A regretful nod. “They are, and more so by the day. The influx of artifacts has in fact forced us to contemplate a costly extension.”
“An extension for the display rooms?”
“No, ma’am, an extension for the storage.”
Elias frowned. “What share of the artifacts in your collections are actually on display?”
“Round about five percent, sir.”
“That means almost everything in the museum’s possession is in storage,” said Mrs. Blackstone, and she sounded unpleasantly surprised.
The curator coughed softly. “With all due respect, ma’am, five percent on display is plenty. And what we have in our possession, the French don’t have.”
“Between us, I’m afraid Mr. Leighton’s willingness to lend out the artifacts is heavily subjected to his moods,” Catriona said. Her cool, flat tone said her head was getting hot. “If you care to have the bulls on display, I advise you to find room sooner rather than later, before he fancies keeping them entirely to himself again.”
The curator kneaded his fingers. “Of course. I understand. There is an alternative I have considered.”
“Brilliant—I should love to hear it.”
“If we were to limit the exhibition to the bulls and selected artifacts from the same period, rather than look at Mr. Leighton’s entire collection, I could have a corridor on the first floor available by September.”
Catriona glanced at Elias, her eyes asking whether this suited him. He made the decision quickly. The bulls were the crown jewels in the collection. If he took everything but them, it wouldn’t feel as though justice had been done, whereas if only the bulls returned to their temple in Sidon, he would still consider it a victory. Also, the sooner he was back home, the sooner he could resume his position in the family business, which was the sensible thing to do. He gave a nod.
“I shall confirm the dates with Mr. Leighton,” Catriona said to the curator, “but assume that he shall agree to a first loan in September.”
“This is all terribly exciting,” chirped Mrs. Blackstone. She pulled a notebook from a large, sparkling reticule. “I should love to share the news in my art circle, perhaps also with our readers of the Home Counties Weekly?”
The curator agreed enthusiastically. Catriona and Mrs. Blackstone shared a look.
As they took their leave, they made a detour to see the Parthenon marbles. The frieze and statues were on display in a vast hall on the ground floor where every step echoed on the polished tiles. Two clerks stood guard; voices were hushed. The once brilliant colors of the frieze surrounding them had long faded; the story of gods and humans was told in uniform pale marble now. As for the statues, most had lost a limb, a nose, even a head, under the rough treatment of the Ottomans, or later, when they had been torn from their home in Athens and shipped across a sea. Some had gone down with their ship and the salt had eaten at them before they had been recovered. The broken parts only seemed to edify the bits that had survived the millennia intact, and the battered bodies still told a tale: that people had always been people, that then as now, they had been compelled by valor, worship, and wine-fueled debauchery, and that they had forever felt a keen interest to preserve their stories.
“Have you seen them before?” Catriona was next to him, a little closer than was proper in a public space.
He nodded. “I was here two days ago.”
She stilled. “Oh.”
He had come here after meeting the next man in the chain of command, this time in East London. An understanding had been reached, about the type of crew Elias required, which skills, what it would cost him in coin. On his way back to Cadogan Place, he had stopped at the museum. He had craved a reminder why he was doing it, something to substantiate his self-imposed duty to bring home the bulls at all cost. It hadn’t helped. Looking at the stories of people who had turned to dust thousands of years ago, only to catch glimpses of familiar needs, brought home the timelessness of the human condition. All lives had been lived before; no triumph or defeat was new. A man might as well make his own choices.
Catriona stood with her head angled back, seemingly absorbed by the display. Her subtle scent still reached him, teased him, made him want to reach out and touch her. Ridiculous, that any one part of her had once seemed plain to him.
Mrs. Blackstone was alternately taking notes in her little book and scrutinizing the marbles. “Does it even have meaning?” she asked as she scribbled. “Displaying them here, with the other half still back at the Acropolis? From an artist’s perspective, I daresay it doesn’t.”