It became a game then, ladies and gentlemen alike calling out names.“Miss Hartnell!” was the first, of course. She blushed, red from chin to crown, and laughed. It could not have been her and all knew it. Her eyes are green. “Miss Eleanor Quinn.” “Miss Henrietta Quinn.” And so it went. “Princess Caroline!” cried Mr. Davison, and how we laughed, for everyone knows the Princess of Wales is a coarse, ugly creature.
“Perhaps ’tis Mr. Baker, himself,” teased Miss Hartnell, which I do not think pleased him at all, though his companions thought it most diverting.
Then, Mr. Roggut offered, “Miss Percival!” and the game was done.
Mr. Baker smiled, bowed to me, and announced, “The subject shall remain a mystery, but the dance, I believe, should be mine if Miss Percival will consent.”
Of course I did, thinking all the while that he might perhaps have been waiting for someone to cry out my name, waiting so he could request the dance. Perhaps.
How I dread a Boulanger when one has a special partner. There is so little time to converse as one must dance with all the other gentlemen in the circle. It seemed that every time Mr. Baker took my hand, it was to pass me to the next gentleman. We were barely able to comment on the great success of the ball (it was a terrible crush; I am certain Lady Everard was delighted), the heaviness of the weather, and the pleasant prospect of another such gathering soon, when it was all over, and Mama was waving for me to depart.
I consoled myself with the thought that it was the final dance of the evening. The Boulanger is always the last, when it is danced. Everyone knows that. And Mr. Baker chose to dance it with me.
The drive home was endless, despite the fact that our house is but a few streets away. The crush of carriages departing the Everards’ meant we all moved like garden snails. Then, too, I was soon thoroughly disgusted with Charles and Nicholas Everard, who were to deposit Mama and me at home before going off to one of their clubs or gaming hells or wherever tedious gentlemen go in nearly the middle of the night.
I could not contain myself in my giddiness, but told the tale and recited Mr. Baker’s lines aloud. How I wish I had not! Mama covered her lips with her fingertips—I am certain she was hiding a smile. Charles laughed aloud. And worst of all, Everard gave a terrible snort and declared Mr. Baker’s beautiful words to be “nothing more than a second-rate imitation of Byron.” As if he would comprehend such talent as Mr. Baker’s if it were to smite him in his decidedly large nose! I refused to speak another word for the remainder of the drive.
I shall go to Hatchards booksellers and purchase a book of verse so that I may drop a line or two when next I am in the company of a poet. Perhaps Wordsworth. I will work very hard at my recitation. Poor Miss Cameron did try. This time, I shall not say, “I wandered lonely as a sheep” and think it amusing.
Tomorrow we are to dine with the Fitzhughs, Mama and me. How lovely it would be if Papa would come, too, but he is so very busy with his own entertainments and quite scorns ours. I asked if I could perhaps accompany him on a night when we are not engaged. He laughed and asked what a silly girl would do at his club, even if they were to allow me in. I suppose he is right. I cannot simply trail after him into Boodle’s in the same way I am wont to follow him about at Percy’s Vale, prattling away until he tells me to spare his ears.
Mama says Lady Sefton will be at the Fitzhughs’ and will grant me a voucher to Almack’s. Absolutely everyone who is anyone gathers on Wednesday nights to dance and be seen. I must have a voucher or my Season will be all but ruined. Lady Hartnell says every brilliant match begins there. Charles says many very dull evenings begin there, but I am certain he is teasing. I wish to meet the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Wharton and to dance again with Mr. Baker.
How I wish we could waltz! I have never seen it danced, but Charles has, in France. There it is as common as a Scottish reel. Here, only the most daring hostess will allow it and only the most daring will engage. Charles says the gentleman holds the lady by one hand and at the waist—sometimes so close to his own form that her skirts might tangle about his legs—and twirls her about the room. How very delicious it must be, and how very naughty!
