Page 18 of Love Affair in London (Once Again #12)
I t was windy on the boat’s top deck, but still pleasantly warm in the sun.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, defying the reputation of the English rain everyone talked about.
Boarding and departure had been swift, and now they were steaming along the river.
The water wasn’t clear but brown and murky, probably from countless boats stirring up the silt along the bottom.
Their guide—Piper didn’t think he was the captain—regaled them with stories about the sights along the riverbanks. They passed warehouses and factories, but there were also apartments and condominiums along the riverfront.
Piper didn’t know which direction they were headed until the guide announced, “As we go southeast toward Greenwich, you’ll see sailboats and pleasure craft.
And on your left, take note of the small bar where Dickens lived in an upstairs garret while he wrote Great Expectations .
” It might be an urban legend, but the story was fun.
Passing another wharf, the guide declared, “That is Execution Dock where they put Captain Kidd to death. Back then, it was common to hang the condemned from the dock and let the rising tide drown them.”
Piper leaned close to Jared. “That’s gruesome.”
“They didn’t like to make things quick back then,” he replied dryly.
Further along, they passed an inlet crowded with old buildings and wooden bridges across the water between them, a spot the guide said was used in filming the movie Oliver!
“Back in Dicken’s time, it was called Folly’s Ditch and was a terrible, poverty-stricken place,” he informed his captive audience.
Other inlets brimmed with sleek sailboats bobbing gently. As the river curved, a massive warehouse with loading cranes loomed into view. The guide posed a question to the group: “Does anyone know where the word wharf comes from?”
No one answered, but Jared leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Ware house at river front.”
Piper laughed when the guide echoed the same words. “How on earth did you know an obscure fact like that?” she murmured.
Jared gave her a crooked, endearing smile. “Scrabble. We looked up words in the dictionary all the time. But the truth is, it came from an Old English word that means shore .”
“You’re certainly a font of information,” she teased.
The journey wasn’t long, maybe twenty minutes, and soon they were pulling into another dock, the guide pointing out a nearby ship. “That’s the Cutty Sark.”
“It was the fastest ship of its time.” Piper grinned. “See? I have some information too.”
Jared deadpanned, “I already knew that.”
She elbowed him lightly. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
“My kids call me a know-it-all.” The sparkle in his eyes made her want to hug him.
“You are a know-it-all.”
“Do you want to tour the Cutty Sark?” he asked as they left the dock.
“I’ve never been a ship person. But if you’d like to…” She let the sentence hang.
“It’s not at the top of my list.”
As the other passengers dispersed—some toward the Cutty Sark, others into the streets or toward the Old Royal Naval College—Piper asked, “What is at the top of your list?”
“The only thing I know about Greenwich is Greenwich Mean Time,” he admitted. “Not Mr. Know-it-all after all.”
She bounced on her toes, her excitement rising. “Oh, this is perfect! I actually get to show you something you don’t already know.”
“Lead on.” He grabbed her hand.
Oh, how she loved the feel of his hand around hers—warm, strong. She and Roger had never held hands like this. She liked how open Jared was with these small gestures.
She walked briskly, almost tugging him along.
“First is the Painted Hall in the Old Royal Naval College, which houses the University of Greenwich now. Sir Christopher Wren designed the buildings. He also designed St. Paul’s Cathedral and Trinity College Library in Cambridge.
And a bunch of other buildings after the Great Fire of London. ”
“I recognize his name.” He shot her a wry grin. “It makes me think of Winnie the Pooh.”
She batted at him. “That’s Christopher Robin.”
He wrangled his smile back under control. “You’re better at doing your research than I am. Tell me more about the Painted Hall.”
The college was a short walk from the dock.
The magnificent buildings, with their combination of Corinthian and Doric columns, stately domes, and Baroque styling, were breathtaking.
She pointed ahead as they strolled. “They call the Painted Hall Britain’s Sistine Chapel.
It was painted around—” She tapped her temple as if that would poke her memory.
“—the early seventeen hundreds. By Sir James Thornhill.”
They followed signs that led them to the hall. “That’s all I’m going to say. I’ve seen pictures, but it has to be experienced to be fully appreciated.”
In the gift shop, they purchased tickets which included audio devices for a self-guided tour. Climbing the wide steps into the Painted Hall, Jared murmured a low, “Wow.”
