Page 8 of Love, Lies, and the Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)
Outside the room, Anastasia took quiet little breaths to calm herself.
So what if Mr. Hardwicke was handsome? What did it matter if he was unsuitable?
She liked him. He struck her as a sort of kindred spirit.
He appreciated art, and not just as a pretty picture to admire. There was more to it than that.
“I might just have a solution…” Aunt Mildred said. “I think, my dear, I will pay a visit to my good friend Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
Anastasia wanted to cover her ears. She wanted no part in her aunt’s matchmaking schemes.
She quietly went up to her room and looked at herself in the small looking glass that sat atop the night table by her bed.
Catching her reflection in the light, she glanced at herself.
Her face was a trifle pale but now rosy from the coughing and blushes to her cheeks.
Like her sister’s, her hair was pinned back into becoming coils and curls, a family trait, and she had her mother’s impish nose and dimples.
Her lips were a faint pale pink, so subtle as to be unremarkable.
She rather wondered what any man would see in her.
Better to just be unremarkable and focus on her sister having a good life and making a good match.
But first, she wanted art in her life, and to do that, she wanted to visit the Royal Exhibition.
Anastasia went to the small wardrobe in the room and pulled the bell pull to ring for Mary to attend her.
Once Mary had arrived, Anastasia took out a walking coat for daytime.
It was of a light blue, and with a bonnet and matching blue ribbon to match, it would make a very pretty picture, if she did say so herself.
She let Mary help her dress and pulled on a worn pair of gloves and walking boots as the finishing touches.
Armed with a small, blue cloth reticule, she walked downstairs and made for the front door, just as her sister was coming out of the breakfast room. “Oh. Where are you going?”
“To the Royal Exhibition. To see the art.” A part of her wanted to bite her lip.
She primarily wanted to be alone. They were all already condemning her to spinsterhood.
Maybe she could use this to her advantage and avoid having to take a chaperone wherever she went.
She certainly did not want her little sister to come along.
“Jolly good. Well, have fun.” Her sister walked past her, then stopped. “Say, wait a minute. You should take Mary. And… there’re mostly men at those dull exhibitions, aren’t there?”
The modicum of hope Anastasia had felt at attending alone now sank to the pit of her stomach. “Yes, sometimes.” Mostly , but she wasn’t about to say that.
“Well, I should go with you. It’s not right or proper for you to be going out by yourself. Wait a minute and I’ll join you.” Her sister bounded up the stairs, lifting her skirts as she ran.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t run,” Aunt Mildred called, coming out of the dining room. Seeing Anastasia there, she said, “Going out, I see. Where are you off to?”
“The Royal Exhibition.”
“An excellent choice. I have errands to run so I shall take you in my barouche.”
Anastasia heaved a great sigh as her aunt swept up the stairs to her room. She paced the floor and prepared to wait.
An hour later, Anastasia had had enough. She stood by the door, tapping her foot, waiting still, when her sister and aunt finally graced her with their presence, decked out in their walking coats, bonnets, polished walking boots, and gloves.
Anastasia exhaled noisily and put her hands on her hips.
Betsey’s smile lowered a fraction and she elbowed their aunt. “Aunt Mildred, ooh, Anastasia is cross with us for being late.”
“Is she?” Aunt Mildred glanced at Anastasia, who could not help tapping her foot.
“Are you ready to go?” Anastasia asked.
“Yes. But a word to the wise: it is never appropriate or polite to rush a lady. Like the aristocracy, a lady will be ready when she is ready—and not before.” Aunt Mildred raised her nose ever so slightly at this and gave a delicate sniff. “Now. Let us depart.”
Anastasia stood back as a footman opened the door and the trio walked out to the sidewalk, where Aunt Mildred’s barouche stood waiting.
Once they were seated comfortably inside and Aunt Mildred had given instructions to the driver, they set off, and the horses took off at a lively pace, their hooves clattering against the cobblestones and streets.
Anastasia let out a little sigh and glanced away, hardly noticing her aunt’s conversation as the sights of London flew by.
They passed by Somers Town market stalls, hawkers, well-dressed people in carriages, poorer souls in worn and threadbare clothes walking by, as well as stalls for food, meat, bread, cheese.
London was wonderful, Anastasia decided.
It was so full of sights to see, she simply loved it.
