Ten

“You do realize that this is a dreadfully unfashionable thing to do,” said Olivia.

“Why did you come with me?” Verity asked. She’d been wondering about this ever since Olivia declared her intention of tagging along. Her expedition didn’t seem Olivia’s sort of thing at all. On the other hand, Verity quite understood her mother’s absence. The place might have drawn Mama, but she’d trade almost any outing for a period of solitude. And in this case there’d been two letters from Papa.

“You can’t go haring around London alone,” Olivia replied.

Apparently her long-suffering footman escort didn’t count. “Suddenly you’re a stickler for the proprieties? Do you think the British Museum is swarming with importunate swains?” Verity smiled, rather proud of that last phrase.

Olivia laughed. “Oh lud. I can just see it. Hordes of decrepit old sticks, snuff stained, stumping after you with their canes and urging you to come and view their antiquities.”

Verity had to laugh as well. “You have an odd idea of museumgoers. Perhaps we’ll meet a dashing young explorer, here to examine previous finds before he sets off on an expedition to the antipodes.” Verity didn’t really expect such luck, but one could hope. She was guaranteed a look at treasures from all over the world.

They walked across the broad courtyard between the wings of Montagu House and up a few steps to the main entrance. Inside, Verity paused to consult the thorough guide she’d purchased before even coming to London and had pored over since. “I want to begin with the collection of objects from the South Seas,” she told Olivia, and incidentally the footman, who was looking about as if he expected footpads. “Can you believe they have the actual things Captain Cook found on his circumnavigation of the globe?”

“Circum… Verity, really, this place is turning your brain.”

“There are also books, engraved gems, coins, prints, and drawings,” Verity told her as they moved farther inside.

“I daresay,” Olivia said. “They seem to have a bit of everything. What a cramped jumble.”

“And then I want to see the Greek and Roman artifacts,” Verity continued, ignoring her friend’s comment. “And the Egyptian sculptures, of course.”

“My lord, do you mean to spend the whole day? Isn’t there a gigantic foot of… Apollo, wasn’t it?”

Verity turned to her, surprised and pleased. “Yes. How do you know that?”

“I can read, you know,” Olivia answered dryly. “I’m not a ninny.”

“Of course not. I just didn’t think you were interested.”

“Many things interest me. Who could resist seeing a gigantic foot? Let us begin there.”

“But I wanted to—”

“We can find your South Seas bits right after,” Olivia interrupted. She looked around, spotted an official, and went to speak to him. “This way,” she said when she returned.

Verity followed her through several rooms full of items she would have liked to examine. But Olivia was walking fast and disinclined to pause. “Aha,” she said a few minutes later.

They’d entered a large chamber adorned with Greek sculpture, but the more surprising sight was Miss Frances Reynolds standing alone beside one of the pieces. It represented the toes of a huge foot, Verity saw.

“Miss Reynolds, how odd to meet you here,” said Olivia.

Something in her tone bothered Verity. Olivia didn’t sound surprised.

The fair-haired girl flushed. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Here? Whoever would you meet here?”

“A…a friend.”

“Are you ashamed of them?” Olivia asked with suspicious airiness.

“What? No, I… Of course not.”

“It’s just that a place like this.” Olivia gestured at the statuary. “Seems tailor-made to hide a connection you don’t want known.”

The younger girl looked stricken.

“Fanny,” said Olivia. “May I call you Fanny?”

“I’d prefer not,” said Miss Reynolds. “I dislike that diminutive of my name.”

Olivia rolled her eyes at Verity, as if to say what else can you expect of such a ninnyhammer. She turned to the sculpture. “How disappointing. It isn’t the whole foot. Just a few toes. An exhibit like this is practically guaranteed to convey disappointment.”

“There are many other things to see,” Verity said. She didn’t trust this oblique conversation.

“The Rosetta Stone,” said Miss Reynolds. “Which allowed scholars to decipher Egyptian hieroglyphs.”

“Indeed.” Verity nodded.

“And the Elgin Marbles,” the younger girl added. “From the Parthenon. Byron called Lord Elgin ‘a filthy jackal’ who ‘gnaws at the bone’ of conquest for taking them away. In The Curse of Minerva.” She spoke distantly, as if thinking of something else. Something melancholy.

“Do you admire Byron?” Olivia said. “I wouldn’t have thought it of you.”

“I don’t admire him. Not in the least. I acknowledge that he has a gift for poetic expression.”

“How generous of you.”

“We’re going to see the South Seas materials,” Verity put in. “I’m particularly interested in those. You’re welcome to come along.” She ignored the face Olivia made.

“I think I’ll wait a bit longer,” Miss Reynolds replied. She seemed more determined than happy with her choice.

“Is your friend late?” inquired Olivia sweetly.

“Yes.”

“How thoughtless.” She turned and started toward the archway that led to other rooms.

Verity hesitated, then followed. “What was that about?” she asked when they’d left Miss Reynolds well behind.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t try to bam me. Something odd was going on back there.”