13 May
It ought to have been a lovely day. And here is why:
~ Papa promised to take me for a drive in Hyde Park. He says everyone who is anyone drives in the Park on a sunny day. If I am to make a brilliant match, I must be Someone.
~ The first of my new dresses arrived—the white with green stripes. With the matching green spencer, it is the perfect dress to wear to the Park.
~ Three gentlemen called to see me. Mr. Davison, who is charming; Mr. Tallisker, who, as it turns out, is Roggut; and a Mr. Eccleston, whom I suppose I did meet at the Everards’, but who was only very slightly familiar. They were all perfectly pleasant. It is very gratifying that they paid calls so early in our acquaintance. Quite flattering. I do not think I shall marry any of them.
~ I received a letter from Sarah Goodwin. Everything is much the same there in Percy’s Vale. I am missed. She has a new hat.
My day has been spoiled completely. And here is why:
~ Nicholas Everard was here for luncheon today and was positively beastly. When I mentioned how sad we should all be if French fashions are not to be had again, he gave me quite the most unpleasant look and said how sad the French might be if French food and other basic necessities are not to be had. Again. Oh, why can he not take his luncheon elsewhere—perhaps in Scotland!
~ Papa did not return from his club until evening, long after anyone who is worth seeing or being seen by has left the Park. When he did arrive, it was with the very worst sort of news: Lord Chilham is in London.
June 27
Ain’t No Sunshine
So here we go again. Rain. “Heavy in the Midlands and south, tapering off to light drizzle by midday.” (BBC One. Contrary to reputation, they lie. It’s past midday and pissing from the heavens.) I owe my firstborn (okay, second—assuming the first will be the future monarch of England) to Djenan for sending the latest Pressing Question That Will Change the World. Otherwise I might have succumbed to the boredom and done something rash and inexcusable. Like clean the loo, which Mom is demanding that I do. Or write poetry, of which she would probably wholly approve.
Okay, so I’m feeling rahther sorry for myself. Wallowing, even, in my sad solitude. Which, the (s)mother always sez, is the perfect time to think of the good stuff. Like the fact that there’s plenty of money. Like the fact that I’m healthy as a horse (a dubious blessing at best on those exam days when a bit of invalidism would come in handy). Like the fact that when I’m with my dad, there are no curfews or demands or “But don’t you already have enough jeans?” Like I have the very very very best gal pals in the whole world. Like Prince William is somewhere on this same little island. Like I’m single and available to become the future queen of said island.
Which, of course, brings to mind the fact that I’m single. That I’m single because I had my heart broken by Adam the Scum. By e-mail no less. The scum. That I’m stuck on this island with my (s)mother, without my friends. And no indication whatsoever that someday-while-I-still-have-all-my-wits-and-teeth My Prince (of Wales) Will Come. I am girl; hear me grumble. I want to stick my head out the window and, at the top of my lungs, demand of all of London: I feel like Cinderella; so where the hell is my prince????
Maybe one of the royal cousins will respond. Or even a not-royal. Just a cute English dude with okay teeth and a comprehensible accent. Not Prince Right, perhaps, but Prince You’ll Do in the Interim.
Or maybe I’d actually get some answers. People like to answer questions. The prob, as we know, O my friends, is that voice (read: me) that tells me it’s not okay to ask some of the questions I really want answers to. Bizarre? I mean, you’re supposed to ask questions, right? From Big Bird to Mrs. Jones in the first grade (you remember her . . . the one who looked like Nosferatu but smelled like sugar cookies?) to good ol’ Mom and Dad, we’re told that th
e best way to figure something out is to ask questions. Why, then, can’t I ask . . .
Adam the Scum: Why e-mail? Why, period? I mean, on top of being gag-worthy clichéd, “It’s not you; it’s me” is just absurd. Of course it was me. Guys don’t break up with girls because they know they’re just not ready for commitment, or need Me Time, or want to get that novel finished. They do it because they’re just not that into the girl anymore. So what was it? My butt? My complete disinterest in Xbox, Red Bull, and anime? My uncertainty that you were the one I really wanted to lose my virginity to?
