Lizzie

5: London — 1890

On the morning after her tea with Alison, she wrote a thank-you note on hotel stationery, and asked the hall porter to mail it for her. He assured her that the postal service in London was without equal anywhere in the world, and that very few letters ever went astray.

“Our delivery is prompt, madam, prompt,” he said. “We’ve between six to twelve deliveries each day, madam, six to twelve of them. Your letter should arrive there in a wink,” he added, glancing at the address. “Kensington’s but a stone’s throw away.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, and noticed the odd look he gave her. She had not yet learned that in London there was a vast difference between civility and servility. Yes, sir and No, sir were the verbal insignia of a servant, and a proper lady would not have addressed a hotel employee — however ancient he might have been, as was the hall porter — with the word sir. She would learn this later from Alison, who taught her the errors of her ways in Paris; for now, she felt only puzzled. Leaving her letter in what she felt certain were safe hands, walking away from the lobby desk, she wondered if the note had been too formal for the good fun she and Alison had shared yesterday afternoon. Never could she remember having laughed so heartily! Or at such patently bawdy humor! Exchanged by two ladies, no less — she blushed to think of it. Back in Fall River she might on occasion be passing a stable or a saloon and would overhear the men at their jokes or their sly innuendos, but she’d always hurry past, her ears flaming, before the peals of laughter burst forth from inside those dark and secret places where they congregated. To joke about that horrible event — she could still remember Stephen’s cold hands fussing about under her clothing — and to accept his unfortunate groping and grasping as humorous in retrospect was something she could not have imagined herself doing a scant week ago.

Should she have made some allusion in her note to their giddiness? I have never laughed so long or so hard? But no, that would have seemed too plaintive, perhaps, a foreigner blatantly beseeching further invitation. Alison would have her letter sometime today; better to let her decide for herself, without prompting, whether she chose to extend any further courtesies. I seek your friendship, she had said. In which case she knew where to find it. For now, having followed what she was certain was proper etiquette, Lizzie stepped out of the hotel into a gloriously surprising balmy day, eager to explore the city further, this time unencumbered by Felicity’s inane remarks, Anna’s always imminent illness or even Rebecca’s lively chatter.

Today, she wanted no chatter.

I do not much care for it, she’d told Alison, and she’d recognized in that moment that truly too much of her life was spent in conversations she did not enjoy. The other ladies (why did Alison use the words lady or ladies so sneeringly?) had asked her to accompany them to Madam Tussaud’s, but Lizzie had politely refused, however famous that establishment might be. She preferred seeing real people rather than wax dummies, and was delighted to find Piccadilly bustling and alive even at so early an hour of the day.

She was almost to the corner of Old Bond Street, on her way toward Piccadilly Circus, guidebook in hand, when she heard a voice behind her shouting, “Miss Borden, mum, Miss Borden!” and turned to see one of the hotel pages in his gray livery trimmed with red at the collar pounding along toward her on the pavement. He was overweight for his thirteen or fourteen years, with plump apple cheeks and sky-blue eyes, hatless now — she watched as he retraced his steps to pick up his cap where it had fallen to the pavement — and completely out of breath by the time he drew up beside her. “Miss Borden, mum, pardon me,” he said, huffing and puffing, “but there’s someone on the telephone for you, mum. Pardon me, mum, I didn’t wish to interrupt your walk.” He put on his little gray peakless cap with its red piping, and virtually bowed her back to the hotel, where he stood waiting while Lizzie rummaged in her purse for a twopence coin.

The hall porter whom she’d addressed as “sir” not a few moments earlier, came from behind his polished mahogany desk and said, “Ah, Miss Borden, ma’am! I thought it might be best to try catching you, the lady said it was urgent.” He led her to a glass-enclosed booth round a corner in the hall, said, “You can just pick up, ma’am, she’s on the line waiting,” opened the door for her, and then eased it shut behind her.

Lizzie picked up the receiver. “Hello?” she said.

“Lizzie!” Alison said. “They were able to find you, were they? I do hope I haven’t fetched you back at an awkward time.”

“No, no, not at all,” Lizzie said. “But what a coincidence! I’ve just this moment given the hall porter a thank-you note to mail.”

“Ah, how sweet of you,” Alison said. “With our beastly system here, it probably won’t arrive till next Tuesday, when I’ll be long gone. I must tell you why I’m calling,” she said, somewhat breathlessly, Lizzie thought. “We’ll be leaving for Paris tomorrow, as you know, which is a dreadful pity because I shan’t be able to see you before then, what with tons of packing yet to do and getting the servants organized — they always seem to become as helpless as butterflies each time we make our summer move. I don’t know how long we’ll be there — Albert has some business to take care of, which may delay our leaving for Cannes — but I did want you to know where we’ll be staying, on the off chance we’ll still be there when you arrive. When did you say that might be, Lizzie?”

“The third, I believe. This coming Sunday.”

“Oh my, you will travel on Sundays, won’t you? In France, you’ll be lucky to find a porter. It’s always some sort of religious holiday there, and if it isn’t, you’ll find those surly frogs off to church, anyway, either praying or baptizing or else marrying a plump little maiden who, within months, will have grown a handlebar mustache to rival her mama’s. Do you have a pencil, Lizzie? I hear Moira shrieking at our gardener about something, and I’m afraid I’ll have to run and set it straight, whatever the calamity may be this time.” Lizzie could picture her rolling her green eyes heavenward. “Are you ready? I’m sorry, am I rushing you?”

Lizzie had picked up the stubby little pencil alongside the pad in the booth, and was waiting to write. “Yes, go ahead,” she said.

“It’s the Hotel Binda — do remember not to call it the Binda Hotel as there may be an utterly disreputable flophouse of the same name in Pigalle, if we’re to learn anything at all from Albert’s mistake. It’s number eleven rue de l’Echelle, not a minute’s walk from the rue de Rivoli and the Tuileries. We shall be there tomorrow sometime, and certainly through most of the week, unless Albert’s business detains him — which, frankly, I hope it does. So that we may see each other again.”

