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Most courtiers had likely rushed there the first day the wonders of the circus opened - apparently there had been some incident involving a large cat from one of the performances, and the situation was saved by a life guard, none other than her recent acquaintance, Lord Langdon of Tintagel! Perhaps he did have a touch of Round Table heroism to him. Still, despite how exciting it sounded, Eleanor rather hoped that things would continue rather more as they were intended today. It was the kind of excitement that a proper young lady didn't really need. Lifting the skirt of her cream and green striped cotton day dress through some of the dustier areas, Eleanor drifted from show to stall, venturing a coin on one of the more interesting looking performances, admiring the wares on offer. One man claimed to have treasures from the Byzantines, amongst others, but she had not the kind of coin to venture on such things, and was careful with the stipend provided by her guardians, though she did linger to admire the pearls. One day, she vowed, she would have a pearl necklace like her mother's, and pearl earrings to go with it. But still it was fun to simply admire such things and listen to the man's spiel, much as it was fun to watch the jugglers and the tamed animals. She'd even seen a cat of the type that had apparently attacked someone yesterday! Shadowed as ever by her chaperone Mary, Eleanor happily drifted, from place to place, enjoying being out after the last few days abed, and seeing spectacles the like of which she never saw at home. She even purchased a couple of flavoured sugar treats for Mary and herself that felt positively indulgent!

7 April 1678 - 11am You could fill a book with the differences between the North and the South of England. Some wise-crack probably already had done. In fact, there were probably several sitting on booksellers' shelves somewhere or other. Ever since leaving Turnock Abbey in the rugged, windswept moors of Yorkshire, Robert had been keeping his own mental log of the differences, in the very manner that any proper Northerner would do when forced to go south of the Trent and venture into the heartlands of the soft, pleasure-loving, fleshy "Southrons." Before you get the wrong impression, Robert (the seventh Viscount Lowther) was not a hayseed hick, to whom Harrogate or York constituted the "biggest place on Earth." He had done his fare share of travelling across France, the Low Countries and Germany. He had been into the deliciously different fat lands of southern England plenty of times. Indeed, he had been an unwelcome houseguest of his late elder brother, the sixth Viscount, when the latter had lived in London for years, vainly striving for some sort of Court preferment until he was untimely carried off by the miasmas and inclement airs of the fetid metropolis. In all honesty, there was little point comparing the two places properly, because they were ultimately chalk and cheese. In his homeland, Robert could enjoy the huge, unspoilt vacant vistas of rugged heathland, thick forest and rolling hills. A patchwork rural idly that looked like it had burst off the canvas of a cheap landscape artist. Plenty of rosy, buxom village lasses, beer drinking ruddy yeomen and wizened, pipe smoking old greybeards. Good hunting. Wild weather. Hardy folk in a hardy land. Not rich in possessions but rich in spirit, tradition and soul. But, let's face it, if you wanted more than a pleasant view or a good chase then there was little more for you there. The family lands did not produce enough to have them live in great style, for that they needed preferment. Further, as the Viscount was in want of a wife, it was a common knowledge that the capital had plenty of eligible young women with handsome...assets. So, having done his best since the untimely death of his elder brother to steady the ship in the North, Robert had made the decision to follow in his footsteps and take residence (in the Season, at least) in the metropolis in the dual hunt for preferment and matrimony. Although he was plenty familiar with London it still always took him some getting used to. From miles away you could see it: a thick smudge of sooty black clouds on the horizon. Closer still you could hear it: a gentle buzz which soon became a Babel roar of conflicting noises from human, animal and material. Finally, you could smell it: hitting your nose like a football on an icy day. Travelling with a not inconsiderable chest of clothes and materials, he had travelled the entire way from the Abbey to London via a relay of coaches. Crushed between a prattling minister and a rotund coal merchant, he had been jolted, jogged and shaken the several hundred miles, putting up with scurvy inns, weak beer and bad company for over a week. By the time the coach finally ground to a halt on Piccadilly he positively bounded out of the enclosed space, ignoring the invitation of the minister to attend his next sermon and unceremoniously treading on the toes of the fleshy, deeply sleeping merchant in the process. Making himself known to the innkeeper of the Red Lion where, for now, he had decided to take lodgings, he waited on the street outside as servants lugged the oak chest up to the room. Offered wine by the innkeeper, he had instead elected for the sort of beer workmen drank in bucketloads. There was plenty of time to come for him to put on the airs and graces of the well-to-do in the capital. As he stood in front of the inn, leaning against the wall, he watched the fast flowing river of people passing by with dizzying speed. The first thing which struck him was how well dressed (and to his mind, dandified) most of the men of quality seemed to be. He, on the other hand, adopted the no-nonsense functional garb of the rural gentleman and former soldier. A sturdy dark blue coat, a relic of his days with the Dutch army, with buff breeches and thick leather riding boots (despite the fact he had travelled by coach). A black belt slung over his shoulder held up his sword and behind the buckle he had stuffed his gloves for easy carrying. He ran a finger and thumb along his moustache and spiked beard. He was not sure where to begin. He had goals, sure enough, but putting them into practice was a different matter. For now, a drink and a people-watch seemed like a good start. If, as they say, London was the city of opportunity then it was not beyond the realm of possibility that all he needed to do was give himself up to it and perhaps the city would smile on the good Viscount Lowther?