She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, her posse of Mean-alikes, and their ilk: Beyond the obvious questions, like: Lindsay Lohan—really? And what on earth could you possibly have to text to the person sitting right next to you? And why, oh why Uggs with everything??? But the big one is: When did Being Honest (as in: “Well, I was just being honest! God, don’t you think you might be a little sensitive here?”) come to mean giving yourself permission to criticize, rant, and say all the nasty things the person you’re being “honest” with really didn’t want to know?
To my dad (via e-mail, as the soon-to-be-stepmonster sticks her formerly hooked nose into everything else): Why? Why this vapid, self-absorbed, image-obsessed creature almost twenty years younger than you? Are boobs really that important? If so, I’m doomed. Are brains a liability? Mine is notably bigger than my boobs.
To the (s)mother: Is this honestly what you envisioned? Year after year of teaching hungover former prepsters who won’t remember a word you’ve said once the exam is over? Who, the second they’ve graduated, will relegate you to a mental smoothie composed of all the enthusiastic but now-faceless teachers who can’t help them get a job on Madison Avenue? A summer reading the laundry lists of a woman who no one else remembers? I mean, really, what’s the point?
Why don’t I ask? you ask. I guess maybe I think I can’t handle the truth. Ack. Enough already. I can only wallow for so long without a mochaccino or quick cruise of eBay. You never know what gently used Chloe bag or vintage Ray-Bans might appear.
So on to M’s Pressing Question:
What Are Your Top Ten Worst Nightmares?
1. I will stop looking like Claire Danes’s slightly-less-pretty sister, and will start looking like Jack Black’s slightly-more-pretty brother.
2. No one will fall in love with me.
3. I will consistently fall in love with guys like Adam the Scum.
4. I won’t get into college, and will end up living at home with my (s)mother.
5. I won’t get into college, and will end up waiting tables somewhere where snooty college students leave bad tips, all while living at home with my (s)mother.
6. My (s)mother will wait only until the day after my dad marries the soon-to-be-stepmonster before falling in love with one of her grad students, probably half her age, probably French.
7. My dad, having taken me in, will be fatally poisoned by the evil now-stepmonster, who will inherit the apartment, the Beemer, and all monies that might keep me from having to sling burgers and beer for bad-tipping college students.
8. My friends will decide I am a version of She Who Must Not Be Named and will suddenly start hating me.
9. My friends will not start hating me, but I will be dragged thousands of miles away from them.
10. They will forget me.
I miss you all. I really, really, really miss you.
15 May
He came for dinner. I do not think Mama wished to invite him, but Papa says we must respect the connection, so I suppose we must. I thought, too, that since Papa does not object to his company, I must not either. He is Papa’s cousin, after all, and he has a title. Sadly, Lord Chilham’s being a baron would be rather more exciting were he not so objectionable.
I tried. For Papa, who is so certain in his tastes and acquaintance, I did try. As Lord Chilham arrived in a shiny new landau, I thought for a moment as I watched from the drawing-room window that perhaps he might have improved somehow. But no, he was much the same as when he visited us at Percy’s Vale: spotty, thin except around the middle, his hair like a black pudding bowl, in a yellow coat and black-striped waistcoat. He resembled a wasp.
He quizzed me incessantly about myself. He wished to know whether I sing well, whether I have read all of Mrs. Clarke’s instructions for the improvement of young ladies, who I believe one ought to know in Town, what sights are best for a young lady. All the while, he played with his dinner knife, turning it this way and that. His hands are nearly as bad as his waistcoat. They are small and pale, and he has little black hairs on his knuckles.