The ceiling was an extraordinary masterpiece, also in the Baroque style, richly detailed and teeming with life. Beyond the lower hall stood an upper hall with more murals.
“I’ve only seen photos of the Sistine Chapel, so I can’t truly compare,” Piper said. “And I’ve never been to Rome. But this… it’s magnificent.”
The hall was nearly empty, probably because most tourists went to the Queen’s House first, the big draw in Greenwich.
She was grateful for the peace, and the painted ceiling held her spellbound, with the light falling through the long windows.
“Let’s sit here on the bench and just gaze at it,” she said.
Together they sank onto the wide cushioned seat, which felt luxurious after the hard chairs on the tour boat. She leaned back, craning her neck to admire the intricate details above. Painted in three panels, the two outer ones featured sailing ships, one with a Union Jack.
As she rubbed away the ache in her neck, Jared said, “Just lie back.”
“We can’t do that,” she whispered.
But Jared was already lying back on the bench, his head just brushing the other side, and tugged on her hand. “Why not?”
And really, why not? Only about ten other people were in the hall, most of them across the room. No one seemed to mind. Another couple had stretched out on a bench further along. She lay back beside him, her arm brushing his, his skin warm against her. The contact sent tingles through her body.
“Let’s listen to the audio tour.” Jared put on the headphones.
The guide’s cultured British voice narrated the hall’s history and described its details. The voice, paired with Jared’s closeness, made her feel cocooned in their own world.
Honestly, if they hadn’t laid back, she would have gotten a crick in her neck.
She gave herself up to the guide’s description of the painted ceiling.
The two massive ships represented the power of Britain’s navy with the capture of a Spanish galleon.
Which ultimately depicted the triumph of the British monarchs William III and Mary II over the French.
But it also hinted at the battle in England between Protestantism and Catholicism.
In the center panel, the monarchs seemed to float on clouds covered by a golden canopy, surrounded by cherubs, angels, warriors, even what looked like a god riding a chariot.
And most importantly, William’s foot stamping down the French king.
The details of each figure were extraordinary.
She could see why they called it England’s Sistine Chapel.
When the audio tour moved on to the description of the upper hall, they rose from the bench together. Taking the steps, they didn’t speak, listening quietly to the guide, her hand still in Jared’s.
She liked it. Maybe a little too much.
The upper hall was smaller but no less impressive, with a massive wall mural of another king, George I, surrounded by royals, religious figures, cherubs, and mythological gods.
She wondered if he was the King George who went mad, but no, this king was too early in the century.
Here, too, the ceiling was painted, as were all the walls.
As more tourists filtered into the hall, the space became busier.
When their audio tour ended, Jared broke the silence.
“Hard to believe this was originally supposed to be a dining hall for old age naval pensioners.” Which was something they’d learned on the audio tour. Though that hadn’t lasted long.
They walked back along the lower hall beneath the breathtaking mural and down the stairs. Piper turned for one last look and whispered the word Jared had first used. “Wow.”
“Well worth it. Thank you for bringing me here.” He squeezed her hand. “Where would you like to go next?”
“I’m getting a mite peckish,” she said, arching her back in a stretch.
His chuckle followed her through the exit. “Are you turning British now?”
“It’s just something Hazel used to say.”
“I’m hungry too,” he admitted. “Let’s find a place to eat. Would you like fish and chips? Since we’re in England?”
She tugged him toward town. “I read about a fabulous pizza place.”
“I thought we weren’t in Rome,” he teased.
“The British eat pizza as much as we do,” she shot back, undeterred.
The restaurant turned out to be cozy and inviting, clearly popular with locals and tourists alike. They each ordered a personal pizza—no leftovers to worry about. Piper chose a Margherita with fresh tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil leaves. Jared opted for sausage and pepperoni.
“Your source was right.” He savored a bite. “This is great pizza.”
Piper slid her last slice onto his plate.
“You sure?” he asked.
“I can’t let it go to waste.”
He accepted with a smile. “No complaints here.” His toned physique suggested he could easily handle an extra slice, while she worried over every pound. Unless indulging in roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, of course.
“Did you get your waste-not-want-not attitude from your thrifty accountant father?”
“Absolutely.”