Free The Education of Portia by Lesley-Anne McLeod Page B

October. They were to visit the
British Museum with its burgeoning collections of sculpture and antiquities. She was influenced
by the fact that it was one of her favourite places in the capitol and that there was inevitably
something new on display in the aging, crowded building.
    The girls were agog for two days prior to their Saturday excursion. On the prescribed
morning, despite that they were allowed to sleep an hour later on Saturdays, the young ladies
were prepared and waiting in the entry hall for the trip by half past nine.
    "Perhapth we shall see Papa," Penelope said, as Portia descended the staircase, pulling
on her gloves carefully.
    "Could we call upon him?" Melicent added, a sparkle flaring in her brown eyes so like
her father's.
    Portia's response was interrupted by the girls' older sister.
    "Don't be silly. Penny, London is a huge city, the hugest in all of England. For us to
encounter Papa among all the people we will see in the streets would be the most remarkable
coincidence. And Mel you know this is an educational outing. It is nothing to do with Papa.
Though perhaps we could leave Miss Crossmichael's card in Hill Street? With perhaps a
note?"
    Portia was dismayed by the suggestion. She ushered the girls out to the waiting carriage
as she considered her reply. She had no wish to see the viscount's home, no desire to leave her
card, and she would never admit to a wish to see him again.
    How best to divert the girls' thoughts? "We'll see," she said.
    Her step-brother trod down the steps from the front door and she greeted him with
relief.
    "Mama wath always used to say 'we shall see' when she wished not to do something
with uth," Penelope said.
    "Hush, Penny." Melicent, spying Mr. Dent, frowned ferociously.
    Portia overlooked the frown and the trembling lip of the youngest Perrington to say,
"Mr. Dent is joining us. He has business in the city." She bestowed her companions carefully in
her closed carriage: Melicent and Penelope on either side of her, Sabina beside Caldwell on the
opposite seat.
    It was her theory that less flirtatious glances and languishing looks were possible when a
young lady was seated beside her victim. Innate modesty would keep Sabina from crowding
Caldwell closely.
    With a sigh at the machinations even the most simple undertaking could require,
Portia--so soon as they reached the main road--began to point out sights of interest and educational
objects to be seen from the carriage.
    Her efforts took them to the edge of the city, but Sabina's animation could not be
contained at her first sight of the metropolis. "Papa has promised I shall come out in three years,
Miss Crossmichael. I thought I could not wait, but I do not find the city so very attractive. I had
not thought London so very dirty and noisy."
    "You must not judge all London by Islington and Finsbury, my dear. Wait a little
moment... Yes, here we are come to Oxford Street. Now the streets improve."
    "Oh, yes I do see what you mean! This is much of an improvement. Oh, Mr. Dent, do
you not find it exciting? I could imagine... Oh, good gracious there is Papa!"
    All five heads in the carriage turned in the direction of her pointing finger.
    "Sabina, drop your hand! Of all things, to point in company is the most rude action of
all." Portia's reproof was swift and sharp. Her dismay at spying Lord Stadbroke herself fairly
choked her.
    Reactions in the carriage were swift and mixed. "I did not thee him," wailed
Penelope.
    "Neither did I," said Melicent.
    Sabina blushed deeply over her lapse of manners and murmured that her father had only
been visible for a moment. She was too overcome to pay any heed when the carriage halted to
deposit Dent on the pavement.
    "Five o'clock at the Fox and Grapes?" Caldwell asked.
    Portia agreed with a nod. Cal was going to meet with his father. She could only hope his
visit was without incident. She was overwhelmed by unexpected feelings of her own. She had
clearly seen the viscount, his head bent