Chapter 12
When we get to the British Museum, the allure of historic buildings in their prime outweighs Leo, and after the brief tingles I feel when he helps me out of the carriage, I focus on the history.
Since I’ve already been to the museum (albeit on a lot later date) I’m able to focus on how everything is presented when I am, and the reactions the presentation gets from the Victorian visitors.
Some enjoy the novelty of seeing and learning about things they weren’t aware of before.
Others are more interested in the beauty.
Some just want to stand before the items from all over the world and remember how far the British Empire extends.
Some are interested in finding new motifs and designs to copy for their furnishings to show how worldly they are.
And others are here not to see, but to be seen.
They want people to know they are intellectual with intellectual pursuits, even if they spend more time focusing on who else is here rather than the art in front of them.
Absolute gold.
Despite still being a bit in awe of the pretty journal Leo gave me, I push past the feeling and take notes during the museum trip.
Then we get to the Parthenon Marbles. Leo looks excited about my reaction to the room and the items in it, keeping his eyes on me instead of the beauty and history surrounding him.
“Is there something I can help you with?” I’m beginning to feel like I’m a museum display.
“No. Only trying to see if you are going to faint. And if so, making sure to be ready to do my duty and catch you before you injure yourself.”
“I’m sorry. Not following. Why would I faint?”
“Because of all the sights you are surrounded by.” He looks around to make sure we’re alone. “Who are unclothed,” he says the last word so low I can’t hear it, only knowing what he said because I watched his mouth move.
“Thank you, for your concern. But I do think I’ll be able to manage.”
“This room has affected many women. It is allowed in the name of education, these being very classical, heroic unclothed men.” The word unclothed comes out easier this time. “But we do have to look out for the fragile sensibilities of the fairer sex.”
I laugh directly in his face, not knowing how else to respond to that. Or knowing how, but not wanting to spend all my time in the museum explaining to him why he’s wrong, just for him to ignore me.
I’m still shaking my head at him while I walk around the room. But I can’t stop the judgement that replaces some of the mirth. “Thieves. The lot of you.”
From the sculptures taken out of Assyrian palaces, to the Egyptian funerary goods, to the sculptures in front of me that used to sit on the Acropolis in Athens, most of the pieces of the British Museum do not come from the shores of Britain.
And they were often taken against the wishes of the local population, who had no say because of the mechanics of colonialism that meant lords could cart off as many national treasures as they could move.
The Parthenon Marbles in front of me, or the Elgin Marbles depending on who you think should have them, were taken from Greece in the early 1800s, when the Earl of Elgin asked the Ottomans if he could remove the pieces from the Acropolis, and the Ottomans, who were in control of Greece at the time and had used the Parthenon for, among other things, ammunition storage (and yes, it did explode the one time), agreed.
Greece has since argued that the removal was illegal and unethical, and have requested them back, building a museum right outside the Acropolis where the pieces could be housed if they’re returned.
I may be angry at the theft, but I don’t waste the opportunity to see the younger versions of the friezes from the Acropolis.
Earlier than the last time I saw them, maybe, but still too late to see them without the museum’s unfortunate “cleanings” with metal instruments and too-harsh acids which go against all art conservation guidelines.
“Not me, remember? I am too poor and irrelevant to be the problem,” Leo says.
He’s been letting me work in silence without rushing or distracting me, despite the fact that it must be a little boring for him.
It must be even more boring for Anne, but I comfort myself thinking this must be better than cleaning a palace.
But I might only think that because I hate cleaning, and love history.
“The problem is everywhere here.” I wave my arms around sadly. Encompassing the museum, the city, the country. “At least one of your ancestors must have been part of the problem. My lord.” The title drips with sarcasm.
He inclines his head. “I cannot deny that. Probably more than a few of them were problems to a great quantity of people. But we did get the title without any bloodshed or exploitation, when a particularly…enthusiastic king made us marquesses.”
“Please explain.” I turn away from the art and other tourists for the first time in the hours we’ve already been here.