“How very kind of you,” Lizzie said.

“Now tell me quickly where you and your friends will be staying. I do believe we have the Crimean War being fought all over again in the scullery.”

“We’ll be at the Anglo-Français,” Lizzie said. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember the address.”

“Yes, I know it,” Alison said. “It’s in the rue Castiglione, not far from us, actually. Oh, I do so hope we’ll still be there when you arrive! We’ll have such fun, Lizzie!”

“I enjoyed yesterday enormously,” Lizzie said.

“As did I. Look at me, won’t you, I’ve almost forgotten! Please do say no to this if you find it awkward, Lizzie, won’t you? But I did want to make your stay in our filthy city as comfortable as possible, and I should have seen to it in person had our own travel plans not been fixed so far in advance. I’ve taken the liberty of asking my brother to call upon you; he should be there at noon, if you find that agreeable. He’s a Londoner to the marrow, and will do his utmost to show you some of the things you might otherwise miss.”

“Well, really, Alison, that’s...”

“And surely, you might enjoy lunching in something other than one of those dreary little places they’ve set aside for respectable Indies unaccompanied by the stronger sex. Geoffrey will see to it that you and your friends are escorted in style — he knows I shall behead him otherwise. And you must feel free to utilize him throughout your entire stay here. It will make it so much easier, Lizzie, truly. Do say yes, or I shall be cross with you.”

“Well...”

“Done then,” Alison said. “He’ll be there at noon, his name is Geoffrey. Hastings, of course. Don’t let his costume put you off; he’s a gentleman through and through even if he does affect the style of a Piccadilly Johnnie — what we sometimes call a masher or a chappie. My God, I’m sure they’re breaking things out there! Do let me go, Lizzie. Geoffrey Hastings, twelve noon, he’s tall and green-eyed and devilishly handsome, and if you’re lucky he won’t be wearing stays. I shall hope and pray I see you in Paris, my dear. And do take full advantage of Geoff while you’re here, though he’s such a mash, really. I must run,” she said, “ta.”

Lizzie stared in astonishment at the telephone.

Geoffrey Hastings was quite as tall and as handsome as Alison had promised, a young man somewhere in his thirties, Lizzie surmised, standing some six feet two inches tall in his patent-leather buttoned boots with their suede uppers, and wearing besides a dress coat that looked rather like an Eton jacket, cut to show an immense amount of ruffled shirtfront. The coat fitted him tightly at the waist, and Lizzie was certain (as Alison had suggested) that he was corseted beneath it. He wore a gray top hat, which he swept from his head the moment Lizzie approached him in the lobby, revealing short blond hair parted in the center. His face was clean-shaven, and his eyes were a green so dark they bordered on black.

“My dear Miss Borden,” he said, “how kind of you to make yourself available this afternoon.” He spoke English rather the way American stage performers did when they were trying to sound British, his voice somewhat high and nasal, his words slurred so that they became a continual sort of hum. “I do hope you’ve been enjoying our unaccustomed sunshine,” he said, and before Lizzie could reply, went on to say, “Allie told me you were up and about quite early this morning, and so I shan’t bore you with any more sightseeing till we’ve had a good lunch. I hope you’re quite as famished as I am.”

He took her for lunch (she felt hopelessly provincial thinking of it as dinner in her mind, the accepted word for it in Fall River) to a place called the Holborn Restaurant, where the glass and the brass and the marble columns were resplendently imposing, the room spacious, richly ornamented and attractively upholstered.

“I must tell you straight off,” he said, as soon as they were seated, “that there are no restaurants in all of London which can in any way compare to Delmonico’s or the Café Savarin in New York. Nor can you find here — at any price — a table d’hote meal equal in quality or style of service to that furnished at Cambridge’s on Fifth Avenue. Having made my national apologies, may I suggest that we start with the Whitstable oysters — our so-called native oysters — which are much my favorite, although many Americans find their flavor a trifle coppery and strong. The Chesapeake oysters, or the Great South Bay blue-points, might suit your palate better — if you like oysters at all, that is, and if they’re indeed in season, which I suspect they’re not. In any case, a bottle of Montrachet might be welcome, wouldn’t you agree?”

The oysters were not in season, and so Geoffrey suggested she might like to try either the thick turtle soup, or the mulligatawny, both of which he’d sampled here and found excellent, unless she preferred the consomme with Italian paste — though surely she was traveling on to Italy, was she not? They both had the turtle soup, followed by the whitebait — which Geoffrey said was a British delicacy and not to be missed — and then Geoffrey ordered the calf’s head and piquant sauce while she settled for the less exotic half roast spring chicken and ham, although he highly recommended the haricot oxtail.

“The wine isn’t all that bad, is it?” he said, though she’d made no comment at all upon it, and in fact had not once brought her glass to her lips. “One must be terribly wary choosing wines in any London restaurant nowadays. Those tempted to drink bad wine generally pay the penalty in money and malaise. I truly feel that restaurateurs who label their bottles Château-this or Château-that should be penalized under the Adulteration Act. Surely the adulteration of wine is no less a fraud than the adulteration of beer, wouldn’t you agree? Now then, assuming we can finish off our meal with a really well-made cup of coffee, something not so easily procured in London, what would you like to see this afternoon?

“I must tell you, of course, that sightseeing in London falls into two categories: places that everyone wishes to see, but that few can see; and places that everyone can see, but that few have any wish to see. I should love taking you to see the interiors of the Queen’s palaces, for example, but unfortunately I would first have to reckon with the Lord Chamberlain’s Department, and I fear a mere idle curiosity would never suffice to gain his official permission, which in any case is rarely granted. On the other hand, Miss Borden, were we...”

