Chapter 12 #2
Maybe that’s why I hadn’t heard about them.
Some people were hidden to history because they changed names and no one wrote down what the gossips were saying about them or the places where they were written about were destroyed, so the information was lost. Or no one looked at that particular newspaper that held the information, and it’s still hidden somewhere, waiting for a historian to find it.
“Thank you for sharing,” I say.
“But I am not allowed to ask about your life, correct?”
“Um. You know my parents were immigrants, and very supportive, and loving.” I don’t think I can add any more details. Time for a subject change. “Do you want to know one of the many tragedies in this room?”
“You do know how I feel about sad things…”
“Yes. But this is also a piece of information that no one else has here, that you aren’t allowed to tell anyone.” It’s a bit of future knowledge, but I need to distract him from my personal story.
“I do love a bit of gossip. All right, what is it?”
“All of these sculptures”—I lean closer as I indicate the Parthenon frieze and pediments, and the galleries beyond that hold antiquities—“would have all been colorfully painted back in the classical period.” I cross my arms now that the bombshell is dropped.
“No! Everyone knows white sculptures are a sign of antiquity. We decorate our houses with replica white marble sculptures.”
“Now they’re white, but back in the day, the Greeks and Romans liked things painted. Brightly. Garishly.”
Leo looks at me like I said the sky was green, then back at the art, getting closer like he can see remnants of paint. “How do you know that?”
“Ummm…” I can’t very well tell him I know that because someone used a high intensity UV light on them in the future.
“Some people have seen traces of paint on things that are coming out of the ground right now. Before they’re ‘cleaned’ by archaeologists and museums. And they’re suggesting that it’s not dirt; it’s paint. ”
“That is amazing. I studied classics and no one said a word of it to me.”
“It’s all very new. That’s why you can’t tell anyone.” I shush him.
Leo shakes his head. “Curious,” he says with a slight smile, in that soft tone that says he can’t figure me out.
“You don’t even know the half of it.” And he won’t ever if I have anything to do with it. I’m physically uncomfortable with the fact that he’s being so open with me about his life, and I’m lying to him about every detail of mine, but there’s nothing that can be done about it.
And there’s no reason for him to know the real me, anyway. No matter how much I wish it was different. He just sees me as a unique woman because he’s never met anyone like me, but if he lived in my time, he would realize I’m not special.
“Is there anything else you want to see?” Leo asks.
“I could spend a week in here.” Leo doesn’t look as enamored with that idea as I am. He opens his mouth, but I interrupt him. “But it’s fine. We can leave now.”
“I can bring you back again, if you would like.”
I take his offered arm and then shrug. “There’s a lot to do in London, and I don’t know how long I’ll be here.” Understatement. “I’d like to see as much as I can. And help you, of course.”
And get home, at some point. Somehow.
“Then you will love Hyde Park. There’s history, for my family and London, and it will help both of us, for our future security.”
All of that is true, but I’m nervous about being back in front of large groups of people who make a sport out of tearing people down with a sharp word and some scandal.
And me lying about everything, to the queen and everyone, seems like a juicy bit of gossip that no one would leave alone if they found out.
The only person not looking to tear me down is Leo. Only because he sees me as useful now; I doubt he would if he found out the scope of my lying. The sooner I help him, the sooner I can stop spending so much time with him and reduce the danger of discovery.
I’m going to find him the most ethical, richest heiress I can in this city. And then I’m going to smile while he flirts and courts her; I’m going to be gracious.
Even if on the inside, I’m imagining scratching her perfect, kind, intelligent, rich eyes out.
* * *
The weather is nice at the park. Or nice for England; it’s not the Southern California weather I’m used to. But rain is only a suggestion today, in the form of warning gray clouds in the distance instead of a steady presence, so that’s a win.
Leo helps me down from the carriage and then starts the walk next to Rotten Row, Anne trailing an appropriate chaperone distance right behind us. I leave the journal behind, even though every instinct in me wants to pick it up and take notes while we walk. But that’s weird, in this time and my own.
The first half hour of the walk is mostly just exercise. Leo keeps conversation light and the pace average. People look at us with speculation, and a few respond to greetings from Leo, but none stop and chat with us.