“Oh well.” Olivia smirked. “I may have sent Miss Reynolds a note that mentioned a certain bouquet and suggested a meeting by Apollo’s foot. A great touch, the foot, don’t you think? My father says that true brilliance is in the details.”

“That’s rather cruel, isn’t it? I should go back and tell her.”

Olivia gave her a sour look. “Certainly, if you’re the sort of person who would betray a friend’s confidence. And you wish to humiliate me.”

“I don’t, of course, but—”

“She didn’t have to come,” Olivia interrupted. “Nobody is making her moon over a certain gentleman. Or pay attention to anonymous notes. She could simply invite him to call on her, couldn’t she?”

“I suppose Miss Reynolds would see that as too forward.”

“They’re pretty well acquainted. They portrayed lovers in a play last autumn. And it would be much more sensible than lurking by an ancient god’s foot, wouldn’t it?”

They were fair points, but Verity remained uncomfortable. “Promise you won’t send her any more notes.”

“Pah, you’re no fun.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Oh very well, Miss Prim. I swear.” Olivia put a hand over her heart.

Verity didn’t like being thought stuffy, but Miss Reynolds had looked so forlorn. She still wondered about going back to tell her the truth, but just then they reached the rooms displaying items from Captain Cook’s voyages. Immediately, Olivia was full of amusing comments and charming questions, reminding Verity of why she’d liked her in the first place. She also made no complaint as Verity examined every piece and imagined what it had been like to come upon them in a newfound landscape. Still, the rest of the tour was not quite as delightful as Verity had imagined it would be.

It was late afternoon before they returned to Olivia’s home, and when they entered the drawing room, they found Lord Randolph there, inquiring after Hilda. “She slipped away from Sebastian’s house,” he told them. “And as he is on duty, I’ve been delegated to find her. I thought she might be visiting Miss Beatrice.”

“Who is not here,” said Olivia’s mother. “She said she was going to practice dramatic speeches in her bedchamber.” The lady sighed. “We appreciated her thoughtfulness in sparing us.”

Olivia snorted.

“Perhaps she’s been kidnapped by pirates,” suggested Peter, who was once again lounging on the drawing room sofa, nursing his broken arm.

“Pirates wouldn’t want her,” replied his younger sister, Selina, looking up from her card game.

“They wouldn’t want you!” exclaimed her opponent, five-year-old Gerard. “You’re cheating again. I know you are.”

“I’ll search Beatrice’s room,” said Olivia above the noise of their dispute.

“Nurse looked,” said her mother.

“She doesn’t know Beatrice’s hidey-holes.” Olivia went out.

Randolph was relieved that the two girls were most likely together. Hilda thought she was up to anything, an opinion for which she had some justification. She was clever and fearless. But London held hazards beyond her experience.

“Did Olivia enjoy the museum?” asked Mrs. Townsend, amusement clear in her voice.

“She liked Apollo’s toes,” said Miss Sinclair in an oddly dry tone.

“You went to the British Museum?” asked Randolph. “Did you see Ramses?”

“No.”

It seemed she hadn’t liked the exhibits. Or perhaps she didn’t know the name. “He was an Egyptian ruler many thousands of—”

“I know,” interrupted Miss Sinclair. “It is impossible to see everything in the museum in one visit.”

Her friend returned, waving a piece of notepaper. “I’ve got it. They’ve gone to visit Mrs. Siddons.”

“The actress?” Randolph was startled.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Townsend. “Beatrice saw her in Douglas. She found her suicide scene utterly devastating. People say this play may be Mrs. Siddons’s last.”

“But how did she come to know the lady?” Randolph asked. Mrs. Siddons was a respected figure, unlike some other women of the theater, but schoolgirls weren’t likely to be acquainted with her.

“Wrote to her, apparently,” Miss Townsend answered. “Multiple times, I would imagine. The poor lady finally gave in to the siege and invited her to call.” She brandished the page as evidence. “What a poor conspirator Beatrice is. She left this in her ‘secret’ cache under a loose floorboard. Can she have forgotten that she showed me the place? I’ll have to teach her proper plotting.”

Randolph didn’t understand the look Miss Sinclair gave her. “Does she give her address? I’ll go and fetch them.”

“I don’t suppose we could just let Beatrice come home on her own,” said Mrs. Townsend. She added, “No,” just as Randolph said the same. “She really cannot go haring off without telling me,” their hostess continued.

And something might have happened to them, Randolph thought but didn’t say. Wasn’t it getting rather late for visiting? “I’ll return her to you.” He held out his hand for the note. “May I see?”

“I’ll keep this,” replied Miss Townsend. “The address is Westbourne Green. Where will we find that, do you think?”

“I shall go alone,” Randolph said. His parents’ coachman would know how to find the place. He suspected it would be a goodly distance.

“If you think I’ll miss meeting Mrs. Siddons, you’re mad,” said Miss Townsend.

“The journey could take a while,” Randolph replied. And it would be all for nothing if he missed them. He suppressed irritation. He didn’t want a long carriage ride in the company of Miss Townsend.