“If I’m to call you Geoff...”

“May I then? Thank you so much, Lizzie. Were we to make polite application by letter, we might be granted permission to view the various spendid private art collections — the Duke of Westminster’s in Grosvenor Street, the Duke of Wellington’s at Apsley House, and so on. How long do you expect you’ll be here?”

“We’ll be leaving for Paris on the third.”

“Scarcely time enough to get those titled gentlemen off their arses — you’ll pardon me, Allie tells me you’re easily shocked.” Before she could protest, he said, “Dismissing the first category as unobtainable, then, and sliding past those places in the second category — the ones everyone can see, and which you and your friends will undoubtedly feel duty bound to see — may I suggest some alternatives for this afternoon and the several days ahead?”

“Yes, please do,” Lizzie said.

“Well, then, do you like orchids?” he asked, and Lizzie suddenly remembered Alison’s complimentary allusion. “Because if you do, the Chamberlain collection in Kew Gardens is possibly one of the very best on the face of the earth. I’ve seen it more than once, and it probably contains more rarities than any other amateur can boast of. If you favor roses, the finest collection in all England is at Waltham Cross, not a half-hour’s journey by rail from the Liverpool Street terminus. Or have you had enough of rail travel? Unfortunately, you’ve already missed the Rose Society’s yearly exhibition at the Crystal Palace; it shut down almost two weeks ago. The same can be said of the Evening Floral Fête in Regent’s Park. A pity you weren’t here just a trifle earlier, Lizzie. I thought perhaps, for starters this afternoon, we might...”

He took her first to John Wesley’s restored chapel in the City Road — something mentioned in none of her guidebooks, and certainly a place she might otherwise have missed — explaining that the chapel had only recently been reopened for public worship and asking what her religious persuasion might be, if indeed she was religious at all. She told him she was a member of the Central Congregational Church in Fall River, and that her religion, as such, was evangelical Protestant.

“And yours?” she asked.

“My sister and I both, I fear, are complete heathens, though our mother tried to raise us as proper Lutherans, against the Church of England wishes of my dear, departed pater.”

“Am I to understand you do not go to church?” Lizzie asked.

“Only when I’m caught in a sudden downpour,” Geoffrey said, “of which there are many in London. In that respect, one might say I’m an avid churchgoer.”

“Then why have you taken me here?” she asked.

“Because I do so love this small house,” he said. “Not for its historic significance, certainly not. After all, 1777 — when Wesley laid the chapel’s foundation stone — might be considered thoroughly modern, in terms of our lengthy, illustrious, and thoroughly blood-stained history,” and here she detected a note of irony in his voice, so similar to Alison’s. “But for its serenity. To wander these rooms, to see the man’s study and conference chairs, his clock, his clothes and furniture — and in his tiny prayer room, the small table-desk and kneeler — these fill me with a sense of peace. Perhaps I am religious after all, Lizzie, though I shouldn’t let my sister hear that.”

In the spacious graveyard outside, as they stood by the tomb of the great founder of the Methodist church, Geoffrey — with a tone as mocking as his sister’s — asked a caretaker, in what was an overly exaggerated awesome whisper, “Is this ground consecrated then?”

“Aye, sir, indeed it is,” the caretaker replied.

“By what bishop?” Geoffrey asked at once.

“By none, sir,” the caretaker replied. “Solely by depositing in it the body of that man of God, John Wesley.”

In the hansom cab on the way to Westminster Hall where Geoffrey planned to show her St. Stephen’s Crypt (which Alison had mentioned in passing yesterday) and the Jerusalem Chamber and Chapter House attached to the Abbey, he said, “The growth of our grubby little city continues to amaze me. Had you been here last year at this time, there’d have been twelve thousand fewer houses — do statistics interest you, Lizzie?”

“Well... yes. In moderation.”

“I shall be moderate then, however contrary that may be to my nature. Be advised, then, that we shall be supplying somewhere near eight hundred thousand homes with running water this year — a commonplace in America, I’m sure, but quite remarkable for us.”

Lizzie thought of her own house on Second Street in Fall River, where the toilet facilities were in the cellar, and where — although there was a well in the backyard, and a pump in the barn — the only running water was obtained either from a tap in the sink room off the kitchen pantry, or from the faucet over the washtub in the laundry room downstairs.

“It shall grow to be monstrous, I’m certain,” Geoffrey said, “like Mary Shelley’s awesome creation. At which time we shall all flee to the Riviera, as my wise sister is presently doing, and spend our entire year there with all those bloody unmannerly French. Gone will be the day when one can get about London without truly knowing the city; all you need do now, of course, is ask any cabman to take you where you want to go, and he’ll find the tiniest little lane in the shabbiest little neighborhood.” As if to fortify his point, he threw open the little trapdoor on the roof of the hansom, and called to the driver outside, “Isn’t that so, cabbie?”

“Isn’t what so, sir?” the cabman said, bending over from his erect perch on the platform behind them.

“That I might give you an address on the most obscure little street in all London, and you’d find it for me?”

“Did you not want Westminster Hall then, sir?” the cabbie asked.

“Ignore it,” Geoffrey said. “The question was rhetorical.”

“I beg your pardon then, sir,” the cabbie said.

“Do you know what rhetorical means?” Geoffrey asked.

“Aye, sir, I do,” the cabbie answered.

“And what might it mean?”

“It means unworthy of an answer, sir,” the cabbie said, and stood erect again, and flicked his whip at the great black horse pulling them along.

Laughing, Geoffrey allowed the roof panel to fall loosely into place again. “There are fourteen thousand of these fellows in London,” he said, “and all of them fancy themselves to be wits. They’re absolutely right, of course — by half,” he said, and laughed again. “They’re supposed to charge you sixpence a mile, you know, but foreigners will often pay twice that to avoid any dispute; so do be wary, Lizzie, and firm as well. They rent these vehicles, and so I suppose they have to hustle a bit to earn a bob. A four-wheeler’ll cost them ten bob a day, and a hansom like this one a pound.”

