Elizabeth Kidd by My Lady Mischief Read Free Book Online

France—those wounded men whose recovery had meant months in some foreign bed or simply months of delaying the return home that might turn out to be less joyful or less healing than they had perhaps anticipated over the long years of their absence.
    Mr. Campbell explained that he had been hired as caretaker of the marbles and overseer of the move to their new home in Bloomsbury, which had been authorized as soon as the bill had been passed for their purchase.
    “It’s not as grand a job as it sounds,” he explained, “really just glorified guard duty, but it keeps me out of taverns and doss houses.”
    He smiled, but Antonia suspected that it was not such a joke as his wry smile was intended to convey. She decided that she liked Mr. Campbell, and despite Kedrington’s teasing about her predilection for widows and orphans and other helpless creatures, she would make a friend of Robin Campbell if she could.
    “Can you give us a tour, Mr. Campbell?” she asked him. “That is, if we are not imposing upon past friendship to make you break the rules.”
    “Not at all,” said Mr. Campbell graciously. “If you will follow me…?” He offered his arm to Lady Kedrington, who accepted it with a saucy look back at her husband, and led her around the colonnade into a space which was apparently once the yard but was now occupied by a large shed. Carey and Elena, with Kedrington bringing up the rear, stopped beside them.
    They entered the unprepossessing building and stood awestruck by the sight of the sculptures—confined there, Antonia thought fancifully, like ancient gods chained to the wall of some dark cavern. Mr. Campbell was silent for a few moments, allowing them to study the figures and form their own first impressions. Antonia, having seen them before, instead watched Elena, who said nothing, but approached the figures with awe. She reached out to lay her hand on smooth marble head of a horse; then she closed her eyes, as if the touch conveyed something to her. Antonia imagined that she could feel the sun of Greece through that contact with the taut muscles of that vital, almost living creature.
    “As you can see,” Mr. Campbell began at last, just loudly enough so that the entire party could hear but addressing himself to Antonia, “this is scarcely the ideal setting. The lighting is unreliable, as we depend still on natural light from the overhead windows. Gas lighting will be installed at Montagu House, however, before the official opening ceremonies, and placards describing the pieces will be affixed so that amateur guides like me will not be necessary.”
    Antonia transferred her gaze to her guide, assuming an expression of intense interest in his narrative as an excuse to study him more closely.
    “I’m sure you know a great deal about the statues and their history—not to mention the controversy surrounding them,” she said when he paused to lead them to the next grouping. “But tell me, Mr. Campbell—do you find them beautiful? Are they works of art, and was all this fuss about their acquisition worth it?”
    He thought about that for a moment. “It’s odd,” he said, gazing around as if for the first time, “that people so rarely speak of their intrinsic value. The marbles are looked upon as symbols of one sort or another, but rarely as objects of beauty. But yes, I find them beautiful. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when there is no one else here, I simply sit and look at them. The poses are various, some belligerent or strained or filled with tension, but they are all somehow restful.”
    His voice had dropped so that only Antonia could hear him now, but only she might have understood. “All true works of art are restful,” she observed, “no matter how violent or distasteful the subject matter. Do you not agree, Mr. Campbell?”
    He smiled down at her. “I do—but you would be amazed at the snippets of conversation I overhear about them. Everything from dowagers who are