Falling in Love with English Boys Read online

  So smack me for stereotyping. She sounded like Keira Knightley.

  “It was brilliant, Dad! There were thousands of people and all the press, and I swear I saw Robbie Williams in the scrum. The police could barely hold us back, and then this titchy little thing chucks a grapefruit—”

  “Elizabeth.” Mr. Sadiq didn’t raise his voice, but she stopped and followed his eyes. And saw me. “Catherine, this is my daughter, Elizabeth. Elizabeth, this is Catherine. She—”

  “Was there today!” Her huge eyes literally sparked. “Wasn’t it brill? The Yanks couldn’t possibly ignore that! Didn’t you just love the grapefruit?”

  “Elizabeth,” Mr. Sadiq said again, and this time we both heard the warning.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Do you think she got away okay?” I asked. And her jaw dropped.

  “You’re American!” Not said in that “Oh, cool, you must know all about hip-hop” kinda way.

  “Elizabeth!” Mr. Sadiq snapped.

  “Well, she is!”

  “I am,” I agreed, in her defense rather than mine. I realized that as little as I knew about Elizabeth Sadiq, I knew she was someone I could be friends with. Maybe it was the fab clothing, or the gold streaks in her wild, endless hair. Or the fact that she had a Razor Apples button on her messenger bag. “Our chocolate is complete pants,” I said. It’s a line I took from last week’s Eastenders. Only there, Stacey (resident biatch-just-needing-to-be-loved was referring to her husband’s sexual prowess). “I’m emigrating.” Then: “The grapefruit was pretty impressive, but your shirt is brilliant.”

  It was a long moment while she sized me up. Then she laughed. “Five quid in Oxford Street,” she confided cheerfully. “Public objection is no excuse for bad presentation, but I’m not paying good money for something that might get ripped in the crush.”

  “My Elizabeth is changing the world one photographic opportunity at a time.” There was pride in Mr. Sadiq’s voice, behind the teasing. I wonder how Dad would respond if I were suddenly to go activist. Betcha he would laugh. The stepmonster-to-be would probably be confused by the similarity to the word “active” and try to get me interested in pink spandex and spinning.

  “For all the opportunity I’ll get to change anything in Aberystwyth.” Elizabeth shrugged. “You at university?”

  And I told her. About being a senior-in-waiting. About the (s)mother and the BM and this blog. I almost told her about Will, but caught myself. She’s starting college in Wales (“West of Nowhere,” she calls it) in August, is going to be a lawyer (“a barrister, as soon as they get rid of the god-awful wigs”), and is spending the summer alternating between selling processed food matter for her father and protesting several great evils. Today was the current situation in Pakistan and Afghanistan. I could tell she still wasn’t sure about me. About my being American. I could tell she was dying to ask about my politics. I suspect her father’s very polite, slightly formal influence was holding her back. Although considering the fact that she’s got so much . . . vavoom (I dunno, do people say “vavoom” anymore?), I’m surprised she doesn’t burst something. I doubt much constrains her.

  I fingered a Times, wondering if it would just be too obvious a plea for admiration if I were to buy a newspaper. She can lift one eyebrow at a time. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that. “Guardian or Spectator?” she asked, a tad slyly, I might add. It took me a sec to realize she wasn’t quizzing me on which I am in the workings of the world. I know one of the papers is liberal, the other conservative. But for my life I couldn’t remember which is which. If I ever knew.

  I snuck a peek at a Guardian. I recognized the face on the front. And took a chance. “I’m a Hello! girl, myself, but I think Al Gore’s pretty fab for a grandad.”

  “Well, that’s okay, then.” Elizabeth grinned and I felt like an eight-year-old. I so want her to be my friend. Pleasepleaseplease. “Give me your number. I’ll ring you next time I’m objecting to something.”

  I didn’t notice till I got home that Mr. Sadiq had slipped a Dairy Milk bar into my bag.

  23 May

  There is little as wretched as a party that ends too soon.

