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to learn by emulation. Morgan saw to that. But if her upbringing had turned out rackety and unhappy great changes were in the offing. Though he had lingered there a very long time, her father had always seen Florence as a makeshift arrangement and its usefulness to him was as good as exhausted. The prime reason for moving on was right there under his nose. Georgina was no longer a child. In her adolescent form she was someone’s future bride. There was much to be accomplished before this could come about, not least the family’s reconciliation to society. Morgan would stir himself to exhibit his daughter to her best advantage and then she herself could crown the family’s fortunes by marrying well. The two things hung together.

      This realisation gave her power, perhaps more than she knew how to handle. The mystical writer Edward Maitland made a shrewd remark to Georgina when she was twenty. His opinion was coloured a little by two things, both of them romantic. To begin with, he had fled the family home in Brighton, where his father was perpetual curate of St James’s Chapel. His rebellion took him to the California gold rush, and thence to Australia, where he had married and buried his wife within a twelvemonth. Maitland saw something in Georgina that her father had failed to notice.

      I am but one of numbers who would be delighted to see your gifts and prowess winning success; and feel mystified at the waste of them, when we know that with better management it might have been otherwise. You yourself will see it some day, when your stormy youth is spent, and the boy – which you really are now – has developed into the woman which you are only in form.

      This insight struck at the heart of the Florence years. All the other Thomas children grew up to be models of dullness. Georgina’s brothers had upper lips as stiff as any in Victorian fiction. Her sisters were dutiful and long-suffering. That she was so different suggests a relationship to her father very far from the Victorian norm of duty and respect; or as was the case with her siblings, fear. It was as if she alone challenged Morgan, returning his systematic cruelties with some of her own. What was hoydenish in her as a child, running about the gardens of the Capponi in petticoats, changed as she grew only a little older into more dangerous forms of recklessness. If Morgan had hoped to crush her, things were turning out very differently. Not at all to his wishes in the matter, he had raised a rebel.

      A few years later, she explained her parents’ expectations of her: ‘[They] never wearied of indoctrinating me with the belief that an eldest daughter should marry to the advantage of her younger sisters, from the point of view that if the oldest sister married a rich old man with a title, her siblings would find matches that were rich, young, and titled.’

      Many a diary hid the same thoughts. A beautiful young woman was, whether she liked it or not, a commodity; and a good marriage was one in which there was a significant amount of value added. Fifteen was not too young an age to start thinking of these things. Sooner or later she would have to come out in society – was that really to be at the edge of the crowd at the Casa Feroni, or mingling with the demi-mondaines at some sumptuously vulgar rout given by the Demidovs? Or was she instead to wait for a wandering Cambridge graduate or adventurous parson to turn up outside the Hôtel du Nord just as she had done, capture her in the street and carry her off back to England? Her father’s incorrigible vanity would never settle for that.

      Morgan’s thinking was way ahead of his daughter’s. Sitting in state in his study, aloof and remote, he had begun to ponder a quite spectacular coup. It came upon him slowly like a gathering religious conviction and once in place nothing would budge it. The details were perfectly simple and seemed to him to brook no abridgement. He would sell her to just that kind of man he most abhorred, and of a class from which he felt himself so bitterly excluded. It was his intention that Georgina should not marry for less than £10,000 a year.

      The first time he ever spoke these thoughts out loud there must have been a peal of nervous hilarity at the breakfast table, followed by a plea from Louisa not to repeat them outside the house. The sum involved was ridiculous – to have that much income a prospective suitor would need to be in possession of at least an Earldom. (The letter Lord Conyngsby delivered to Victoria on the day Georgina was born was in fact an offer from the dying King of exactly that amount). Louisa had grown used to her husband’s erratic behaviour. Should this new scheme ever get about among her friends at the Cascine Gardens, they would be ruined socially. Louisa was dutiful and submissive to a fault but even with her limited knowledge of the world she knew they were regarded as Florence’s nobodies. Ten years of Morgan’s disdain had done its work. A £10,000-a-year man for the plump and argumentative Georgina was going to be as easy to find and trap as the Emperor of All the Russias or the Bey of Algiers.

      It had of course occurred to both of them, ever since Georgina was a baby, that a shrewd marriage might greatly increase their own social position. That was the way the world was, and that was how what Bagehot called ‘the cousinhood of aristocracy’ came into existence in the first place. Unfortunately, neither Morgan nor Louisa had gifts to bestow on the world. They had no friends of any significance, corresponded with no one, engaged in none of the controversies then in vigorous debate. When he wasn’t gardening, Morgan kept up a desultory study of Dante, presumably for the pleasure of seeing sinners punished. Of the Victorian England he had deserted at its birth, he knew next to nothing. Yet the campaign to marry off Georgina to such advantage to them all had to be fought in London, at balls and soirées or wherever beautiful young women were set out in display.

      In Morgan’s day Almack’s Assembly Rooms had been the ground on which the greatest battles were fought. Controlled by the seven super-rich patronesses who managed the guest lists, it was said by the diarist Captain Gronow that in his time only five of the 300 officers of the Foot Guards were admitted. (He happened to be one of them, which was the point of the story.) Though Morgan believed persons of lesser rank were acceptable nowadays, the truth was he had no clear idea how to set about promoting his daughter. Twelve fatal years in Florence among the Waterloo veterans and hapless exiles had done nothing to educate him otherwise. A local example of the old school was a man called St John (‘a scion of a noble house’) who wagered an Austrian cavalry officer to follow him wherever he went through the city. After a hectic chase, St John put his pony at a parapet of a bridge and leaped forty feet into the dried-up river bed, killing the pony outright. The Austrian declined the invitation to follow. St John was the kind of man Morgan was looking for, only with money and in England.

      When Georgina was told of her father’s great scheme it probably left her in two minds. On the one hand, the plan was so outrageous, so impossible that it filled her with the same almighty ambition as his and flourished in her that old sense of being born to greatness. For her the Florence years had hardly been distinguished, but now that did not matter, or not as much as it might to a lesser soul. Her destiny beckoned: life in a country seat, with a fine town house, a rich man who loved her and in a circle of jealous and admiring friends. This was the fulfilment of all her wildest daydreams: novels were based on plots like this. The other possibility was that her father had set the bar so high exactly to deny her any kind of marriage at all. In some sombre fashion, it was his method of possessing her. In this way of looking at it she was his and would never be another’s.

      In 1852, Morgan and his family left Florence. In the informal history of the expatriate community, as recorded in memoirs and reminiscences, it is as though he had never been there. You did not have to be a poet or a peer to get something from Florence; nor did you have be a roué. But the policeman of society left no record. One of the sidelights cast on the city in those days was the vigorous efforts made by the more pious English to import Protestant bibles to Tuscany, a campaign that might seem close to Morgan’s heart. In 1851, Captain Wilson, who was hardly in the mould of an evangelical bigot, went to visit an Italian friend imprisoned by the Austrians for the possession of a smuggled bible.

      ‘In the afternoon I paid a visit to Guicciardini in the Bargello. It really makes one’s blood boil to think that even the abuse of justice should enable any Government, however despotic, to incarcerate a man merely for reading a bible and making free use of his conscience.’

      This is a recognizably early-Victorian tone. Wilson was a gentleman, who believed like many of his kind – like Morgan Thomas himself – that an English gentleman was the greatest masterpiece ever created by man. But beneath the languid airs and graces, which the Hussar officer certainly

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