“More like a guinea, sir,” the cabbie said behind them, letting them know he’d overheard this last as well, and then slamming shut the trapdoor to advise them he cared to hear no more.

“We’ve even more policemen than we have cabbies, and if ever you should lose your way, don’t hesitate to ask directions of them. They’re well paid — your street-corner bobby will be earning something close to a quid and ten a week, with his sergeant getting closer to two quid — and they’re only too delighted to assist in any way possible. You’re not obliged to tip them for answering your enquiries, of course, but I’ve never yet known one to refuse a tanner in the palm. But then again, Lizzie, who in all England will not accept an offered tip? I haven’t yet tipped the Lord of Buccleuch or the lord mayor, but I haven’t yet met those honorable gentlemen,” Geoffrey said, and laughed again.

How very much like Alison he is, Lizzie thought. The same fair hair and flawless complexion, the same somewhat petulant mouth with its cupid’s-bow upper lip and pouting lower, the same green eyes, though very much darker than his sister’s — almost too pretty to be a man. And, too, he was possessed of the same casually knowledgeable air, the same spontaneous wit, and — most especially — the identical biting tone of voice, as though anything that touched his mind or his eye was fair prey for his quicksilver derision. When he took her, just before tea-time, to the tropical department at Kew Gardens, she was reminded again of Alison, and wondered if her comments the day before had had anything to do with Geoffrey’s choice now. Had they discussed together the things she thought might interest Lizzie? Was this dazzling display of orchids meant as a subtle reminder of Alison’s fanciful dissertation on American girls? But, oh, such a glorious array! And again how like his sister was Geoffrey, showing her through rows and rows of more orchids than Lizzie might have imagined in her wildest fantasies, as seemingly awestruck by their beauty as she herself was, and discoursing upon them (as Alison might have) in a manner that was at first informative and then — suddenly, unexpectedly — shocking.

“Aside from their extraordinary beauty,” he said, and immediately interrupted himself to point out a violently red bloom, which he identified as Ranthera something or other, “... as scarlet as your own lovely hair,” he said, and then, “and your flaming cheeks, I might add,” for indeed his compliment had caused her to blush. “But aside from their extraordinary beauty,” he went on, picking up where he’d left off, “they’re not quite so useless as one might imagine. You know, of course, that vanilla is derived from the orchid...”

“No, I didn’t know that,” Lizzie said, still blushing.

“Oh, yes, the Vanilla planifolia, cultivated in Madagascar and the Seychelles and also the French West Indies, where yet another variety has yet another use — although a more plebian one. The bulbs there are boiled, dear Lizzie” (and this was the first time he used the affectionate adjective) “to abstract a liquid that is used for fish poisoning. Not to poison the fish themselves, you understand,” he said, smiling, “but to cure the poison injected when one of those beastly undersea creatures of the tropics chooses to bite you. Throughout the world, various species of orchids are used in one way or another for medicinal purposes. The mucilage from one species is even supposed to heal broken bones, and in some Eastern tropics the tubers are eaten like potatoes. A pity our barbaric Irish haven’t tumbled to that one, isn’t it? In short — and you’ll detect before long that I rarely address myself to any topic in brevity when greater length might suffice — the orchid, though so often compared to femininity by my dear sister, is not quite so uselessly ornamental as so many of our celebrated female beauties are these days.”

Ah, then. Had Alison’s little speech yesterday been a rehearsed and oft repeated one? Had she delivered it as a stage actress might, anticipating a response she knew would result the moment the words left her lips? Had it been, after all, flattery of the most blatant sort, and not the “honest praise” Alison had claimed it to be?

“The word orchid derives from the Greek, you know,” Geoffrey said.

“Does it?” Lizzie said. She was still thinking of the extravagant compliments Alison had so lavishly dispensed yesterday. There’s something so fresh about you... You have such marvelous color, Lizzie, that wonderfully fiery hair, and those incredible gray eyes... How silly of me, you’re quite beautiful enough without any artifice... Are there no looking glasses in all of Fall River then?... How prettily you blush...

She felt suddenly gulled.

She felt suddenly foolish.

“From the word orchis,” Geoffrey said.

“Indeed,” Lizzie said.

“Which means testicle,” Geoffrey said.

“Oh,” Lizzie said, shocked beyond further speech.

“Because of the shape of some root tubers.”

“Yes,” she said, and turned away from him. “I do so love these tiny delicate ones,” she said, knowing she was blushing again and unwilling to have him see her face or to comment upon it. She was quite beside herself, not wishing to reprimand a person Alison had described as “a gentleman through and through” (her brother, no less!) but at the same time reluctant to encourage any further discourse on the similarity of root tubers to portions of the male anatomy best left undiscussed in polite society. To her great surprise — and although he surely must have detected her diversionary tactic, such a great show of unbridled appreciation was she lavishing upon what was truly an insignificant if admittedly miniscule blossom — Geoffrey’s next words were, “Sexually — and despite the Greek derivation of its name — the orchid is an uncommonly curious flower.”

“Have we not seen enough of orchids?” Lizzie said politely. “I’m overwhelmed, truly” — which indeed she was, more by his shocking language than by the riotous display everywhere around her — “but I’m not sure I can bear much more,” and here she turned to face him squarely, her gray eyes meeting his, the set of her mouth clearly indicating (she hoped) that she did not appreciate such conversation and wished it would come to an immediate halt.

Apparently oblivious to her threatening glare or her compressed lips, blithely unaware of anything but the sound of his own voice and the certainty that he was disclosing something of enormous interest to her (or was he merely determined to shock, as had his sister been yesterday?), Geoffrey said, “The male and female sex organs, you see, are joined together in a single column. The stamens and the pistil, that is.”