  It all began well enough. I was quite gratified by the persons in attendance at Mrs. Stuart’s supper dance. I spied Mr. Baker immediately upon arriving. He was leaning against the mantel in the drawing room, looking far too handsome in his black coat and white breeches. Surrounded as he was by gentlemen all dressed in much the same way, he quite outshone all present. I confess the ribbon about my waist suddenly seemed to have been tied too tightly.

  Why, I feel compelled to ask, do young gentlemen so often stand about in packs, muttering and chortling among themselves? They do it in the country, and I should not have expected them to do so as well in Town, but they do. I cannot imagine they have much of interest to discuss. Horses? Business? How terribly dull. But there they stood, for what seemed an eternity, appearing as comfortable as if it were their home and hearth, while I stood not comfortable, not quite chatting with Miss Winnie Stuart, who is perfectly pleasant but, I feel compelled to note, is just the sort of earnest, bookish girl one does not want to be standing with while hoping to attract the attention of the likes of Mr. Baker and his set. She would insist on recommending some Scottish novel called Waverley. Even worse, she must accompany her discourse with flailing arms. She looked as if a bee were trying to interrupt her tale of tartans and haggis. Her excitement probably matched exactly my embarrassment. I wished to be noticed, but not because of silly Miss Stuart and her imaginary bee swatting.

  I was quite ready to ease myself miserably behind the nearest potted plant, when suddenly, at last, Mr. Baker glanced my way. I had thought he must have seen me before, but I had been watching him quite intently, and though he several times tossed his curls and angled his face in such a way that he should have spied me, he clearly did not. For this time, he smiled the most bone-melting, slow smile, and levered himself from the mantel. I believe I stopped breathing entirely as he approached.

  I barely heard Miss Stuart say, “How very handsome he is! Just as one would imagine Waverley.”

  “Perhaps,” I agreed, trying to sound nonchalant, as if gentlemen such as Mr. Baker (and dramatic Scottish novels) were quite ordinary. Miss Stuart is hardly competition, but still—

  He greeted her first, which I suppose was correct, as it was her home, but it rather rankled. Especially as the entire encounter lasted no longer than a blink and consisted almost entirely of the expected pleasantries anyone under the age of five-and-thirty abhors and which any of the rabbit-eared matrons standing guard would demand to hear. He was delighted to see us both, wasn’t the weather uncommonly fine, what better way to pass an evening than among such pleasant company? Then, finally, at last, he requested a dance. Of course, he had to include Miss Stuart, and she is not quite so silly as to refuse, but it was from me that he requested the quadrille. Which, while miserably short, allows for the most time with one’s partner. The most conversation. The most clasping of hands. How I wish the waltz were not so scandalous! I think I should very much like twirling about the floor in Mr. Baker’s arms.

  My acceptance was far too quick and eager. I reminded myself immediately, and repeat now: I must not be eager. I must not be eager. I must not be eager. I must be cool and reserved and, like Miss Hartnell, behave for all the world as if Mr. Baker were just any other gentleman.

  I might just as well try to pretend that diamonds are just another bit of rock.

  “He is clearly taken with you,” Miss Stuart said as he walked away. She said it quite wistfully, I believe, and in the moment I felt very fond of her, plain bookish creature that she is.

  “Oh, nonsense,” I managed to reply brightly. As if they were just words like any others. Yet I played them again and again in my head through supper, which I could scarcely eat for nerves.

  He was true to his word. At the first strains of the quadrille, he was there to lead me onto the floor. H
e has a poet’s hands, narrow and elegant, and meant to clasp objects like a pen without so much as bending the feather.

  For the first several turns we exchanged more of those elderly, expected words. How well the musicians played. How pleasant to be on the floor when it is not overly crowded. How unfortunate that the quadrille is not a longer dance. I liked that exchange very well. He asked how I was finding London, if town houses such as this one did not seem overly cramped when compared with the splendour he had heard was Percy’s Vale.

  Then: “I have been looking forward to just such a moment in your company,” he announced. “I seek an angel of mercy, Miss Percival, and wonder if you might be she.”

  “Mercy?” I answered. “Have you done me a disservice, sir? You have not yet trodden on my toes.” Oh, to be Elizabeth Bennet now. It is near impossible to be clever at the moments when it is most important!

