Falling in Love with English Boys Page 2

  Tomorrow maybe I’ll stroll over to Clarence House. According to a very reliable source (Hello!), it’s Prince William’s official London residence. You never know . . .

  June 27

  Someday My Prince Will Come

  No William. Too bad. He’s on holiday somewhere, according to my knows-it-all source. (OK!—Hello!’s poorer and slightly funny-looking cousin.)

  Mom brought home (“home,” hah! Home is currently being occupied by the world’s foremost expert on 18th century Cossack poetry) a photocopy of Mary’s daughter’s diary. She thinks I should read it. Apparently Miss Percival and I have a lot in common. So far, I’ve managed to get through the first ten pages. Her handwriting is almost disgusting, it’s so perfect.

  Here’s what we have in common so far:

  • A name (she’s Katherine with a K).

  • Approximate age (she’s 18).

  • (S)mothers.

  • Fab dads who are really busy.

  Here’s where we diverge:

  • Katherine is a bit of a twit. All she talks about is parties and some boy she calls “Mister” Whatever and who writes poetry.

  • She never actually went to school. I keep seeing the word “governess.” Think Jane Eyre. Or The Nanny Diaries.

  • She has big boobs. There’s a b&w photo of a painting of her with the journal. She looks like Rachel Weisz.

  • She thinks dancing the waltz is naughty.

  • She gets to drink at every party she goes to.

  • She never saw a television, car, hair dryer, or flush toilet.

  Yawn.

  Onward. Thanks, Kelly, for the partay update and the pix. I especially liked the one of Adam being French-kissed by Hannah’s pug. Who, as we know, is an inveterate butt licker. Most funny. And yeah, absolutely, I think She Who Shall Not Be Named must be taking diet pills. She’s definitely got that pink, crazy, anatrim look going. Josh used to duck whenever she slid her Ford fender into the desk next to him.

  I will acknowledge casting stones and glass houses, yada yada. My booty cannot help but expand if I continue with my experiments in English chocolate. They don’t call it Bounty (same as U.S., chocolate and coconut, but so much better . . .) for nuthin’. So I took my booty out for a walk. I thought I would find a bookstore, see what Bridget Jones is up to. So, didja know they paint LOOK RIGHT on street corners to keep us dim-witted tourists from stepping into oncoming traffic. They drive on the left side.

  Did I look right? Do I look right? Jeans, UPenn tee, my new sweater . . .

  I walked past the American embassy today. Bit of a shocker there. It’s on this really pretty square, one of those London-Jane Austen-Hugh Grant places with brick buildings all around and grass in the middle. But the embassy is this huge, hideous building with concrete barricades all around it. And there were all these people outside, waving signs and screaming about American troops in Afghanistan.

  I’m starting to get the idea that they don’t like Americans all that much these days. Lots of postcards of our former pres looking stupid and our current pres looking worried. And I think the guy who owns my chocolate store might have a picture of Saddam Hussein on the wall behind the counter.

  Anyway. Keep the e-mails coming. Barring rain, and the BBC seems somewhat confused on the matter, I plan to devote much of tomorrow to Notting Hill. In the event of rain, it’s just me and prissy Miss Percival here. Jane Austen she is not. I guess when you think about it, diaries then were the blogs of today. Think of it . . . June 27. Met the hottest guy yesterday, but his ’tude makes him a total loser. I am so not going to go there. Fitzwilliam Darcy can go dance with himself for all I care.

  Farewell, gentle readers, until next we meet . . .

  The Diary of Miss Katherine Percival

  6 May 1815

  I do not care for Miss Luisa Hartnell. She laughs altogether too much when surrounded by young men. I do not understand why she is considered a Beauty. Her hair is so very red, after all, and of course there is the matter of those freckles.