He then went on, surprising her further, to deliver a learned and not at all objectionable lecture on the various parts of the flower, using such botanical terms as sepals and whorls and anthers and stigmas, and quite bewildering Lizzie until, once again, he shocked her by saying, “In some species, the petals so closely resemble female insects, that male insects are lured into mating with them — or at least trying to — what is called pseudo copulation. In yet other species...”

“Geoffrey,” she said, “I do believe...”

“... a significant number of them, in fact, the orchid is self-pollinating, which I suppose isn’t too surprising when one considers the proximity of the pollen tubes to the ovaries. I don’t suppose one could consider it homosexual, though, since both sexes are, after all, represented. Well then,” he said with a blithe smile, “we’ve had more than enough of orchids, I quite agree. Let me take you for tea at the Terrace, after which I shall deposit you at your hotel till eight this evening, at which time I shall stop by in a four-wheeler to collect you and your friends, assuming you will all do me the honor of joining me for dinner.”

Lizzie did not know quite what to say.

“Done then,” he said, echoing Alison.

He surprised her further at dinner that night — a sumptuous feast in the Grill Room at the Grand — first by his costume, and next by the gentlemanly attention and care he gave not only to the ladies’ appetites, advising them about this or that item on the menu, instantly signaling to a waiter when a wine glass needed replenishing (Rebecca and Felicity were drinking; Anna and Lizzie were not) but to their emotional needs as well, paying close mind to Rebecca’s tedious recitation of all the tourist wonders the women had seen that afternoon, lending a sympathetic ear to the interminable list of Anna’s fancied ailments, and responding with steadfast interest to Felicity’s constant flirting.

He was dressed more conservatively, but nonetheless resplendently, than he had been this afternoon, wearing a dress coat with rolled, silk-faced lapels, open over a white dress shirt and collar, the collar somewhat higher (was this what Alison had called the “masher” style?) than Lizzie was accustomed to seeing in America, and adorned with a simple, rather thin, black bow tie. When Felicity, batting her lashes, asked if all men in England dressed for dinner, Geoffrey replied, “Some, I’m sure, go about stark naked,” and glanced at Lizzie, causing her a moment of nervous apprehension until all the other women unexpectedly laughed, Felicity more heartily than any of the others, her face half-hidden behind her frantically fluttering fan.

“In all seriousness, though,” Geoffrey said, “my tailor tells me it’s not at all uncommon now for a fashionable man to array himself thrice daily. A tweed suit for his morning wear; a frock coat, smarter waistcoat and bigger tie for the afternoon; and, of course, evening dress for dinner.”

“If only American men were so fashion conscious,” Rebecca said, vying for his attention. “In Fall River, the men resemble undertakers more than anything else.”

“A fine occupation,” Geoffrey said, smiling, “in that they’re never wanting for trade.”

“What do you do, Mr. Hastings?” Anna asked, “if you do not consider the question impertinent.”

“Not at all,” Geoffrey said, “and please do call me Geoff, I implore you. The question is rather more pertinent than my vocation — or avocation, as I might more properly call it these days.”

“And what might that be?” Felicity asked.

“Architecture.”

“By avocation, do you mean — well, what do you mean?” Rebecca asked. “Do you study architecture? Or teach it? Or are you a designer of buildings?”

“Alas, I’m an architect,” Geoffrey said. “A designing one, I fear,” he added, and glanced at Felicity who peered at him over her fan, her blue eyes fascinated. “For which, I might say in explanation, there is scant use in London where domiciles and places of business are springing up like toadstools and with as much reckless disregard for beauty or form.”

“We find your city lovely,” Anna said apologetically.

“I thank you,” Geoffrey said, “but I can take no credit for it. The last building I had erected was in Birmingham, that foul mill town, and that more than a year ago. Were it not for a more than generous inheritance from my dear, departed father, I should be quite penniless, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Rebecca said.

“I assure you, dear lady, we shall not have to scrub dishes tonight,” Geoffrey said, smiling.

“I meant... about your father.”

“Quite some time ago,” Geoffrey said, “and after a long illness.”

“The Lord was merciful then,” Anna said.

“Quite,” Geoffrey said, and glanced at Lizzie and smiled.

She sensed, all at once, that he seemed to believe they shared an awesome secret together, as though her inability to silence him effectively this afternoon had created between them an unspoken bond that was somehow illicit by its very tacitness. She kept waiting for him to say something openly provocative or outrageous, but aside from his coarse reference to male nudity and, just now, his sly affirmation (lost on the others) of his own Godlessness, he seemed content to reassure her silently and with sidelong glances and knowing smiles that the mortar binding them was stronger than the others could ever hope to guess, and this frankly confounded her.

Nor did he appear quite so daringly derisive here in the presence of the women and the other well-dressed, soft-spoken diners in this opulently carpeted, comfortably upholstered and resplendently tiled room, where the conversation was counter-pointed by the occasional silvery laughter of the ladies all about or the discreet tinkling click of a ring against a crystal goblet. The food was magnificent, despite his protestations of English culinary inadequacy, and Lizzie supposed it must be costing him a small fortune to feed them; she had no way of knowing since the menus presented to her and the other ladies had offered no hint of the tariff. Reflecting upon his generosity and his restraint, she began to think more kindly of him, certain now (as Alison had suggested) that outspokenness was simply a family trait that only occasionally erupted and was not to be taken seriously when it did.

When the ladies briefly excused themselves “to visit the facilities”, as Felicity brainlessly put it, Geoffrey asked if they were well supplied with coppers, and then fished into his pocket for a handful of change, explaining that the lavoratory here at the Grand would cost each of them thrippence rather than the tuppence expected of hotel guests. Rebecca protested mightily, already fumbling at the purse stylishly fastened to a belt at her waist, but he waved her efforts airily aside and pressed the coins into Felicity’s palm. Lizzie, thinking it impolite to leave him alone at the table, watched as the other women descended the opulent staircase leading below, its landing decorated with a marble fountain and Eastern rugs and fernery and Oriental lamps.

