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.
‘When I stood at the Parthenon, I thought I could hear the voices of the ancients. In here, I hear their echoes,’ Lord Wyburn said softly.
‘You really do love the antiquities,’ Rilla said.
She glanced at him. His chiselled features reflected his awe, wonder and curiosity. She had known no one, except her father, to understand or share such feelings.
‘I have always been fascinated.’
‘Have you visited Italy as well as Greece?’
‘And Egypt.’
‘You saw the pyramids?’ she asked, breathlessly.
‘Yes, they are as magnificent as ever, despite Napoleon.’
‘You are fortunate.’ She stepped towards the displays but jerked to a standstill. ‘Is—is that the Rosetta Stone?’
‘Yes, although many are disappointed...’
‘Disappointed?’ She stared at the pinkish stone. Tentatively she leaned towards it, pressing a gloved finger against the glass as though to feel its contours and trace the intricate inscriptions. ‘Don’t they understand? It is the key! The most exciting discovery. It may unlock the meaning of hieroglyphs and a whole culture from the past—’
She stopped and felt the heat rushing into her cheeks.
‘Passionate.’ He spoke so softly, she barely heard the word.
He stood beside her. She no longer resented his intrusion. Indeed, it felt as though they were removed from the outside world, just the two of them, and had found a kinship amid these past treasures.
She smelled the faint lingering scent of tobacco and heard the infinitesimal rustle of his linen shirt as it shifted against his skin. Even the air stilled, as though trapped like a fly in amber.
She swallowed, shifting, wanting to both hold on to this moment and, conversely, end it.
‘My father wanted to translate the Rosetta Stone,’ she said at last.
He straightened. She instantly felt his withdrawal as he stepped back and was conscious of her own conflicting sense of regret and relief.
‘I am not surprised. It is one of the most important discoveries in modern times. Has he been to the museum since it arrived?’ he asked.
‘No, I—he—’ London was not a good place for him, but she could not say that.
‘His responsibilities have been too great at home,’ the viscount said gently as though understanding that which she’d left unspoken.
‘Yes.’
And then it happened—without warning—without the usual feeling of dread or oppression. The present diminished. The man, the Rosetta Stone, the display cases, even the long windows dwarfed into minutia as though viewed through the wrong end of Father’s old telescope.
She felt cold, a deep internal cold that started from her core and spread into her limbs.
A child—a boy—appeared to
