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Chapter Eight
“Conjure not up ideal misery, but strive to do your duty, and cultivate a contented mind.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Silence shrouded their little group as they lingered on the pavement to absorb the splendours of Ancient Egypt plonked in the middle of Piccadilly.
Matilda peered through her veil at the highly decorative frontage and mused that Father may have been correct regarding the academic relevance of Bullock’s Museum after all.
Red-brick buildings of a more conventional nature crowded either side of the white-painted museum like wallflowers harassing the diamond of the season.
“Do you think, Miss Griffin,” said Chloe with a scrunched nose, swinging her skirts, “that Egypt looks like this?”
“Not in any pictures I’ve seen, Chloe. And there is usually more…sand.”
“Magnificent columns though,” commented Mr Hawkins, looking inordinately handsome with his clean-shaven jaw and ruffled hair.
Flanking the museum’s entrance door were white fluted pillars with bulbous heads and lotus bud capitals supporting a cornice which jutted forth with splendour. Above, upon a plinth, stood two fifteen-foot-tall stone statues with haughty glares, gods who’d seen cities rise and fall and obviously found Piccadilly rather a bore.
Tall oblong windows either side were filled with octagonal leaded glass that glinted in the sunlight, surrounded by stone inscribed with ancient script. Pediments above protected the carvings of winged suns unable to take flight in their solidity.
“Who are the statues of, Miss Griffin?” enquired Chloe. “They must be nippy in this weather without togs.”
“Isis and Osiris, I believe.” She tipped her head further back. “And those are sphinxes above…and then a scarab beetle.”
It was garish, tasteless and possibly the most enthralling place Matilda had ever seen.
A fierce gust blew down the street, the never-ending construction works to the east gilding the white paint of the museum in a layer of London’s subterranean dirt.
“Shall we?” declared Mr Hawkins, holding both arms out, and in utter exhilaration, Matilda and Chloe squeezed tight and dragged him forth.
Heads of Hathorloomed atop fake columns like menacing gargoyles, metal serpents coiled up railings and signs of the zodiac crowded the ceiling.
Seth gaped.
This was merely the hallway which preceded the main exhibitions, and his governess likewise shifted foot to foot, veil swishing left and right.
“Do you…like it?” he enquired politely, aware that such garish Egyptian decor was equally fashionable for the swells’ pads in Mayfair.
“Well…” She tapped her foot. “It’s not at all reminiscent of the drawings in Description de l'Égypte. Perhaps Mr Bullock has taken artistic licence?”
He’d certainly taken something.
Whilst Seth had procured the tickets and catalogue from the booth, Modesty had arrived, and it had been decided that it might be prudent to first view the infamous carriage of Napoleon before the crowds of London descended.
An elaborate sign ahead indicated Exhibit Room 1, a wide archway presenting the backs of bonnets and beavers, gowns and boots. A crush of colour…and of people with the same idea.
“Maybe we should come back la–”
Gleaming wheels flashed in a gap between the buckskins and gowns, and his daughter shrieked, grabbed hold of Modesty and tore off at quite a clip.
“Chloe!” Miss Griffin called. “No running in the…” But it was too late.
“No matter,” offered Seth as the girls charged towards Napoleon’s magnificent blue carriage as though invading Russia. “We are not young for long.”
“But as governess, I should–”
