Falling in Love with English Boys Read online

  “You make me the happiest of men, Cousin Katherine. I wish you the sweetest of dreams.”

  His collar points prevented him from merely bowing his head. So he bent from the waist and nearly toppled himself forward onto the floor. I quite laughed myself silly once I had closed my bedchamber door behind me.

  July 8

  Rich Girl

  Well, Elizabeth’s Imogen looks like Beyoncé, and is so posh and preppy I thought it was an act at first. She actually wears pearls. Over Petit Bateau shirts, it must be noted, but pearls. And Consuelo—sloe-eyed, Spanish Consuelo—is this elfin blonde who wears Doc Martens with a floaty little dress that I’m pretty sure I saw in last month’s Vogue. They are both effortlessly friendly, in the way that only totally self-assured girls are, and effortlessly cool, in the way that almost no one is. I think it must have something to do with the fact that they both wear La Perla underwear. Not that they announced that to me, or anyone. It was Elizabeth, who told them to move their La Perla’d arses if we were to get to the park before July. Apparently Elizabeth hangs out with the rich kids.

  They’ve all been friends since they were eight and starting at their Independent School in Kensington. I can tell that’s London for “Expensive and Elite.” They don’t need to boast; their lives spill forth like caviar with no help whatsoever. Imogen’s mother is a neurosurgeon with awful taste in men (“Wouldn’t you think a naffing brain surgeon would have more sense than to take up with an unemployed actor? I mean, he left her in Portofino with nothing but the hotel bill . . .”). Elizabeth and Imogen spent last weekend at Consuelo’s country house (“By the way, Lizzie, Daddy’s buying you a new iPod. He feels just awful about the power surges, but it can’t be helped. Most of the wiring in the east wing was put in for the king’s visit in the thirties . . . ”).

  I asked if they know Will Percival. Consuelo thought for a moment. “Sounds a bit familiar. We might have had French lessons together, but I’m not certain.”

  Elizabeth eyed her skeptically. “And when might this have been, these lessons that are so clear in your mind?”

  “Oh, well, I suppose I was three. Maybe four—”

  “Would that perchance be William Percival the Tall, pupil at the Charterhouse School?” Imogen lazily waved her iPhone in my direction. “I can see why you would ask.”

  “Here, gimme.” Elizabeth snagged the phone, studied the little screen for a sec, and let out a low whistle. “God, I love Google. Not half bad, Yank. And aristocratic. Which is not a recommendation.”

  It was Consuelo’s turn to grab. “Oh, he’s Lord Chilham’s grandson.” She looked up at me. “Does he speak French?”

  “Yes, Yank.” Elizabeth slung an arm around my shoulders. “How is his French?”

  Chilham? I suppose I’ll sort out that bit later. At the moment, I felt compelled to sort out Elizabeth. “You can wipe off that smile. I barely know him. He’s just—”

  “Yummy!” From Consuelo.

  “Dishy,” Imogen agreed, making the two of them sound like food wonks.

  “Posh,” was Elizabeth’s comment, and it didn’t sound like an endorsement.

  She showed me the screen. It was Will all right, tuxedoed and tall, standing half a head over an older man I’d never seen before and a younger older man I definitely had. The caption read, Lord Chilham, longtime Liberal MP for Wiltshire, celebrates his eightieth birthday at the Reform Club. Pictured with the guest of honour are the Prince of Wales (r.) and Lord Chilham’s grandson, William Percival (l.), now in his last year at Charterhouse, where both his father and grandfather were pupils . . . The rest, I saw as I scrolled down, was just a recap of the birthday boy’s fifty years in politics. What I got from a quick glance was that he seemed to be in favor of preserving forests and red squirrels and against Walmart.

  “I see your future,” Elizabeth said solemnly, “and it is up a tree in Wiltshire.”

  “I don’t like squirrels,” I told her.

  “If you say so,” she shot back, and laughed.

  We wandered over to the cricket field . . . excuse me, cricket pitch in Regent’s Park to watch Consuelo’s boyfriend play. He’s named Bayard and he looks like a Viking. He’s twice her size, has the longest nose I’ve ever seen, and has a jaw you could crush rocks with. He plays “deep midwicket,” which Consuelo tried to explain to me, but all I got was that it has something to do with boundaries and damage control.

