I shouted as I ran. “He’s not responsible for what’s in the newspaper.”
When the policemen turned their attention to me, I belatedly realized that I’d dragged Olive into the confrontation. She stood beside me, staring wide-eyed at the proceedings. “And who might you be, miss?” one of the policemen growled at me as, behind him, Nat climbed to his feet and brushed himself off.
I didn’t want to associate my employer’s name with my impetuousness, but that became a moot point when Olive said, “She’s my governess and I’m Lady Olive Lyndon. You were being mean to that boy, and that’s wrong. Uncle says if you hit people who are weaker than you are, you’re a bully.”
I had to bite my tongue to keep a straight face, and Nat looked as though he might burst from holding back laughter. The policemen were stunned into silence, which Olive then filled by adding, “And I have magical powers.” The situation was so ridiculous that the tension eased.
The policeman who’d addressed me gave Olive a courteous bow and said, “My apologies, your ladyship.” To Nat, he said, “I’ll have to confiscate your papers.” He and his partner picked up the stack of newspapers at Nat’s feet and, with one last glare at the boy, headed off.
“Thanks, Verity, you’re a real piston,” Nat said.
“No she’s not. She’s a governess,” Olive informed him.
“I’m sorry about your newspapers,” I said.
He shrugged. “I can get more.” He added with a grin, “This happens all the time when you’re selling an unauthorized publication.”
“What’s ‘unauthorized’?” Olive asked.
“It means the government hasn’t approved it,” I explained. “Come along, now, Olive. Good day, Nat.”
“Good day to you Verity, and Olive, my heroine.” He gave her a formal bow.
“What’s a heroine?” Olive asked, resuming her skipping as we crossed the street.
“It means you’re a very brave young lady who stands up for what’s right.”
“Oh, Uncle will like that.” I groaned inwardly. I didn’t want Lord Henry to know that I’d brought his niece into conflict with the police on my first day, but the way Olive talked, he might not hear half of what she said, and if I asked her not to tell, it would look even worse if the story came out. “Why did that boy call you Verity?” she asked.
“That’s my name.”
“I thought your name was Miss Newton.”
“My Christian name is Verity, like your name is Olive. It’s Latin for ‘truth.’” My name was rather ironic, given my origins. I suspected my name had been my father’s cruel joke on my mother.
“Verity, verity, verity,” she chanted as she skipped. “Will I learn Latin?”
“Yes, you will.”
“All of Uncle’s bugs have Latin names.” She giggled. “You have a Latin name, so maybe you’re one of Uncle’s bugs!”
Lord Henry nearly ran into us on the front steps when we returned to the house. He had his nose in a book, and an older man behind him caught him by the back of his coat in time to prevent a collision. Lord Henry didn’t seem to notice. The man with him nodded a “good day” to us before he released Lord Henry’s coat.
“That’s Matthews, Uncle’s valet,” Olive informed me. “Rollo says his job is to make sure Uncle remembers to eat, sleep, and get dressed and to keep him from walking into walls.” I got the feeling that one should never say anything within earshot of Olive that one didn’t want repeated.
As far as I could tell, Flora still wasn’t out of bed, but Lord Henry hadn’t mentioned any routine for her other than my engaging her in conversation, which we could do later, and her afternoon music and drawing lessons, so I decided not to worry about her. Up in the schoolroom, I set Olive to working on her handwriting by copying a page from the science text. While she worked, I unfolded the newspaper I’d bought from Nat. Now I understood why every newspaper I’d seen before had the royal seal stamped on it. This one definitely took a different editorial approach than the newspapers I’d read. The main story on the front page was about the steam engine winning a race against a magical carriage. The story went on to describe the implications of bringing mass transportation into a restricted area. The article was vividly written, with a perspective that could only have come from someone on that bus. I looked at the byline and saw that the author was Elizabeth Smith—the Lizzie who’d sat next to me, I guessed.