“I, by contrast, took genuine notes,” Simon said, turning his journal toward them. It was indeed full of tiny, neat lines.
“You’ve done well, both of you,” she said. “The housekeeper didn’t suspect a thing about your true identities.”
“What about me?” Effie struck a silly pose, kicking up one leg as if he were one of the flamingos she had featured last year in a travel memoir from Sardinia, a posture that made everyone laugh again.
“You, too, dearest. Good job.”
Dearest?Oh no. How had that slipped out? No one seemed to think it odd, though. Perhaps they thought she was jestingly playacting the role of the indulgent wife.
The more pressing question was why she’d thought of Effie that way. Not that she didn’t think fondly on several people in her life. But she didn’t call anyonedearest.
Well, she had once. She didn’t anymore.
She didn’t want to think about that, so she asked, “Lord Marsden, what did you think of the place?”
“I was transported by it.” He huffed an impatient sigh. “Alas.”
“Indeed,” she agreed.
“Why alas?” Effie asked.
“Were you not listening the other day when we discussed the expense associated with its construction and reconstruction?” Lord Marsden said. “It’s positively immoral. That one man, even a king, should require such a home—and it isn’t even his primary home.” Another sigh from Lord Marsden, this one more resigned than impatient.
“And yet . . . ,” Julianna said.
“And yet,” Lord Marsden agreed. “Additionally, I am well aware of the hypocrisy inherent in a peer making such a statement. It was simply so . . . beautiful.”
Julianna said, “Da Vinci said, ‘Beauty perishes in life but is immortal in art.’”
“What does that mean as applied to this case?” Lord Marsden asked. “That the beauty of the Pavilion transcends the circumstances surrounding its construction?”
“Perhaps. And—or—perhaps one can disapprove of the artist but appreciate the art?”
“Hmm.” Lord Marsden nodded. “That is a fascinating notion. But who is the artist? The king? Or the architect Mr. Nash, perhaps along with his predecessors?”
“A good question.” An idea dawned. “My lord, I wonder if I might prevail upon you to actually write this piece. I’d been planning to do it myself, but I fear my mind was moving too slowly to take in all the details of the place. Regardless, I think you would be better suited to the task.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. I have no experience with writing.”
“You write bills,” Lord Harcourt said. “Dismayingly long ones.”
“I do not write them alone,” Lord Marsden said, “and even I will admit that they are far from engaging reading.”
“You would not have to write this alone,” Julianna said. “I can help.”
“She is an excellent editor,” Effie said, and Julianna paused to smile at him. He was playing his role well. If only she could afford such a supportive assistant.
But no, she reminded herself, Effie was not playing the role of her assistant, but her husband, and she couldnotafford one of those. More to the point, she did notwantone of those.
She turned back to Lord Marsden. “You can weave together a description of the interior, which is what most readers will be interested in, with a bit of analysis of the sort we were just undertaking.”
“You want me to say that the Pavilion is immoral?” he asked incredulously.
“No, no, but perhaps you could speculate a bit on the use, and longevity, of art.” She paused. “But by all means, if you want to say that the Pavilion is immoral, it will certainly sell a great deal of copies.”
“Will Mr. Glanvil allow it?” Effie asked. He turned to the others. “Mr. Glanvil is the proprietor of Miss Evans’s magazine.”
Julianna adored the way he called it “Miss Evans’s magazine” in the same breath that he explained that Mr. Glanvil owned it.