Leo looks mischievous, so I know this is going to be a great story. I get my notebook ready as he shifts so we’re a little further and no longer facing Anne, and he lowers his voice.
“Great-great-some more greats-grandfather Cecil Clifford, a country squire who owned a very modest amount of land, met Henry VIII while on a trip into London. Cecil was charming and got invited by a duke to a hunt in Hyde Park, which was Henry VIII’s private hunting grounds at the time.
That’s when he saw Henry on a horse, doing things with a lady that are unacceptable to mention in a lady’s presence.
He directed the rest of the party away tactfully, and Henry saw the heroic deed.
From then on, Cecil caroused with the young monarch around London, becoming one of his closest friends and advisors. ”
“Those things are fine to do to a lady but not to say to one?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Yes.” Leo nods gravely, just a hint of a smile on his lips. “It is the talking about them that’s the real danger to young ladies.”
“Makes complete sense. So your ancestor was on unacceptable actions watch once, and then the king made him a marquess?”
“Yes. There was some bit about making him Treasurer or something government related, but he knew what his real job was—to carouse with the king and get paid for it.”
Head fuckboy in charge of a good time, apparently. Leo comes by his raking legitimately. “That is a fascinating story.” That is going in a book one day, when I get back home. I make note of it now so I don’t forget.
“I think the official line is the title was granted for heroic actions that imply a military bent and some paintings that outright lie about him being a military hero, but if you look closely, Cecil never fought in any of Henry’s wars.
I usually do not tell it to ladies, on account of it being so unacceptable, but I did think you would enjoy it.
” His eyes are sparkling, and yes, I enjoy both the lascivious story and the bright brown eyes.
“Because I’m so curious,” I finish for him.
“Curious is a good thing.” He’s looking at me too intently again. “An interesting, unique thing.”
I clear my throat at the intensity in those eyes. Aren’t rakes supposed to be purely surface? How is he able to command that much focus on one thing? Although I guess if that one thing is a woman…
But still, there are a lot of women in London who are easier to deal with than me and my baggage. Women who don’t have to lie about almost every facet of their life. Women who can solve his money problems. Women who are actually interesting and not just in the wrong time period.
And none of that is me.
He can’t mean to flirt. It’s probably a reflex whenever there are breasts near him. And I can’t get drawn in, or I could end up in a Victorian jail.
I clear my throat and get back to his personal history. “Victoria mentioned that you were half-Indian. Can you tell me about that?” Since he’s so ready to share. And because as a scholar in this field, I should know about him. But I don’t, and that’s bugging me.
Leo shrugs. “If you’d like. It is less interesting than the title story, though.
Dear Father was visiting a friend from university who was posted in India.
He met a local woman from Mysore who came from a family that was quite important in the time before the British Raj.
He fell in love, he said. Or lust, the gossips said.
Or saw the perfect opportunity to irritate Grandfather, my mother said.
Whatever the reason, he proposed. Her father agreed, because he hoped the British would give them back status they had before, which didn’t happen.
But the new couple moved to England and had me. ”
“What was it like? Growing up half-Indian here.”
“A lot easier for me than it would be for a half-Indian servant. Class is everything, so aside from the snide comments from some people that never really went away, I was mostly treated like any other young lord. Eton, Cambridge, London, hunting parties, the balls and the country estate.”
“Interesting. What about your mother? What was her life like?”
“I think it was harder for her, since it was more obvious that she was from India. There was always talk but she had the family money and then when Father inherited, she had the title too. But the women of her circle never really accepted her like their children did me. I do think it was easier at the country estate because she outranked everyone there, and harder in London because there are so many aristocrats here. She learned English and I think she eventually got more comfortable at parties. And then it got worse again after Father left, especially the way he did. She moved to the country permanently after that.”
“That must have been hard, to move and make a new life here then have her life upended again.”
“Yes. I think most people ignored that we were Indian. Mother, whose name is Eshika, became Eliza.”