“Your friend,” Geoffrey said, “is an outrageous flirt, isn’t she?”

“I’m sure she’s not,” Lizzie said, knowing full well she was but attempting to end the conversation before it led to another outburst of the Hastings Curse.

“Don’t misunderstand me, please,” Geoffrey said, and reassuringly patted her hand. “I find it refreshing. The great charm of you American girls abroad is that you manage to combine the purity of the adolescent and the coquettishness of the young married woman. A young French or English girl, for example, would sit here in her modest, well-educated, and thoroughly simple way, maidenly eyes demurely lowered, exuding a soft, virtually saintly light that invites discreet observation, judgment and examination. You American girls, on the other hand, have something rather more flashing. You flit rather than walk. Your glances are like diamonds whose many facets force an onlooker to blink away from their blinding luster. Your hair is lightly and negligently knotted and not arranged to good form, giving you the air chiffoné of a pretty girl who may be admitted into the ballroom, but certainly not to the ball itself.”

“You sound exactly like your sister,” Lizzie said.

“I take that as a great compliment,” Geoffrey said.

“But I’m not sure I enjoy the way both of you go on about American girls, as though we were a breed of horse to be compared to the Arabian or the...”

“A species of orchid, rather,” Geoffrey said.

“Your sister again,” Lizzie said, smiling.

“A species that needs more light and heat than any other,” Geoffrey said softly.

“Such nonsense,” Lizzie said, but she was still smiling.

“Well, surely, you must have observed for yourself the great difference between American women and our homegrown variety, nowhere more evident than in their behavior before and after marriage. Here, and especially in France, marriage is a license for flirtation of the most provocative sort strictly frowned upon before marriage. And, I might add, oftentimes leading to the fabled quatre à cinq — which is more than idle myth, believe me.”

“And what on earth is a cat that sank?” Lizzie asked.

“Gentleman that I am,” he said, smiling secretly again, “I shall leave that to my sister to explain.”

“No, please do tell me.”

“I shall offend your maidenly ears,” Geoffrey said. “But having been implored so prettily to do so...”

“No, please don’t,” Lizzie said, rolling her eyes as Alison might have. “I regret having asked, truly,” and they both laughed.

The ladies reappeared in that moment, exclaiming excitedly over the fairyland beauty of the lavatory, and the moment they were seated the maître d’hôteI arrived with the dessert cart, and there was much oohing and ahhing and much consultation and more advice from Geoffrey before pastries and fruits were chosen. All that while Geoffrey’s sidelong glances continued to include Lizzie in a sort of — conspiracy, yes, that was the word for it. Oddly she now felt drawn into the secret she previously felt he alone had kept, and the thought of it was warming and curiously exciting.

When at last they all said goodnight outside the Albemarle, she was delighted that he asked if he might call for them again early the next morning, “To show you,” he said, and there was that trace of irony again, “whatever meager sights our paltry city has to offer.”

The ladies laughed and protested, but Geoffrey was adamant. He would stop by in a carriage at ten sharp, he said, and then immediately corrected himself. “That might be a bit early,” he said, and glanced in his sidelong way at Lizzie. “Shall we make it ten-oh-one?”

There was more laughter and handshaking all around, and when finally the ladies entered the hotel, and went to the separate rooms they shared, Lizzie felt a comfortable sense of well-being she could only attribute to Geoffrey’s evening-long efforts to charm.

“Such a bright man,” Rebecca said, slipping out of her dress. “Do help me undo my corset, Lizzie. So witty and quick, I so admire men blessed with a gift for language.”

“Yes,” Lizzie said, smiling, and thought again how very much like Alison he was.

And, oh, how the next four days flew past!

Geoffrey had advised them that there were several choices as concerned the possible routes from London to Paris but that far and away the best and shortest of these was the one via Folkestone to Boulogne. The only advantage of the Dover-Calais route, the second-best alternate, was that — owing to the depth of the water at Dover and Calais — the boats departed and arrived at fixed hours, whereas those plying between Folkestone and Boulogne were at the mercy of the tides.

On the other hand, the hours of departure by the tidal trains were far more convenient than those via Dover, and the Folkestone route was shorter by a full half hour. The time occupied in crossing the Channel from Folkestone to Boulogne, he went on (as he was wont to do, Lizzie thought with a smile), was some ten to fifteen minutes longer than from Dover to Calais. But — and this was an important but — Boulogne was three-quarters of an hour nearer Paris by rail than was Calais, and those few additional minutes on the Channel would be compensated for by the saving of the uninteresting railway journey from Calais to Boulogne. If the ladies would heed his advice, (hen, he would be only too willing to make all the necessary arrangements and to see to it that a four-wheeler (a “growler”, he called it) got them to the railway station in time enough to catch the late Folkestone train on Saturday afternoon.

When Felicity complained that she had hoped to spend their last full night in London, Geoffrey explained that breaking their journey in Folkestone, where there were excellent hotels near the landings, would obviate the need of rising at an inconvenient hour on Sunday to take the early morning train, and would enable them besides to board the steamer before the arrival of the train passengers, thereby enabling them to secure the best positions and to make the necessary preparations for their trip without haste or confusion. Their luggage, he informed them, could be shipped directly to the Hotel Anglo-Français in Paris, to await their arrival there some eight hours later.

“If you so choose, then, I shall contact the...”

“Have you tired of our company so soon then?” Felicity asked, putting on a pouting, hurt expression.

