Chapter Four

“I have sent for my nephew’s son, the Honorable George Tisdale,” Aunt Lydia told Virginia over breakfast. “He should be arriving today. You will like him. All the ladies do. He is very handsome, and you are no blood relation.”

“Are you trying to arrange my marriage, Aunt?” asked Virginia teasingly.

“Humph,” answered Aunt Lydia, going back to reading the gossip in The Morning Post.

Obviously teasing was the wrong approach. Was the Honorable George her aunt’s answer to keeping her away from the wagging tongues of the ton?

A handsome man. Well, he would not be interested in her with her straight brows and uninspiring coloring. It had not taken her long to see that blondes were all the rage in London. Her dark-brown hair and matching eyes were not the mode. Not to mention the faint freckles that peppered the bridge of her nose.

She wore a simple dark-blue muslin today with a gray satin sash. Aunt Lydia had promised to take her to the dressmaker to have more modish clothes made, but the idea had come to nothing as yet. All her gowns had burned, and she had only the clothing she had bought ready-made in America.

Virginia went along to the library—her favorite room in the house, reminding her as it did of her uncle and her father—sat in the window, and began her novel, The Curious Affair at Staley-in-the-Wold. It was very witty, and before long she had forgotten the dreaded Honorable George, and her homesickness was temporarily at bay.

She heard people calling at the front door, but her aunt was still not at home to visitors. It was clear she did not want to explain her husband’s niece. What was lacking in her nephew that she did not mind throwing him away on Virginia?

The gentleman did not arrive until after luncheon. Her first impression was that he was very short—even shorter than she was. He reminded her forcibly of a bantam rooster fluffing his feathers. Other than that he was handsome with chestnut curls and blue eyes that appraised her with obvious interest.

“I do not suppose you could call us cousins, could you?” he asked.

“At the best we are shirttail relations, I think,” said Virginia. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Tisdale—or do they call you the Honorable George?”

He laughed with a forced gusto. “We shall have a merry time with that wit. Have you been to see the Royal Menagerie yet?”

“I have been scarcely anywhere,” she told him. “I would love to see the Menagerie.”

“Your accent is abominable,” he said. “I see that I shall have to teach you proper English.”

“There, now,” said his aunt. “That would be a good service, George dear. Americans are not very popular in London just now.”

The Honorable George took her to the Tower of London to see the Menagerie. First they had a tour of the enormous white stone structure—the largest in all of London. Their guide was one of the beefeaters in fancy red-and-black dress. Virginia had no idea what their official function was other than feeding the flocks of ravens—about which there was some elaborate tradition—and giving tours.

She saw the block where Queen Anne Boleyn and Mary Queen of Scots lost their heads and the tower where the young princes were held during Richard III’s tyrannical reign. Her shirttail cousin condescended to explain all the history to her, but Virginia found it quite unpleasant and more than a bit bloody.

“Up until your grandfather’s time, English history is your history! How can you be so ignorant?”

Virginia drew herself up and looked down at him. “The ins and outs of British royalty have never interested me. I am far more moved by Bentham and Locke and the Age of Enlightenment. That is the part of English history that helped to form my country.”

Her scorn visibly wounded him. “And from where did you get the charming tradition of slavery?” he asked.

“You needn’t act so superior. The British have been running slaves in the West Indies just as long as the Americans. I disapprove heartily of both our countries in that regard.”

He pursed his lips in irritation. “Let us cry peace, then, and go to view the Royal Menagerie.”

Virginia felt sorry for the animals in the Menagerie. The lion, especially, seemed thin and ill kept.

“Surely there is somewhere more suitable for them to be held,” she said. “Here, it is like they are prisoners awaiting that chopping block.”

“Prinnie doesn’t have much use for the Menagerie. I don’t think he will spend any Royal funds on moving it anywhere, though there has been a bit of an outcry. It has existed in the Tower for hundreds of years.”

“Prinnie?” she asked.

“The Prince Regent’s nickname.”