  Cricket is incomprehensible. A bunch of guys in white pants and sweaters smack balls all over the place, then run back and forth and back and forth (and then back and forth) between sticks in the ground. They use words like “popping crease” and “cow corner” and “wicket,” which very probably tells you everything you want to know.

  It was endless. Consuelo pretended to be interested for the first hour. After that, even she gave up. Elizabeth and Imogen and I had gone from ranking the players in order of bone structure, shoulder span, and butts, to trying to see who had the largest . . . feet. Finally, Elizabeth groaned and flopped onto her back in the grass.

  “God, this is deadly. Im, give me your Tatler.” (Hello!’s aristocratic third cousin, who doesn’t acknowledge any family connection.) She groaned again as she flipped through a few pages. “What rubbish. Who gives a monkey that Lady Finnuala Lennox is dating the Honorable Frederick Fremont?”

  At this, Imogen raised one perfect eyebrow (is it something in the water here?). “Actually, considering the fact that I used to go with Freddie Fremont, I have a passing interest.”

  “Oh God, that’s right. You did. He was a complete tosser then, and I sincerely doubt Lady F. has improved him much.”

  “Finnuala’s not so bad,” Consuelo protested. “We used to do dressage together.”

  “It’s not about Finnuala, although you really might want to keep your dressage past to yourself. The point at hand is what Freddie used to want to do with Imogen when they were together. What was it again, Im? Clotted cream and the family cat?” Imogen did the eyebrow thing again. Elizabeth rolled over and brandished the Tatler at her. “Right, here’s one for you. Would you rather sleep with Lord Voldemort or the Queen?”

  Imogen thought for a minute. “The Queen, I suppose. Maybe she’d let me try on her jewels.” Back at Elizabeth: “Would you rather lose your hair or your powers of speech?”

  “Evil woman!” Elizabeth has fab hair. Have I mentioned her fab hair? Yards of wild black and gold. “Oh, take the hair, then. Consuelo . . . Would you rather never drink champagne again, or have to drink Pepto-Bismol at every meal?” I love these people.

  “Pepto,” Consuelo answered, “definitely! Doh! And now it’s Cat’s turn. Would you rather be married to Donald Trump for a year—no prenup, I might add—or have Jake Gyllenhaal sneak out the restaurant window halfway through your first date?”

  I love this game. “Ouch, the humiliation, but Jake, I guess. I mean, can you imagine what Donald’s hair looks like in the morning?” We all shuddered in unison. I should have quizzed Imogen, but nice as she is, she kinda scares me. It’s that utter perfection thing. “Elizabeth. Would you rather be banished for life to America or Siberia?”

  “Too easy. America, of course. You disappoint me, Cat-Cat. You haven’t seemed to grasp the difference between blaming a place for the idiots there and blaming the idiots for destroying a place that isn’t theirs. But we’ll make allowances for your excessive exposure to American Idol.” Elizabeth did that slightly evil smile thing. “All right, then, Yank. Who would you rather have make every single choice for you for the next ten years: your intrepid Senate or your soon-to-be-stepmonster?”

  She’s good, Elizabeth is. She’s really good.

  Lucky me, I didn’t get to answer. The match ended then, or went into hiatus, or whatever they do, and Bayard came loping over with a few of his still-remarkably-white-clad lads. Most pretty goofy and totally posh. Picture Hugh Grant really young and sweaty. Bayard scooped Consuelo into his lap and nuzzled her neck.

  “Ooh, yo
u’re wet! And smelly!” she protested, but only halfheartedly. You could almost see their togetherness. I picture it as a small, rotund panda. Don’t ask why. “You were brilliant.”

  “I was crap. You’ve been into the whiskey again, haven’t you?”

  Consuelo wrinkled her tiny nose and insisted, “You were sublime, my dearest darling.”

  “Got bored again, hmm?” He grinned at me then and I figured I wouldn’t mind the hot and sweaty, either, if I had a boy like him to hold me in his lap and smile occasionally. “She hates cricket.”

  “I do,” Consuelo admitted cheerfully. “It’s the only thing about him I don’t positively worship, including his utterly disgusting socks and Amy Winehouse fan-club shot glasses.”