“My dear lady, I assure you I should sooner tire of a glorious Venetian sunset,” Geoffrey said. “I am thinking only of your comfort and convenience. Surely you will not wish to awaken at the crack of dawn, to be driven over our fog-enshrouded and deserted streets to the rail station? In addition, I feel I should warn you that the first Monday in August is what we fondly call a bank holiday and if you attempt to go out of London that Sunday, you will find the experience more curious than pleasing. Every railway is crowded with trains almost touching each other, each one jammed full of excursionists, what we call trippers here. You should be most uncomfortable, and I strongly suggest that you leave London at a convenient hour on Saturday afternoon.”

“He no longer loves us,” Felicity said, pouting.

“Ah, but indeed I do! Just wait and see what I’ve planned to fill our days and nights before your all too imminent departure!”

He took them wherever they wished to go, places Lizzie was certain he had seen a hundred times before — “Places that everyone can see,” she recalled his having said, “but that few have any wish to see.” Except tourists, of course, and he was determined that they should not leave London without having viewed the houses of Parliament or the British Museum or the National Gallery or the Crystal Palace or Christ’s Hospital, which he told them would soon no longer be seen in Newgate Street. He took them to all the parks, and pointed out the charming flower beds on the east side of Hyde Park by Grosvenor Gate, expressing concern that they would not be here on Sunday to hear the debates in Speaker’s Corner, or indeed to visit the Zoological Society’s Gardens on that day, when they would be closed to the public, but for which he might have got an order of admission from a Fellow of the Society. He took them to St. Paul’s, of course, and to the Guildhall and the Clock Museum, and to the Silver Vaults and Dr. Johnson’s house, and the Temple Church and the Nash Terraces, where afterwards they sat in the garden. He took them to the finest restaurants each night for dinner — Blanchard’s in Beak Street, the Café Royal in Regent Street, Frascati’s in Oxford Street — refusing to allow them to pay a farthing for their meals, explaining that they could extend their thanks to his dear, departed father.

On the evenings when they went to the theater (it was he who obtained tickets to the D’Oyly Carte and to The Private Secretary at the Prince of Wales) he took them to supper afterwards, and often they would walk homeward together in the deep London fog, Geoffrey explaining that he would not advise them to do this alone, even now that their beloved Jack no longer seemed to be afoot with his scalpel. They had heard of Jack the Ripper even in America, and Felicity plied him with questions about the infamous murders, causing Lizzie to shiver in the dark.

“I still shouldn’t go wandering about in Whitechapel alone at night,” Geoffrey said, “though Lord knows our Jack seems to have been quiet these past two years. His victims, of course, were ‘ladies’ of another sort, but even genuine ladies aren’t quite immune to the rudeness of many of our so-called gentlemen (and here a rolling of his Alison-like eyes.) I’m sure you noticed that in the theater district it’s impossible for ladies if they’re alone, and even unpleasant if they’re accompanied by a man. I should warn you, too, if ever you’re afoot without me, to avoid Leicester Square and its adjoining streets, where there’s a large foreign population and it’s not usual for young women to go about alone; if you feel you absolutely must go, please do so in the mornings. Or better yet, wait for me to accompany you. The same applies to the Strand, which in the late afternoon has a decidedly mixed class of — ‘passengers’, shall we say? As for the Burlington Arcade, admittedly full of luxurious little shops that might entice you, do avoid it in the late afternoon when women for whom you would not care to be mistaken begin their little walks there.”

Everything then — all that any tourist might have wanted to see — he showed them. But he took them to other more surprising things as well. One night he walked them to the Westminster Bridge and asked them to gaze at the shimmering reflections in the Thames — the avenues of gaslights and rows of illuminated windows; the solitary electric lamp shining from the immense station at Charing Cross; the factories on the south side of the river, ablaze with light; the long straight line of lamps that stretched as far as the eye could see, above the bridge where Lambeth Hospital faced the houses of Parliament; the red, blue and green lamps on the railway bridge far away, and the long white plume of smoke drifting upward from an unseen locomotive, capturing the colors, reflecting them in a watery kaleidoscope. And one afternoon — she forgot which one, they all seemed to rush by so rapidly — he took them to see the annual review of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade on the football ground in Victoria Park, where fifteen steam fire engines and four manual engines and four hose vans and a hundred officers and men demonstrated their skills to a crowd of some fifty thousand spectators.

When he took them by the penny boat to Greenwich, he explained that the excursion was not in itself particularly attractive, but that it would give them an effective view of part of the waterfront “of our monstrous city; and besides, we shall be surrounded by a characteristic crowd of lower-class Londoners.” One day he took them back to Westminster Abbey, where he paid an attendant sixpence and then led them up a steep winding stair above the Islip Chapel to show them a little room in which were eleven life-sized figures with wax faces, explaining that they were once carried at the funerals of the people they represented, and pointing out the effigy of Queen Elizabeth herself!

He saved the best — she would never forget it — for the Friday before their departure. He had warned them in advance that it would be a long day and that they would not be deposited at their hotel again until rather late that night, but he assured them they could sleep as late as they wished on the morrow, complete their packing without any sense of hurry, enjoy a leisurely lunch and then catch the late afternoon train to Folkestone, which would get them there in time for dinner at the hotel he’d already booked. He had also arranged with the Albemarle to make certain that their luggage (he would insist on calling it luggage) was labeled directly to the Anglo-Français in Paris and transported to the railway station sometime tomorrow. He advised them to keep out of their trunks whatever clothing they might need for today and the next two days, which they could easily pack into their overnight cases.

“I apologize in advance for the paucity of the spectacle you are about to witness,” he said, “but the Henley Regatta takes place at the beginning of July, and anything following it is by comparison dull. I thought, however, that you might care to see to what use our citizens put the Thames in summertime, and perhaps you shall be pleasantly surprised. Besides, it always rains at Henley.”