  He did smile. “Well, at this moment, I may say only that my disservice is to Beauty. My most recent attempts at verse have been pale, ill-nourished things. Give me sustenance, Miss Percival, and I shall compose.”

  I must confess I am still not entirely certain of his meaning. Was he speaking of my beauty? Did he require words? Or perhaps a tea cake? How I wish I had a friend whose counsel I might ask! Even if Annabel and the Miss Goodwins were not so far away, they would have no answer for me. None of them have ever met the likes of Mr. Thomas Baker. There was something in his very, very blue eyes that teased, and I was terrified that no matter how I replied, it would be wrong.

  “I am not an angel,” I squeaked, and promptly tripped over my own feet.

  He steadied me. “Even better,” he replied, and the dance was over. He led me from the floor. “I believe we are not finished with each other yet, Miss Percival.”

  I did not mind in the least when he led Miss Stuart into the next set. It was, after all, her house. And her brother—a nice enough fellow if one does not mind his being extremely short—was right there to request the dance.

  I would have floated, had he not turned the wrong way twice and stepped on my toes once. Then I was paired with Charles for one turn (he pinched me, as he has done every time since we were made to practice our minuets in the nursery), and Nicholas for another (smug beast, all he said was “Solved the riddle yet?” before swanning off back to the overblown earl’s daughter with whom he was partnered). When I looked again, Mr. Baker was nowhere to be seen.

  Yes, Nicholas, you arrogant toad, I have solved the riddle. And my Season shall not end in “Disappointment.” Not while I have the brains and breath and nicely pink cheeks to prevent it. I am going to be a smashing Success.

  Mr. Stuart kindly offered to fetch me some rum punch. As I waited, I tried not to look as if I were looking for anyone. I certainly did not mean to eavesdrop, but could not help but hear the conversation of two gentlemen behind me. I expect half of Grosvenor Square heard them.

  “Where has Fenwick gone?” the first demanded.

  “Off to hunt at Almack’s,” came the reply. I became quite interested then. “His cupboards are bare and the doors close at eleven. Fellow’s got to feed himself somehow.”

  “Good Lord, why there? The drink is miserable and the food worse!”

  “Not that sort of food, you noddy, nor that sort of hunt.”

  “Ah. Of course. Poor Fenwick.”

  More food that . . . well, wasn’t. I could not make sense of their words, and certainly cannot see why anyone should pity a friend with an entrée into Almack’s. I envy them so.

  I noticed then that a small group of gentlemen were leaving through the far door. My heart quite literally dropped when I spied a shock of bronze curls among them. They were truly leaving. In that moment, I realised that several familiar persons remained absent from the party: Miss Hartnell, the Miss Quinns, Mr. Troughton. Just the sort of well-heeled, impeccably connected sort one would expect at Almack’s. I had been too preoccupied to realise they had never arrived. No doubt they would soon be joined by the others, quitting a secondary entertainment for a better one. I should have recognised the Almack’s required dress on half the gentlemen: black coats and white breeches.

  I watched them go, chattering happily all the while: Mr. McCoy, Mr. Tallisker. Mr. Baker. A flock of magpies, ending the party for me, flying where I could not.

  24 May

  I cannot decide whose company I find more objectionable: Lord Chilham’s or Sir Nicholas Everard’s. They were both in attendance at the opera tonight, Chilham a guest in our box and Nicholas might as well have been, he spent so much of the performance there. I should have liked to have sat beside Papa, but he took the seat behind me, and when I looked back after the overture, it was empty. “Important matters,” he said vaguely when I quizzed him upon his return at the end of the opera. “Trust me, Katherine, I left you in the most worthy of hands.”

  I would have been happy to send Nicholas off to be less than charming elsewhere. But that would have left me alone with the odious Chilham. He sat to one side of me, smelling of vinegar and looking like a frog with his tight green coat and bandy legs. He would not cease with his constant suggestions. I should accompany him to view the antiquities at the British Museum. The stone pots are most exquisite. I should raise my shawl and sit farther from the curtain lest there be a draft. I should no doubt prefer to be home with a nice book (to which I very nearly replied that I would no doubt prefer to be home with a nice cold if it meant being away from him). I should allow him the liberty of choosing those books most suited to a young lady of my stature.