“I don’t care. It will be an adventure. Verity will come, too. Won’t you, Verity?”

“Yes,” said Miss Sinclair.

Suddenly, the trip seemed less onerous. “About what time did she leave?” Randolph asked.

“She went up to her room hours ago,” said Mrs. Townsend.

Which wasn’t particularly helpful, Randolph thought.

“I must send word to my mother,” said Miss Sinclair.

This note was quickly written, and other necessities attended to. A few minutes later, the trio was in the duke’s carriage heading west around Hyde Park.

“You have to admire Beatrice’s initiative,” said Miss Townsend. “I wouldn’t have thought of such a lark at her age.”

“You didn’t have a coconspirator like Hilda,” Randolph pointed out.

“True. If only we had known each other then, Verity.”

Miss Sinclair made no reply. She was gazing out the window at the passing scene as they veered away from the park. Randolph admired her profile, wondering what she was thinking.

“I’ve never been out this way before,” Miss Townsend commented after a while. “It’s a bit dreary, isn’t it?”

The houses seemed commonplace to Randolph. It wasn’t Mayfair, but neither was it a slum.

Conversation became sporadic as they rattled on. The light grew more golden as afternoon turned to early evening. Randolph thought of requesting more speed, but his father’s coachman knew his business and would be as eager as he was to get this over.

“Wait, stop!” cried Miss Sinclair some time later. “There they are.”

The driver heard and pulled up. When Randolph looked, there indeed were the miscreants, heads down, trudging along the side of the road. The girls eyed the carriage warily, until Hilda perked up and shouted, “It’s Randolph! Thank heaven.”

Randolph jumped out and herded them into the backward-facing seat. The coach made the awkward turn to reverse their direction.

“There are no cabs to be found way out here,” Hilda declared. “And Beatrice wouldn’t go back and ask—” She bit off the sentence as she apparently remembered the clandestine nature of their outing.

“I don’t care,” said Beatrice. “I don’t care if I get a thundering scold. I’ve met the greatest tragedienne of our time.”

It sounded like a quote, Verity thought.

“And she told me I would do very well on the stage.”

“She said you were a dramatic young lady,” Hilda corrected. “Lud, my feet hurt! These new half boots fit dreadfully. And I’m starving. The greatest tragedienne of our time didn’t give us as much as a biscuit with our tea.”

“She is above food,” Beatrice retorted.

More likely she hadn’t wanted to prolong the visit, Verity thought.

Lord Randolph leaned forward and produced a packet of sandwiches from a cloth bag at his feet. “I’ve found that a bit of sustenance comes in handy on rescue missions.”

Verity admired his foresight, as well as his calm assurance—just the sort of attitude one needed to weather the hardships of exploration. This was not, of course, a voyage to the far side of the globe. It barely qualified as a mild adventure. And Lord Randolph was unlikely to have true ones, she reminded herself. Ever. He was a country parson. She really must stop forgetting this crucial point.

“You are a trump,” said Hilda, unwrapping the sandwiches and handing one to Beatrice. “And not ringing a peal over us either.” She bit into her own.

“Not my job,” said Lord Randolph. “You may be sure Georgina will. And Mrs. Townsend.”

“Mama will laugh,” said Beatrice. “And admire my panache.” She made a sweeping gesture with her sandwich.

“No, she won’t,” said her older sister. “She’s very cross with you.” She rather spoiled the effect by adding, “I cannot believe I missed meeting Mrs. Siddons.”

This set Beatrice off on a paean that lasted for the remainder of their journey and left her sandwich largely uneaten.

When Verity reached her lodgings later that evening, her mother was sitting in the drawing room with a book. “Is all well with the girls?” she asked.

“Yes, we found them safely.”

“Oh good. You have a letter from Papa. It was enclosed in one of mine. I didn’t see it until I opened them.”

Verity eyed the packet on the writing desk. “Is he angry about the singing?”

“A little concerned. We told him it was just the once.”

Apprehensive, Verity went to unseal the letter. But when she began to read, she found he had another concern entirely. After the usual salutation, he wrote:

I was startled to receive a missive from Lord Randolph Gresham enclosed with your mother’s last. And distressed to hear that you were to be paired with him for this ill-advised concert.

Verity blinked. Lord Randolph seemed just the sort of man her father would like. She read on.

I have confirmed that this young man is the one who caused the Archbishop of Canterbury considerable embarrassment. I will not repeat the story. Unlike certain frivolous persons, I do not consider it amusing. And it is certainly not suitable for your ears. I will say only that Lord Randolph’s carelessness undoubtedly damaged his prospects in the church. It would be best to avoid any further linking of your names.

Her father finished with his dear love, and so on.

Verity contemplated the words. What could Lord Randolph have done to earn this warning? If frivolous persons—Papa privately referred to the Bishop of Chester that way at times—thought it amusing, it couldn’t be so very bad. The Lord Randolph she knew seemed quite unlikely to embarrass the archbishop. Could Papa have mistaken him for someone else? Or perhaps Lord Randolph wasn’t as staid and parochial as she’d thought.