  Nor can I agree that she is nearly so accomplished as people say. She plays the pianoforte tolerably enough, I suppose. But there is no style to her playing, no passion. Miss Cameron always declared my playing to be passionate, which I quite liked, although I did not care for her forever telling me that I could temper that with proficiency if I were but to practice more. I prefer passion. What would a governess know of passion, after all? Poor unwanted thing, with her flyaway hair and beaky nose. And those ghastly grey dresses she wears! She has always put me in mind of a little bird whose nest has been caught in a gale—frowsy and twittering and fretful, drab wings aflutter. Mama says I must not be unkind about her, that Miss Cameron’s family fell on great misfortune and, had matters but been a trifle different, she would have every bit as much of a fortune as I, and nearly as pleasant prospects.

  I do not wish to write of Miss Cameron, however, as she remains in Somerset with her new pupil, and has no part in my story. I cannot help but wish, however, that she had been perhaps a better piano teacher. My performance at the Hartnells’ last night was not met with quite the enthusiasm of Miss Luisa’s. Had Miss Cameron’s repertoire and skill been better, I’m sure I would have quite enthralled the gathering.

  I especially did not care for Miss Hartnell’s way of clapping. To an unbiased eye, she would have seemed all that was friendly and encouraging. I, however, know she was not so kind. Certainly she was gloating inside over her triumph, even as she played modest in refusing a second tune.

  No, I simply cannot like her, even if others do.

  I daresay, as Mama says of poor Miss Cameron, Money begets Beauty. Miss Hartnell has ten thousand pounds. Hence many people will find her quite pretty.

  Then, too, it was her mother’s party. Gentlemen are expected to partner their hosts’ unmarried daughters in a dance. I wonder if perhaps in London, two dances are de rigueur. I suspect so, as seemed the way of things last night. I have a bit to learn in my first Season. I am expected to be married by the end of this one, and brilliantly. At least Papa expects it. He teased that I must make myself useful somehow. Mama says I am to enjoy the experience, attempt to learn something of life, and not rush into an imprudent attachment which I will have cause to regret. As if I could possibly regret a brilliant match! Sometimes I simply do not understand Mama at all. She insists her writing is about such matters as imprudence and regret, yet she seems to know nothing at all about the way life truly is. Honestly!

  I wonder if I danced with my future husband last night. It all went too fast. There was a Mr. Troughton, who had very pretty blond curls, but no chin. Mr. Pertwee wears a corset. Mr. Baker I rather liked; he is quite handsome, rather Grecian in his aspect, and called me an “ebon Aphrodite.” I do wish he had not had two dances with Miss Hartnell. There were several others whose names I do not recall. All were young, all tolerable in appearance, all perfect gentlemen.

  I believe I am going to like London very well indeed.

  9 May

  The weather these two days has my spirits depressed. It rains, and it rains. In truth, in the country, I do not mind the rain so much. I rather like a good walk outside while the water washes the air and the leaves clean, and makes things shiny black like onyx.

  On a day like this, I might walk to the vicarage to visit Annabel Jerrod, or perhaps cajole Phipps into harnessing the carriage and driving me to Highfield to see the Goodwins. Here, there is little to do but sit thumbing through the Ackermann’s alone (which is a terrible tease, as I cannot purchase so much as a ribbon today!), wishing for half the dresses there, and be wearied by the pattering of the rain on the windows and my own foolish thoughts.

  There are always puddles in the courtyard at Percy’s Vale—all those hollows in the stone where three hundred years of carriages have turned and deposited their passengers. How I used to love to splash in them. I have a memory of Mama joining me once when I played in a puddle near the old castle wall. She was laughing and teasing Cha
rles, who would have been ten or so to my four years and would not join us, telling him a bit of mud never injured anyone. Then Papa came out of his library and called us wallowing little sows. How pink Mama turned, as if he had just done magic and turned her into a piglet.

  Papa is ever so proud of his beautiful boots, and he cannot bear a lady to be blowzy (he would insist on glowering so at Miss Cameron that she did flutter and twitter like the veriest peagoose on his rare visits home—how I giggled!). I find his compliments to me most gratifying. I stopped playing in the mud that very day, of course. Mama tried to make me join her once or twice after, but I would not. She very likely was trying to spite poor Papa. They were much at odds in those days, it seems. I wonder now if Mama was the one who always encouraged me; I had thought it my nursemaid, but I believe I was mistaken.