They left the tower after that. “What else should you like to see?” he asked as they mounted his curricle once again.

“May we go to Hatchard’s? I need some more books to read.” It seemed she could never get enough of the bookstore. Books drew her like some people were drawn to gold.

“Ah, a bluestocking, eh? Certainly, we may go to Hatchard’s, if you like.”

“What is a bluestocking?” she asked.

He looked her up and down, the light of condescension back in his eye. “A woman who takes up intellectual pursuits.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you disapprove?” she asked.

“I usually find such women uncomfortable. They feel they must improve things.”

Anger stirred within Virginia. “And that makes you feel threatened?”

He gave a small laugh. “Why should it?”

She bit her tongue. This was not the time to get into a discussion of Mary Wollstonecraft and her ideas of women’s rights. But she was definitely not feeling friendly toward the Honorable George.

Once they achieved their destination, the Honorable George sat by the fire, reading the Racing News in a wingback chair, while Virginia sought more books by the duchess.

Would the lady remember her promise to invite her to luncheon? She wanted very much to tell her how she was enjoying her book. It would be interesting to hear how long the duchess had been writing and whether she relied on people she knew for her wonderful characters. Though she would never aspire to be published, Virginia thought that writing might be a pastime challenging enough to occupy her while she awaited the time she could achieve her independence and return to America.

Dinner was a lively meal, with the Honorable George supplying them with all the news from the village where he and his aunt Lydia grew up.

“Edgar Horton won the flower show this year, but there was such a to-do about it,” he noted. “It was said some of his varieties were foreign. And, of course, Colonel Bates did not think he ought to have won. He maintained it was unpatriotic at a time when England was at war.” He looked at Virginia. “Pardon, my dear. No disrespect intended. And then there is the vicar’s new horse. Rumor has it he imported the mare from a breeding operation in Ireland! Of course, her religious affiliation has been sorely questioned.”

Virginia laughed. “How funny! Life in an English village sounds very different from my life in the country. Charlottesville was miles away from us.”

The Honorable George gave his superior smile. “America is only newly civilized.”

His aunt added, “Our village has existed for a thousand years at least.”

Virginia felt the barb. “What do you enjoy most in London?” she asked the gentleman, choosing to turn the conversation.

“Visiting my tailor, which I shall do quite promptly,” he answered. After taking a sip of wine, he added, “And my wine merchant.”

“I am certain you will enjoy an evening at your club tonight,” said Aunt Lydia. “We are to have a quiet night at home.”

Virginia thought again about the upper-class lifestyle she had been transplanted into. Her parents had been well bred, and she couldn’t help but feel that their interests in life were superior. She had grown up believing the American way was God’s way, and now she was living among people who had the strangest code. Even if they felt something to be of great importance, they would never speak of it in society. If her aunt and the Honorable George were to be taken as specimens, life seemed to be lived at a superficial level only.

But then there were the others she had met—her uncle, the viscount, Lady Clarice, Miss Braithwaite, even the duchess with her soup kitchen. She couldn’t judge all English people by her aunt and the Honorable George. It was good of her aunt to take her in, she had to keep reminding herself.

Though she intended to go back to America in five years when she came into her fortune, she knew her uncle intended that she make her debut in London society and find a husband. Virginia still wished very much that he had taken her with him to Dorset instead of sending her off to Lady Fotheringhill’s ball. She felt sure that five years was too long to live among the ton.

* * *

The following morning her aunt left alone to attend a Venetian breakfast being held by one of her particular friends. She bade Virginia not to venture out unless she was accompanied by her nephew. He, however, left to visit his tailor as soon as his aunt left.

Tired of seclusion, Virginia told the butler that she was at home to visitors. A short time later, she was pleased when he announced Viscount Strangeways. Her heart gave a little skip in her breast, and she rose to greet him as he entered the sitting room.

He wore a light-jade waistcoat with a forest-green topcoat that stretched perfectly over a large pair of shoulders.