  “I, on the other hand, detest absolutely everything about her, except the boots. I really, really love her boots.”

  “He loathes them,” she told me, just as cheerfully. “They track dirt into his Porsche.”

  He kinda pinched her; she kinda squealed. I kinda hated them. Well, no. They’re kinda extremely likable, even if they put one in mind of fat, furry bamboo chewers.

  “So, Bay,” Elizabeth demanded, breaking up the little lovefest, “would you rather Consuelo gained five stone or never shaved her legs again?”

  “What?” He was busy smoothing Consuelo’s hair into a perfect little ponytail. “Well, that’s a stupid question, isn’t it?”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s a stupid question, you big oaf. That’s the point. Humor us. Five stone—and that’s seventy pounds to you, Yank—or eternal gorilla legs?”

  “Ah, now you’ve gone and got me all horny, Bits. Come on, you.” He managed to get from the ground to his feet without letting go of Consuelo. She wrapped herself around him, Docs and all. “I need a wash. You can do my back.” And off they went. I think I might have sighed as they disappeared from sight.

  I asked Elizabeth, “How long have they been together?”

  “Fifty years tomorrow. We’re buying them a monogrammed silver insulin dispenser.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Since infancy,” Imogen announced. Then: “Consuelo saw Bayard across a duck pond when they were seven and decided to marry him. He never stood a chance.”

  Wow. I can’t even imagine being fated like that. Well, yeah, I can imagine it. I mean, no matter how vehemently we deny it, we’ve all pictured ourselves in at least one Disney movie. And I don’t just mean the (countless) ones where they kill off the mother before the opening credits are done.

  “Consuelo does that,” Elizabeth infomed me wryly. “Claims people for keeps. Mind yourself—she’ll do it to you, too.” Like I would object. “She certainly sucked me in, poor, clueless scholarship girl that I was. Eight years old and scared half out of my wits.”

  Imogen gave a loud, albeit totally ladylike, snort at this. “Rubbish. You walked into the classroom as if you owned it. We all wanted to be you, or barring that, just sit next to you.” I’m getting the sense that Elizabeth has that general effect on people. “But yah, Consuelo did gather us. I rather think she liked the way we looked as a trio.”

  “Love at first sight,” Elizabeth said with high-drama dreaminess.

  “Yes, it was” was Imogen’s firm reply. And that, apparently, was that.

  So here’s one for you, Yanks:

  Would you rather be loved unconditionally and not love, or be desperately in love and not loved in return?

  28 May

  So I went with Lord Chilham to the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. How unsurprising that it was something less than Pleasurable.

  I was so very pleased when Papa said he would accompany me. I would need a chaperone, certainly; I could not be seen at such a place as Vauxhall, with its acres of outdoor walks and circuslike entertainments, alone in the company of a single man. To been seen anywhere in the presence of a man with pudding-bowl hair and a pink-and-orange waistcoat would be a tragedy. More than that, I was certain my father’s presence would make the evening bearable. Where he is, I have always been happy.

  Sadly, he was in a Mood.

  “Do not even consider being contrary this evening, Katherine,” he warned me as we climbed into the carriage.

  I had not, but intent is only half of the way things go, after all. The entire evening was a show of contrariness, beginning with: I do hate to be a disappointment to Papa, but it seemed the Fates were determined I should. It is agony to imagine a Fate so perverse as to determine that Papa should be a disappointment to me.

  The skies were perfectly clear, ideal for a display of fireworks. Yet there was a chill in the air. My pale pink dress with little silk roses scattered over the skirt is, I think, most attractive, yet I was forced to cover much of it with a shawl.

  I think I could perhaps have been charitable about Lord Chilham’s lack of appeal (we were, after all, going to a place I have been most keen to visit), yet he seemed to choose the occasion to showcase it.

  He had a cold. And while one might politely, even eagerly, ignore watery eyes and a dripping nose, it is entirely beyond my capabilities to ignore honking, snorting, snuffling, and wheezing, all punctuated by the frequent trumpeting expulsions into his grubby handkerchief.

  He thought to take my hand as we descended from the carriage. I thought otherwise.

  “Of course, a man of lesser fortitude would certainly have taken to his bed,” he announced as we walked through the grand gates, “yet I would not have disappointed you for anything.” (In the moment, I would have given anything for that particular disappointment.)