  How I hate Mama today! She will not accompany me shopping and I cannot very well go alone. I am eighteen, after all, hardly a child, and I could take Becky. I have walked often enough into Sparkford with my maid for company. Mama says this is not Sparkford, Becky would likely faint at the first carriage to nearly run her down in the street, and I would no doubt be lost within minutes of leaving the house.

  I do not like her any better for being correct on all counts.

  Besides, it is raining. I would not wish to be spattered by a passing carriage and arrive home to find Papa on hand to see me muddied. I see him so rarely, not at all, really, since we arrived, I would not like to have a meeting where I’ve disappointed him and given him cause to call me a pig.

  Still, my only outing since Monday’s party has been to the very same house. Mama and I paid a call on Lady Hartnell to thank her. We were not there above ten minutes. Despite Miss Hartnell’s presence, I would have gladly stayed longer. Lady Hartnell is all that is pleasing. She knows everyone who is in Town and all the parties that will be worth attending. She knows, too, the very best modistes and ladies’ shops: where to buy gloves and ribbons and hats. Mama, of course, had very little to add to the conversation. She, handsome as she is, does not care overmuch for such matters. How very vexing, although I must acknowledge that she did not embarrass me by discussing her Work, as she so often is wont to do in company.

  As for Miss Hartnell, she smiled very prettily, complimented my dress (sprigged white; hers of course, was yellow), and looked all the while like a cat in cream. I will not be fooled by her amiable mien. When she asked if there were any gentlemen I especially admired, I held my tongue. One cannot be too careful, after all, when it comes to such matters. An envious young lady may do untold damage to another’s romance, even one yet to begin.

  I must say, I did not entirely mind when she spoke of Mr. Baker. She asked if I did not find him very handsome and charming. I replied that he seemed pleasant enough. She then mentioned that he is a poet. Mama even seemed interested for a moment, until learning that he composes romantic verses. She does not care for anything without a moral or a lesson. I cannot help but think that is a sermon, not a poem. I will have the romance, thank you.

  10 May

  A trip to the modiste, at last! We sat and perused the very latest repositories of fashion (such fun!), and then I stood for what seemed like hours (not nearly so much fun; my feet ache abominably and one careless assistant stuck me with a pin!) while they draped me in fabric and pinned and tucked. What a funny little woman the dressmaker was, with hands that looked just like a mouse’s and hair that was somewhere between black and red. She calls herself Madame Cambon and speaks like “zees” and “zat” and “la belle mademizille.” Once we were back in the carriage, Mama had a good laugh and said she would “eat ’er stockeengs” if Madame were from farther away than Manchester.

  I quite liked Mama today, even if she would not buy me an ermine muff. She rather likes ermines (oh, how she and Papa fought over hosting a fox hunt last summer!) and believes they should be able to keep their coats. Perhaps I will ask Papa when the weather turns cold. I confess I do not need a muff while the weather is so temperate.

  Here is what we chose:

  ~ Three day dresses (white embroidered muslin, yellow silk—with the most delicious little puffed sleeves, white silk with tiny pale green stripes)

  ~ Four evening dresses (palest pink gauze embroidered with tiny white roses, white silk with a silver net overlay, gold lace with the loveliest rosettes at the hem, and white silk with gold tinsel embroidery)

  ~ Two spencers which, while they are certainly fetching, looking much like the short uniform jackets of the military, give me pause. I fear the manner in which my skirts billow beneath them makes my posterior appear . . . well, fat. I prefer shawls.

  ~ Three embroidered evening shawls in pink, white and gold silk

  I will have matching silk slippers for all, new half boots in gold kidskin, and a dozen pairs of new gloves. I do like the elbow-length ones best. Mama calls my brown spots “beauty marks.” I call them brown spots. The one on my left wrist looks distressingly like a tiny silhouette of a toad.

  Mama says I must make do with the walking dresses we purchased in Bristol, especially as I do not often walk. Sometimes Mama finds herself most amusing.

  Tonight we attend a ball at the home of Lady Everard, which should be quite pleasant. We have not met with her in some months. It has been just over a year since Sir Lawrence’s death. Lady E. has cast off her mourning black and will no doubt host a lively evening.