“At last, I find you at home!” he said. “I was ready to despair.” Though he smiled a charmingly crooked smile, his eyes did not quite meet hers, and when she seated herself, he began to stroll aimlessly about the small room as though he were not at ease.

“Yes. Quite at home,” she said, trying to speak with a British accent.

“Miss Livingstone, you should not attempt that,” he said with a laugh. “I find your native accent charming.”

“I sound so awful and flat in my own ears,” she said. “My aunt wants to cure me of it.”

He smiled at her and seemed to shed his uneasiness. “Are you enjoying London?” he asked.

“It is very different from what I am used to. But I have met some more charming women and finally was able to visit Hatchard’s. I also discovered Gunter’s. Yesterday I went to see the Tower and the Royal Menagerie.”

He sat down opposite her and studied her face. “Well! You have made a good start.”

Their conversation had become stilted—not at all what she expected after his rescue of her the other day.

“Do they grow cotton and tobacco where you are from?”

“They do. I grew up on a cotton plantation.”

To her irritation, the Honorable George entered the sitting room.

“What is this, my dear? A visitor?” Turning to Lord Strangeways, he said, “I am afraid my aunt is not at home, sir.”

The viscount stood and held out his hand. “Viscount Strangeways. I have come to call on Miss Livingstone, actually.”

“George Tisdale,” her aunt’s nephew said, his voice sharp. Her aunt’s nephew portrayed the bantam cock to perfection.

Her visitor towered over the Honorable George as they shook hands.

Virginia decided it was her role to ease the situation. “It was the Honorable George—uh, Mr. Tisdale—who took me to visit the Royal Menagerie and the Tower of London.”

“Let me guess,” said her caller. “You wanted set those poor lions free.”

“Well, they did look very unhappy and ill-treated,” she said. “Have you made any inquiries about Mr. Hale?”

“I have not, I’m afraid,” said the viscount.

“Never mind,” she said. “I will ask Lady Clarice and Miss Braithwaite at the balloon ascension tomorrow. I am looking forward to it.”

Her aunt’s nephew’s face went rigid. “What is this?”

His lordship answered, “Some of us are staging a balloon race tomorrow. Miss Livingstone will be selling refreshments there as part of a benefit for Literacy for the Poor.”

“Does your aunt know of this?” the Honorable George asked.

“Uh, I thought I would tell her tomorrow. She may like to come.”

“I have a balloon going up,” said Lord Strangeways. “I hope you will be there to see it, Mr. Tisdale.”

“It sounds thrilling,” Virginia interrupted in her desire to smooth the situation. “I have never seen one before. Is it very dangerous?”

“The tricky part is the landing. You do not want to get caught in a tree or come down in a body of water.”

“I shall accompany you, if I may,” said the Honorable George to Virginia, his face still stiff.

The viscount turned to him with a smile. “Should you like to ride with me in my balloon? It is jolly good fun.”

She watched incredulity war with eagerness on the short man’s face. “You do not even know me,” he said.

“It is clear you have an adventurous spirit,” Lord Strangeways told him. It was plain to Virginia that the viscount knew exactly how to appeal to Mr. Tisdale’s vanity. The viscount had realized very quickly that involving the Honorable George in the project was the way to win her aunt’s approval. She suppressed a smile.

The Honorable George preened. “I accept.”

They discussed the time that he would come for them in the morning in his barouche. After settling these details, Lord Strangeways turned to Virginia.

“I bid you au revoir until tomorrow, Miss Livingstone.” He bowed over her hand and was gone. In her estimation the visit was far too short.

* * *

She heard raised voices in the hall.

“I am not a child minder, Aunt. And Virginia, though headstrong, is not a child!”

“Ruin my reputation and the Ogletree name . . .”

Virginia’s toes curled inside her slippers.

“Cannot keep her hidden . . .”

Her aunt’s nephew was acting as her champion. She owed the viscount another debt for engaging the Honorable George in the enterprise.