“Smitten!” Mandy announces, like he’s genuinely delighted. “We might not be the only safari park in the country, but I think we’re the finest.” It’s like he’s trying to impress me.
“I’m sure.”
“And it’s not so strange. Thinksafariand your mind goes to the Serengeti—the great plains, dry heat, and Maasai warriors. Butthe animals don’t mind our gray skies, thatched cottages, and old ladies at the bus stop complaining about the rain.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t have it any other way,” I answer fondly. “I love living here.” Though I do prefer it when my life isn’t unraveling at the seams.
“Do you know the savanna means a treeless plain?”
“Does that describe your land?”
“Not at all!” he scoffs. “Northaby has extensive woodlands. But lions fare just as well in the rain and wind. And the monkeys at Northaby will snap off your windshield wipers just as easily as they would in Kruger National Park. Ah, listen to me, boring a pretty girl with tales of my menagerie and me.”
“Go for it. I’m loving this.” Plus, it’s easier when I don’t have to lie.
“You’re too kind, but for now we’re here. The grand entrance to the King’s State Apartments.”
“Wow!” I tip my head back, scanning the space for full effect. “It looks like something fromBridgerton.”
“From where?” His thick gray brows flicker, as though trying to place it.
“Never mind.”Bridgertonis pretend old-world luxury. People like Mandy live in the real thing. “So, this must be the King’s Staircase?” Mandy nods in the periphery of my vison as I gawk at the imposing structure. The gilt and the splendor, the high, high ceilings, and the painted faces staring down at us from the walls. “They look so real.”
“In some cases, they were.”
“The paintings are of actual people?” I glance his way, struck by the pleasure in his expression. It feeds mine, but then I remember my genuine enjoyment is adding to this falsehood.
“Some of them, yes. For almost three hundred years, those faces have stared down at all who ascend the staircase—charactersfrom an eighteenth-century royal court. Those identifiable are King George’s page, Ulric, and his Turkish manservants, Mehemet and Mustapha. And those characters dressed in red are the royal guard.”
“The people you had to impress to gain access to the king and his crew.”
“Yes, exactly right.”
“Ye olde fashionistas?” Or door bitches in old-fashioned britches.
“Perhaps they were,” he says, with a small smile. “And up there on the ceiling, looking down on us from a cupola, wearing that very dapper red turban, is the artist himself.”
“Gosh. Do you suppose that’s the world’s first selfie?”
I made it clear I didn’t want to be here, that I didn’t want to be part of this, but the evening delivered on more fronts than I ever could have expected. The exhibit is amazing—a walk through the ages that includes outfits worn by powerhouse Hollywood names at the Emmys, the Oscars, and the Met Gala.
Beyoncé, Rihanna, Audrey Hepburn—the names go on and on. There are shoes, and jewels, and hats, and other headpieces, but my favorite part of the whole exhibit is the look back into fashions from the past.
My Lord, I love all this history. Georgian court dresses made of delicate silver tissue, embroidered mantua, and gentlemen’s silk knee suits with matching frilly cuffs and high heels. I could spend hours just staring at them, wondering who wore them. Imagining what their lives were like, and whether court visits afforded them business or pleasure.
“You’re very quiet, my dear.”
“I don’t think I have the vocabulary to say how much I love this.” I smile Mandy’s way, though I’m thinking of Oliver while also feeling a little sad. I’m sure he’d fit right into court—all lethal good looks in that cloak-and-dagger lifestyle.
“Charming,” Mandy murmurs. “Just charming. But I have a little tickle in my throat that I think could only be helped by a glass of champagne.”
“Then let’s go and find you one.” While his manners are exceptional, I’m sure he’s had enough of staring at things that he can probably lift out of a closet any time he likes.
As we make our way out of the Pigott Gallery, I promise myself that one day very soon, when the exhibit is open to the public, I’m going to buy myself a visitor’s ticket and ogle until my heart is content.
Back in the pavilion, we help ourselves to champagne as I crane my head for some sign of Oliver. He doesn’t appear to be here, so when Mandy suggests a turn around the gardens, I agree. I’m pretty sure I’m not in any danger of Mandy getting handsy in the bushes, but I do hear music drifting in over the terrace, and I think I can see a dance floor.
“MoreBridgertonmemories,” I murmur as we make our way out into the late-setting summer sun to where a string quartet is playing contemporary pop songs.