They were a bit dismayed when he took them to the railway station, apologizing again for the necessity of yet another rail journey when they would be taking one on the morrow, but explaining that the only attraction the Thames had to offer between London and Richmond was its muddy banks, and promising that the trip would be a short one. It was somewhat longer than they’d expected, and the cars were thronged with people taking early advantage of the long bank-holiday weekend, but his surprise was waiting at Richmond — a hired rowboat large enough to accommodate the entire party and two muscular young boatsmen as well.

The fields on either side of the river were rolling and green. The water lapped the sides of the boat. The sun was strong overhead. Felicity, more to capture the attention of the boatsmen than to make any pertinent comment, kept pointing out remarkable sights on the banks — a cow, a frolicking spotted dog, a man playing an accordian — objects of interest she seemed never to have seen before. The river was uncluttered and tranquil. On the grassy embankments, bees buzzed in the clover. And then, quite suddenly, the traffic became heavier, and a tiny cat-and-mouse smile touched Geoffrey’s lips for here was the true surprise he’d planned.

“We call it the Hampton Court and Dittons Aquatic Sports,” he said, “which is in itself a mouthful. But if you like boats — well, ladies, you shall have boats indeed!”

There were more boats than Lizzie had ever seen in a single place before. They choked the river from shore to shore — sailing boats whose masts were covered with flowers, palms and exotic plants; rowboats decorated with flags and lanterns; canoes and steam launches, and dinghys and outriggers and houseboats; boats Geoffrey described as “dongolas” (had he twisted his tongue on gondolas?) and others he described as “sculls”; boats with brilliantly colored canopies and boats with striped awnings, boats poled by pairs and longer boats paddled by six or even eight — boats everywhere she looked! And all along the river bank were carriages and other vehicles, and gaily dressed people standing on the towpath under the hot summer sun, cheering or shouting or singing or simply watching the race — if indeed it was a race. But Geoffrey had made reference earlier to the Henley Regatta, hadn’t he? And what was a regatta if not a race? Still, none of the people here on the river seemed frantically striving to win anything, seemed instead to be caught in some joyous exodus, their exuberant voices rising above the clatter of the paddles to join the buzz of voices on the embankments. A summertime spirit of — gaiety, she supposed — hung on the air, as palpable as the warm sunshine and the cool river breeze. She had never known such gaiety in her life.

And later, as dusk claimed the countryside, electric lights flashed on many of the pilings up and down the river, and on some of the boats as well. A houseboat named Pitti-Sing had hanging over its doorway two miniature canoes, each aglow with what Geoffrey called “fairy lights”. The lone had her name spelled out in similar lights — the candles of these, however, flickering in red glass containers — and yet another boat was decorated with a large gilt crown outlined in lights, its center ablaze with the letters V. R. A punt slipped past, the name La Capa Negra stitched in white on a red bunting that flew from a tall pole, and the three musicians in the boat spoke Italian to each other and wore black crepe masks and sang Italian songs (though Geoffrey assured her the men were English) and then passed about a fishing net, soliciting money. In another boat there were men singing what Geoffrey called “nigger music”, and in yet another a young girl sang to the accompaniment of a harp, her lilting voice floating out over the dark waters reflecting the glow of Chinese lanterns and illuminated stars in lamps draped with flags.

They sat on the embankment later, eating sandwiches Geoffrey purchased in a garden immediately opposite a bridge glowing with electric lights, watching the boats passing by in what Geoffrey called “our Venetian Fête”. One of them was rigged as a Chinese pagoda, the children aboard dressed in Chinese costumes, a floating crimson palace lighted with an opal roof; another, smaller boat flickered with a myriad number of lanterns twinkling in a halo of greenery; yet another was startlingly decorated with a freshly cut tree festooned with lights on every bough. There was a boat with a large Japanese umbrella hung with small lanterns and fixed to its masthead. A punt decked out as a two-master floated past with lanterns hanging from the crosstrees of both masts. On one of the rowboats, a lantern caught fire, and one of the two men aboard seized a boathook and struck wildly at the flaming lantern, finally putting it out to the accompaniment of cheers from the crowd on the bank.

And then came the fireworks from the opposite bank, and the crowd held its breath as reds and blues and whites and greens exploded against the night. Lizzie’s heart soared into the sky with each successive explosion, trailed to earth again in a shower of glowing sparks. And when at last the hour-long bombardment of rocket sticks had ended, and the lights of the boats dwindled on the distant river to be replaced by starshine on the black waters, Geoffrey got to his feet and extended his hand to her and said, “We must go, Lizzie. We’ll be returning to Richmond by coach, and from there to London by train, but even so, the hour is late.”

Lizzie rose, smoothing the back of her skirt, slightly damp from the grass. “I hate for it to end,” she said, sighing. “You’ve made our stay here so wonderful. I can’t imagine how we shall ever repay you.”

“You’ve just repaid me more than adequately,” he said. “Although it mightn’t hurt,” he added with a wink, “to mention to my dear sibling, should your paths chance to cross again, how devastatingly charming, thoughtful and witty was her brother. I know it will please her.”

“You’re so very alike,” Lizzie said, as they walked up the embankment. “In so many ways.”

“As well we should be,” Geoffrey said.

“It’s not all that usual, you know,” Lizzie said. “Even in the closest of families, brothers and sisters...”

“Oh, but didn’t she tell you?” Geoffrey said. “We’re twins, you know.”

And all at once Lizzie realized that having spent these past several glorious days with Geoffrey as her guide and constant companion had been the equivalent, virtually, of having Alison by her side all that time.

“We must hurry, you know,” he said. “I shouldn’t want to miss our coach. Ladies!” he called. “Do come! Felicity! Anna! Rebecca! Never mind your skirts, I shan’t ogle your pretty ankles!” There was laughter behind them as the other women scurried up the bank, holding their skirts above their flashing legs.

“Presto, signorine!” he shouted in Italian, and winked at Lizzie and took her arm, and their smiles and their eyes met and joined in the star-drenched night.