  It is a pity that Charles has not returned from the south, for Lady E.’s son, Nicholas, will be most sorry not to see him and will insist on playing the brother in Charles’s absence. Perhaps if Nicholas Everard were less severe and less inclined to find me so young, I should like him better. He is a war hero, after all, and not unpleasant to the eye. I should very much like to hear of his months in Spain and Portugal, fighting under Wellington. It all must have been so fierce and fervent. Charles says Nicholas saved his entire regiment from an ambush by French fusiliers. Yet when I have asked, especially about the scar across his brow, Nicholas (what a bother that I shall have to call him Sir Nicholas now, and without laughing) has merely scowled and told me not to pester him with my silly prattle.

  Yes, a pity indeed that Charles is not here. More a pity that I shall not have any of my new dresses for a sennight at best. I suppose I shall make do with the cream silk.

  I wonder if Mr. Baker will be in attendance tonight.

  11 May

  (three o’clock in the morning and I am yet to go to bed)

  Charles surprised us and appeared at Lady Everard’s ball. How very glad Mama and I were to see him (she cried) and how well he looks. His time in the southern counties has suited him, as the Continent last year did not. He was so very thin and pale then. Marching through the Pyrenees in winter and fighting with the French can do that, certainly. Now he is hale and cheerful and looks marvelous in his blue-and-silver uniform. He has been made a captain of his Hussars regiment, and at only four-and-twenty.

  I saw many of the young ladies present eyeing him with the hope that he might request a dance. He did not, silly creature, instead withdrawing to some distant room with Nicholas Everard and some other gentlemen for cigars and, I am certain, endless talk of Napoleon Bonaparte’s tiresome escape from Elba. I do wish our generals had done a better job of keeping him there. He caused such a terrible to-do on the Continent for so many years. Only yesterday, Lady Hartnell was reminiscing about how she had so missed French fashion during those sad times.

  Charles says there will almost certainly be more battles, now that Bonaparte is tromping through France again. He also says he must leave for the Continent within the month (Mama cried), but he will stay with us until then. Hurrah! I shall have an escort and good company!

  There is, of course, so much more to be remembered, and far better words to impart. I can wait no longer to record them.

  As stars do glow in darkling skies,

  Doth candlelight anoint the shine

  Of ruby lips and sapphire eyes

  T
he beauty, love, that is but thine.

  I have copied that most faithfully. I think it the loveliest verse I have heard. How very clever Mr. Baker is! He was pressed by his comrades to compose upon the spot. After a few moments of protest, which the others cruelly disregarded, he demanded a bit of paper and a pencil, closed his eyes (the blue of sapphires themselves, I noted after), and within an instant had composed those four lines.

  I do not think I shall forget that moment. Every sconce, every candelabra in Lady Everard’s salon was lit, reflected again and again in the mirrors on the walls. I was standing near Miss Hartnell (one does not wish to be alone in the midst of a ball, and everyone below the age of five-and-twenty or so seemed to be standing near Miss Hartnell), listening to the gentlemen complaining about the food at Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Sadly, I would not know of the food or anything else, as Mama has not been able to secure vouchers for us to attend the Wednesday balls.

  Then Mr. Davison and Mr. McCoy procured punch for the ladies (I do not ordinarily care for rum punch, but this was mixed with champagne and cherries and was quite delicious), and they began to quiz Mr. Baker and demand verse. I would not suppose it was written for me, but I venture to believe I saw Mr. Baker’s own eyes fall upon my person as Mr. McCoy read the lines aloud. Of course, my eyes are not the colour of sapphires. Perhaps if a poetic gentleman were to gaze deeply into them, he might be put in mind of topaz.

  “Well writ!” called out another of his friends, a fat young man I believe is called Roggut. I am not certain that is truly his name. “But to whom?”

  I do so admire an abundance of curls on a gentleman. Mr. Baker’s are the colour of bronze, and he tosses them in a most becoming way. “I leave that for you to guess,” he replied, or some similar words.