  And off he went: honk, snort, blast, announcing our arrival at Vauxhall like a trumpeter before a queen.

  We could not possibly have been more conspicuous, and on a night when I wished to be completely invisible. I thought I should die if I were to encounter anyone I know.

  Papa, completely unlike himself, said nothing at all as we went, merely followed Chilham, with his eyes in the distance, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Perhaps we shall see the Prince Regent,” I suggested.

  “Don’t be daft,” Papa snapped. “Why should he be here?”

  “To see the acrobats, perhaps. Or the fireworks. I have heard he quite enjoys—”

  “Be quiet, Katherine, and listen to his lordship.”

  Stung, I fell silent, which Chilham took as encouragement to continue the very discourse I had been trying to stem. For in between his enthusiastic nasal blasts, he was, with equal dedication, pointing out every small detail we passed as we walked along the lamp-lit paths.

  I knew there was much to be seen beneath the hundreds upon hundreds of glass lamps lighting the tree-lined avenues: musicians and actors and tame beasts, sailors fresh from their ships and farmers fresh from the country. Luisa has told me of acrobats in Oriental costume with trained monkeys on leads. Charles spoke, though it was to Nicholas and he did not know I overheard, of Ladies of the Night in brilliantly red dresses that stop above their ankles. Mr. Davison swears he saw the Duke of York with a turkey upon his knee there a fortnight past. From the Quinns I heard tell of true Gypsies who read their fortunes—one who said Henrietta would be married before the end of the Season. Eleanora Quinn said she had a nose like a plum and curled hands with knobs and claws, like those of a very large rodent. I do not think Eleanora much cared for her, but I wanted to see that fortune-teller.

  Here is what I saw, with Lord Chilham as my guide:

  ~ Six geese with ribbons about their necks, being led by a tired girl with dirty ribbons about her waist. (“Is she not charming?” Chilham insisted.) Her skirts stopped just below her knees. She had goose poo on her stockings.

  ~ A party of round-hatted rectors from some distant county.

  ~ A marble statue of Saint George.

  ~ Three yew hedges, two holly, and thirty-six elm trees. (“Note the deceptive strength of the Wych elm, named not for the magicking hag, but for pliancy or weakness. Like most females, it is to be found everywhere and useful for little save decoration.
Hyaw. Hyaw.”) I became closely acquainted with one yew and one holly hedge when I thought I spied Mr. Tallisker and dove in so as not to be seen. My shawl will not recover.

  ~ A man standing upon a box, playing a flute.

  ~ A pile of rocks intended to be a Grecian ruin.

  I wished to see the acrobats, the actors, the murals of Greek gods revelling above the mortals. The mural in our supper box was of one shepherdess, eight scraggy sheep, and two ducks. Chilham found it “delightful,” the music of the distant orchestra “stirring,” the view “most excellent.” I was huddled at the very back of the three-walled chamber, where I had chosen my seat so as not to be visible from the outside. I had a very good view of the appearance and disappearance of Chilham’s handkerchief and my father’s flask, and not a great deal else. It was not a well-positioned box.

  I suspect, too, that Chilham chose an inferior menu. The chicken was like warmed wood; the potatoes tasted strongly of earth. I found a ragged-edged leaf amid my strawberries. It appeared to be from some sort of ivy. I had never taken Chilham for a miser, not with his vast array of silly silk waistcoats and enormous silver shoe buckles. I believe he must pay more for his hair pomade than he did for the food.

  He did not hold back, however, on the champagne. There were three full bottles at the ready. We’d scarce sat down before he pressed the first glass upon me. Remembering the last time I had drunk champagne, both my mind and stomach recoiled.

  “I fear I am not partial to wine or spirits, my lord,” I told him, opting for politeness. “A glass of lemonade would suit me far better.”

  “Nonsense!” he replied. Honk. Snort. “You must have champagne!”

  I demurred. He insisted. He was so close I could see the little patch of bristly hairs his valet had missed while shaving beneath his chin. I scooted my chair a few inches to the right. He leaned farther, overfilling my glass, his knee bumping against mine. I scooted again, jostling the table, and upsetting my glass.