They pulled up to the Royal Exhibition and got out, paying the entry fee. Anastasia didn’t know why, but she was practically running to get in.
“Anastasia, what is your hurry?” Aunt Mildred asked. “Heavens, girl. We are not in a race.”
“No, Aunt. I just want to see the exhibition.”
“Well, do it, then, but do not wander far. The young people these days. I cannot understand wanting to go somewhere so fast. I need to catch my breath. Betsey, dig out my fan.” Aunt Mildred thrust her reticule at Betsey, who flinched at the request.
“Yes, Aunt.” Betsey fetched the fan and handed it to her.
It should be said that while Aunt Mildred did have a rather overbearing manner at times, part of the problem was a result of anatomy.
She was well-endowed, Anastasia reflected, and had a great stature.
Their aunt was tall, above average height for a woman, with great, gray curls pinned back into a respectable bun.
She had a hawk-like nose and sharp, beady eyes, with a firm chin.
That, combined with her iron-rod straight stance, along with her generous bosom, made it rather difficult for Aunt Mildred to look down and see past her chest, thus necessitating the need for assistance from time to time.
Whilst perhaps she could have simply lifted the reticule to get the fan herself, Anastasia fancied that her aunt rather enjoyed the opportunity to tell the girls what to do. It established a sort of pecking order in their family society, with their aunt at the top, and they a bit lower down.
Aunt Mildred took the proffered fan and fanned herself. “Do not go far, Anastasia, or we won’t be able to keep up with you.” She took a firm hold of Betsey’s arm.
Betsey shot her sister a warning look, as if to plead for help, but Anastasia would have none of it. She nodded and walked away, immersing herself in the crowds.
At the Royal Exhibition, she fell in love.
Here, she was a shadow, a stranger, a nobody.
No one here amongst the patrons knew who she was.
They didn’t know her past or her shame. To be fair, few in St Albans did, either, but ever since that fateful day, she’d felt like knowledge of her dalliance with Mr. Jemisin had become common knowledge and was written across the face of every townsperson she conversed with, from the local baker to the bricklayer.
But really, no one even really cared. Like her, they were here for the art, and that was all that mattered.
She walked into one room and breathed in.
The air circulated with the well-dressed forms of men and women, walking in pairs or singly, admiring the paintings, the sculptures.
So many paintings set next to each other, hanging above one another.
They reached well high up on the walls, and it was thrilling.
She looked at one pastoral scene, an oil painting of a landscape, but with an element of the fantastical about it, where a young nymph was bathing and a man watched from the woods, unaware of the ghostly-white nimbus about her, suggesting her otherworldly essence, or the pack of hunting dogs that circled around her protectively.
A voice said in her ear, “I should have known. Out of all the fine pictures here, you are to be found at the one of Diana.”
Anastasia turned around. “Mr. Hardwicke.” She curtsied as he bowed. “Good morning.”
A thrill went through her as he came closer.
Today, the gentleman wore a tan walking coat, trim, gray trousers, and a white shirt and waistcoat, with shined, black boots.
He was dressed relatively simply and yet it made her breath catch.
He walked with a noble bearing and on him, even a sack might have been deemed attractive.
He carried a hat in his gloved hands and gifted her with a polite nod.
“Good morning. Although I’d say now it’s closer to the afternoon. Did you enjoy the concert last night?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“Manage to step on anyone else?” he asked.
“Is that a joke?”
“Hardwicke, come away, you must see this. It’s simply shocking. Oh.” A feminine voice descended upon them.
Anastasia turned to see. The voice belonged to one of Mr. Hardwicke’s female companions from last night.
This was a pretty young woman, of a somewhat thin, overly pale and sickly constitution.
She had a very long neck. One might call it swanlike and elegant, if being kind.
Overly long and stork-like, if being ungenerous.
The woman’s neck was her most prominent feature, as she stood average height, with short, mousy-brown hair arranged in ringlets around her face and neck.
The short style only seemed to accentuate her long neck, drawing attention to it.
The woman wore a lilac dress and peered at Anastasia, looking her up and down. “Who might you be?”
Mr. Hardwicke said, “Mrs. Sherwood, allow me to introduce Miss Anastasia Banks, of Hertfordshire. Miss Banks, this is my good friend, Mrs. Elizabeth Sherwood of Nottinghamshire.”
“How do you do?” Anastasia said politely.