  Chilham: “May I suggest Crabbe?”

  Nicholas, who thankfully has always smelled pleasantly of forest: “Katherine does not care for poetry unless it is composed to the perfection of her toes.” I resisted the urge to kick him in the ankle.

  Chilham, trying to get a glimpse, I suppose, of my feet, nearly leaning into my lap: “Well, as long as it is not that romantical drivel every man and his valet seems to be spouting these days. Terrible for the female mind.” He leaned farther.

  Nicholas: “I quite agree. Stop squirming, Katherine. You are not a child and you are spoiling the show.”

  As if anyone actually pays attention to the opera. Who on earth would want to? People in the pit below jostle each other, sing along badly, and watch those of us sitting above. We watch each other. I was nearly certain I had spied Mr. Tallisker in a box to our right. And where he is to be found—

  Chilham: “A lady’s mind is so much better turned to matters of deference and obedience.”

  Nicholas: “Give me back my glasses, Katherine. I need them.”

  He most certainly did not. He could at least have pretended that he wished to view the stage. Instead, I know perfectly well he was gazing at the ladies in the box opposite ours. One was the earl’s daughter from last night. She has spots. I could see them perfectly even without opera glasses. When I suggested he might have a much better view from his own seat next to his mama, he had the gall to laugh. Then he guided my chin until I could see his mother. The seat beside her was occupied by a woman of her own age, with a rather sweet face.

  Nicholas: “Maria Sefton. Patroness of Almack’s, you know.”

  Chilham: “Allow me to lend you my glass, Cousin Katherine.”

  It was cold and slightly slippery. It gave me a very good view of the nicest of the patronesses, the one most likely to give a ticket to a desperate debutante. As I watched, she rose, kissed Lady Everard on the cheek, and wandered off. I tried to follow her progress. Without meaning to at all, I caught the eye of Miss Hartnell. She smiled very prettily at me. She insists on doing that. I still do not like her.

  25 May

  Mama did not wish for me to go to the Bellinghams’. She says they are a stupid couple, with stupider friends, and that their balls are overcrowded, uncontrolled, and attended by persons with whom an intelligent woman does not want to associate. She would not say more, but simply announced that we would not be attending.

  I pestered C
harles until he told me that the Bellinghams, while quite accepted among High Society, run with a “fast” crowd, including the Prince of Wales and his mistress. I have not yet seen the Prince, but two of his brothers were at the theatre last night. I was terribly disappointed. Both are fat with enormous whiskers. I know the Prince is fat as well, but he is, for all purposes, the King while his father descends deeper into his madness, and a king is a king.

  Mama has met the Prince on several occasions. She says he put her in mind of an Arabian lamp: shiny, beautifully decorated, and not nearly bright enough for the job at hand. Papa and the Prince belonged to the same club for some years. Papa thinks him a splendid, fun fellow, and once lost his diamond cravat pin to him in a game of hazard. I do not know why Mama was so incensed; it was merely a piece of jewelry.

  I, as Mama has frequently asserted, am more than bright enough when I decide to be. I wanted to attend the ball. Why should I not? Besides, I overheard part of yet one more row between Mama and Papa. She was obviously commenting on my immaturity and pale-lamp tendencies; he retorted that I am “eighteen, a woman, and more than ready for the responsibilities expected of a young lady in her place.” I would have rushed in and kissed him, but did not want to give away that I had been eavesdropping.

  As he said, I am eighteen. I know, as Papa so clearly does, that I am more than mature enough to decide what I shall wear, which parties I shall attend, and with whom I will associate. So when I told Charles that he must accompany me to the Bellinghams’ tonight, as Mama had taken to her bed, I did so without the least guilt. After all, I was not lying. She was indisposed; I could not very well go alone.

  Charles was rather cross with me, as I took a very long time to get ready. He’d intended to meet several of his fellow Hussars at some silly gentlemen’s entertainment. But he had promised me first that he would escort me to the ball, and he does not break a promise. His regiment will have all of him soon enough. Charles is rather splendid, and I would say the same even if he were not my brother.