The air’s so thick with pollution from the ongoing Industrial Revolution that I can’t stop the cough that bubbles up in reaction. Which can’t be making us more appealing to talk to.
“Leo. Good afternoon!” A laughing brown woman with the same black hair and the same sparkling brown eyes as Leo waves as her giant horse runs at us with no indication that they’ll stop anytime soon.
The rider doesn’t seem like she wants to stop anyway, graceful on top of the majestic animal that she moves easily with, curly hair blowing under what I assume is a fashionable hat.
This could be a relative of his. Or a potential heiress. Or both, damn this pervy time.
Leo stands there, like a bowling pin waiting for the ball to knock it over, while the rider and horse approach us. I start to tug at his arm, willing to abandon the man if he wants to get trampled in Hyde Park. But at the last minute, the rider commands the horse to stop, and it does.
Kicking up some unnecessary dust in our direction, just like in a movie. But I guess dirty is better than trampled.
“Good afternoon, Lydia. You have gotten better at stopping,” Leo says to the new arrival.
Lydia, whoever she is, tosses her hair back in a movement not unlike one the horse she’s on would do. “I told you I could learn myself. And that I do not need useless riding lessons from pompous men who will not let me go fast.”
“Good, because we cannot afford lessons from anyone, pompous or otherwise,” Leo says. “Your Royal Highness, may I present my sister, Lydia Clifford-Alston? Little Pest, this is Her Royal Highness Meera Chopra, of the Cooch Behar royal family. One of the nieces.”
“Oh, Indian royalty! So you are spending time with Victoria’s newest ward?”
“If even you have heard about it, pest, news must be travelling swiftly.” He gives me a wink, excited that our plan is working.
“Do you know he’s poor?” Lydia asks, getting back at Leo for the pest comments.
“I heard.” I get on my tiptoes to whisper-talk the next part. “I am too.”
“Such a shame for us all.” Lydia clicks her tongue in disappointment and dismounts off the horse as gracefully as she rode him. “So I shall have to marry a rich old man then?” The words are glib but there’s a tension in her shoulders and around her mouth.
Leo sighs, rubbing his forehead with the arm not holding mine. “I am working on our finances. I think we have time before we have to resort to rich, old men. It is not like they are in short supply.”
“Unfortunately.” Whatever else Lydia was going to say is cut off by a disheveled-looking woman on horseback, calling Lydia’s name. Going much slower than Lydia was when she approached us.
“Can you please stop irritating your chaperone?” Leo asks.
“Probably not. Got to dash, Leo. Love you.” Lydia gets back on her horse and gallops off, followed by the beleaguered chaperone.
Anne must be happy that at least we’re not on horseback, although after making her walk for probably more than ten thousand steps today, she might prefer the horseback option.
“Love you too, Little Pest.” Leo waves after his sister.
“Your sister seems nice.”
The obvious affection between the two is making me miss home.
I’m an only child, but I miss my family and friends.
All of whom haven’t even been born yet. I don’t even live close to my family since they’re in San Jose where I grew up, and I moved to L.A.
for college and then my job. But the fact that they’re this far away, geographically and temporally, makes missing them even worse.
It intensifies the ache that I’ve had since I realized when I was.
When will they notice I’m gone? Mom calls every few days, so it should be soon. And then she’ll worry. Which makes me feel worse.
But there’s nothing I can do about that now.
Leo snorts. “That is kind of you to say.”
“No kindness about it. She’s sassy and I like it.”
“That is not usually seen as a positive. Mother blames me for it, for spending so much time with Lydia and teaching her to be like me, but when we were in the country, there were not many others to play with. And no one else can understand what it is like to be different. I might have had friends, but I could not speak to them about wanting to visit India or feeling like I missed out never having seen it.”
“Where I’m from it…” Nope. Can’t go into those details.
“Well, some people can empathize with that feeling.” I want to tell him more about me, that I’ve got complicated feelings about the thousand directions immigrants and their children are pulled in, from not wanting to forget their past but trying to embrace their future, and how what that balance ends up being looks different for every person.
And then everyone has opinions on that balance, from those outside and even those inside the community.
It’s what made me want to study historic immigrants in the first place.
But that might get complicated if I start going into details.