Eleanor Webster - No Conventional Miss

The viscount’s absence filled Rilla with both relief and irrational disappointment.

‘He made me feel like I had a smudge on my face,’ she explained to Imogene. ‘I want to prove that I am not always like that, but have adequate social graces.’

‘Except you usually do have a smudge on your face. Although I suppose it is a step forward that you actually care about your smudges.’

Rilla stiffened. Imogene was right. She usually didn’t care. She frowned. She was sitting on Imogene’s bedroom floor beside her churn and she ran her fingers along its smooth wood, twisting the waterwheel so that it moved with a clunk...clunk...

‘But,’ Imogene added with a nod towards this apparatus, ‘if you do now care about smudges, you’d best stay away from that contraption.’

‘It is a perfect reproduction of my churn made precisely to a quarter-scale. Besides you are quite right, I have never cared about dirt or oil before and I see no reason to start now.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

But Rilla was leaning over the churn as though in an embrace, absorbed in both altering the trough’s angle and moving the wheel with a continued rhythmic clunk.

* * *

Lord Wyburn had announced his return with an invitation to the British Museum.

‘Which is an odd choice for an excursion,’ Lady Wyburn stated after reading the missive. ‘Indeed, he is too fond of ancient things and is like to become as bad as your father.’

Despite these comments, Lady Wyburn quickly wrote back their acceptance and announced that the excursion would prove a pleasant change from drinking tea which was too often as weak as dishwater.

But even with warning of his return, Rilla found the sight of him standing within the entrance hall disconcerting. She jerked to an abrupt stop on the stairs, aware of a marked change in her equilibrium without any scientific cause, given that she was neither in a boat or on carriage.

Perhaps it was his size, seemingly huge as he stood within Lady Wyburn’s hall. Or maybe he reminded her too much of her father’s gambling ‘friends’.

Indeed, that must be it, Rilla decided, glad of this explanation.

Certainly, he looked every inch the Corinthian in a well-tailored jacket, beige pantaloons and polished Hessians.

Yet, as she studied him unseen, she was conscious of sadness. It was not, thank goodness, a feeling, but rather she was aware of a shadowed bleakness in his expression, a tightness in his jaw and the sense that unpleasant topics occupied his mind.

Moreover, she realised, with a second start of surprise, that she longed to change that. She wanted to see his expression lighten with wit and interest.

‘Ah, there you are. Lovely to see you, dear boy.’ Lady Wyburn bustled into the hall.

Wyburn turned and bowed. ‘And you, my lady.’

‘Although whatever made you think of the museum, I do not know. Not that I’m not delighted, of course, but I have never truly appreciated the fascination accorded to ancient things. I mean, a jug is a jug even if it is thousands of years old. Besides, we don’t even know if it was part of someone’s second-best set. I would hate my second-best crockery to be on display.’

‘That is a novel perspective. I suggested the museum because I recalled that Miss Gibson had expressed an interest. Indeed, here she is now.’

He smiled as Rilla descended the stairs. He had a dimple, just one, set within his left cheek. Rilla hadn’t noticed it previously. Briefly that dimple fascinated. Again, she had an off-kilter, slightly breathless feeling as though climbing too high or galloping fast.

‘I could have waited.’ Her stomach also felt odd. Perhaps she had eaten insufficient breakfast.

‘But it is lovely for you to think of my sister’s interests. We are both much obliged,’ Imogene added, also descending the stairs.

They now stood in the hall. Wyburn seemed taller than ever. Rilla felt an irrational irritation both with his height and the crush. She wondered if perhaps London houses had dimensions smaller than that of their country counterparts and whether this might be suitable for scientific study.

* * *

The carriage ride through Bloomsbury fascinated Rilla. Thoughts of the museum crowded her mind, but she soon found the journey interesting on its own account. She loved the busy, bustling streets filled with vendors, newsboys, pedestrians and even stray dogs hunting for scraps. She loved also the interesting mix of carriages, high-sprung phaetons, carts and tradesmen’s vehicles.

She actually found it far pleasanter to focus on the activities outside the carriage than its interior. She knew she did not have a shy bone in her body, but somehow Lord Wyburn’s proximity or the carriage’s stuffy closeness had scattered her thoughts like so much dandelion fluff.

Indeed, only by pressing her face to the window and analysing the differing designs of carriage wheels could she keep her usual composure.

When they drew to a stop at the museum, Rilla felt a moment of disappointment. The external façade looked so ordinary. It was a solid building with a slate roof and two wings jutting out for stables.

But what did she expect, statues lining the drive?

It was the inside that mattered and which had inhabited her dreams for so long. Her earliest memories were filled with stories of Greeks, Romans and Egyptians. They were her bedtime stories, her fairy tales...

After descending from the coach, the party entered the building and a short, bent gentleman ambled forward to greet the visitors. He spoke in guttural tones and nodded towards a staircase leading to the first floor.

‘We have exhibits up there as well as in our newer addition, the Townley Gallery,’ he said by way of greeting.

Imogene looked upward.

‘Gracious.’ Rilla followed her sister’s gaze. Three life-size giraffes stood at the top of the stairs. ‘They look so lifelike. I wonder how that effect is achieved.’

‘They have been specially preserved,’ Wyburn said. ‘We could enquire as to the scientific method if you’d like.’

‘That would be fascin—’ Rilla caught Imogene’s eye and stopped herself.

‘I wonder if giraffes ever get neck aches,’ Lady Wyburn said with one of her typical rapid-fire bursts of speech. ‘I recall my great-aunt Sarah used to have dreadful aches, particularly when it rained. And a giraffe would have such a lot of neck to ache. Perhaps that is why giraffes live in sunny climes.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Lord Wyburn.

Rilla saw the amused tolerance in his glance and felt herself warm to him.

I could almost like him . The thought flickered unbidden through her mind. She pushed it away. He was a viscount and one who, no doubt, still considered her likely to waste his stepmother’s money while swinging from trees or chandeliers.

Besides, he was too intelligent, too observant...the last sort of person with whom she should strike up an acquaintance. With this thought, she chose not to follow her relatives upstairs, but walked briskly towards the entrance of the new gallery which she had read contained the classical collection.

‘I believe the antiquities are unlikely to change in any marked degree within the next few moments.’ Lord Wyburn’s amused voice sounded from behind her. ‘Do you ever walk slowly or, perhaps, saunter?’

‘I don’t like to waste time. Besides, this is the Townley Gallery and I’ve heard wonderful things about it.’

The gallery was a long, rectangular room with large windows and fascinating circular roof lights providing an airy, spacious feeling. Despite her haste, Rilla paused on its threshold, surveying the statues and glass cases, instinctively savouring a delicious anticipation, an almost goosebumpy feeling of delight.