letters, no objects of sentimental value, not even the photograph taken of his lovely wife on their wedding day.
    That, he had left in France.

 
    2
    The benefit of hindsight suggests I perhaps ought to have given the journal more consideration than I did. As things stood, however, I decided Margaret must have left it as a joke. She had gone up to Oxford that morning to see her husband in what we both knew would be a vain attempt to convince him to join our trip to Greece. Very little could induce Mr. Michaels (Margaret steadfastly refused to call him by his Christian name, Horatio, as she insisted—rightly—that it did not suit him) to leave his life at the university. Sometimes, she claimed, he would go days speaking nothing but Latin, much to the dismay of his students.
    The previous evening, she and I had sat up late in the library with a very fine bottle of port. The conversation naturally veered to our trip, and as a result, to the villa, and as a result of that, to the man who had built it. Margaret, whom I had not met until two years after Philip died, knew only slightly less about him than I did. I had always