I do not care if he is a relation. I did not like him any better than before, and I did not like his questions. I gave such replies as “I cannot say,” and “I do not know,” and tried very hard not to look at him. I would very much have liked to say “I will not tell,” but could feel Papa’s frown growing. I was perhaps being too sensitive. Perhaps I ought to have been more forthcoming, but I just cannot think it was at all correct of Lord Chilham to ask me my fondest wish.
I have been excused to come to bed. Chilham is with Papa in the library. How unfair, that he should have such access to my father when I do not. Perhaps if I had a shiny landau, or a title…But that is neither here nor there.
I do not sing well. I loathed Mrs. Clarke’s instructions. She believes the arm should always be covered and mothers should accompany their daughters everywhere.
It would be rather nice to know the Prince of Wales, I think. One should always cultivate the acquaintance of whoever is likely to become king. I would like to meet the new Lady Byron. What bliss it must be to be married to a great poet. I am certain their union is all that is romantic and sweet. I would very much like to have an audience with the Duke of Wellington, to scold him for carrying my brother off to his silly war. Shame on me. My journal shall not be spoiled by talk of war.
I wish to visit Vauxhall Gardens, where women walk on ropes high above the ground and fire bursts in the sky. Charles says it is like a nighttime fairgrounds in the midst of London. I wish to see the Marbles depicting nymphs and centaurs which Lord Elgin rescued from their crumbling Grecian temple. I wish to see more of Papa.
So I could easily have answered Lord Chilham’s questions. Even the one he should never have asked.
My fondest wish is to be beloved.
June 30
I Want Candy
Thank you, ever so much, darling Madame Alexandra, for sending me the e-mail listing thirty reasons I should be thrilled to be in London. Below, please note all the ways it was helpful.
Oh, wait. There are no ways. Golly.
But seriously, you fab brainiac, what did you do, read the entire Wikipedia entry on London? I was reluctantly impressed. And I even recognized some of the names from prissy Miss Kitty’s diary: Hyde Park (No. 3 on your list) is pretty cool. Enormous and seriously green. People even go horseback riding there, right smack in the middle of the city. How veddy English. The Duke of Wellington’s (27) house is on the edge of the Park. Maybe I’ll go have a look-see. There’s this huge statue of Napoleon there that Wellington took and put where everyone could see it. I wonder if the duke and his buds used to get drunk and dress it in women’s clothes. Frat-boy behavior, 19th century style. Apparently the current duke still lives there, in some apartment the public doesn’t get to see. Apparently the current duke has a cute grandson.
The Elgin Marbles (21) are in the BM. Yes, Alex, I do remember that they were stripped from ancient Greece’s greatest temple and brought to England. Yes, I know your Pappous wants them sent back. Give him a hug for me—your grandma, too. As for the marbles, haven’t seen ’em. (And losing mine, btw.) I have been to Hatchards (9). Books. All books. More books than you can imagine. I bought a map. There’s still some cool shopping on Bond Street (19). Kinda old stuff, like Cartier and Hermès, but I peeked into Jigsaw and saw some killer jeans. Size 10. English size 10. Maybe if I stopped eating chocolate . . .
Speaking of. M
r. Sadiq the newsagent introduced me to a new one yesterday: Cadbury Flake. So I introduced myself. Turns out he has a cousin in Pennsylvania. In Bethlehem, of all places, which he said has been known to cause the occasional family argument.
He’s a pretty nice guy, Mr. Sadiq. He didn’t charge me for the Flake, despite the fact that I think I really offended him when I asked if the picture behind the counter was Saddam Hussein. It’s his brother in the pic. He’s still in Iraq. Which is all Mr. Sadiq said on the subject. I don’t think he approves of Hello!, either. He kinda holds it between the very tips of his fingers when he’s putting it in a bag, and he’s always listening to BBC radio. He told me Cadbury Flake (imagine, if you will, a ruffle in chocolate-bar form) is really best when crumbled over ice cream. He’s right. Maybe if I just go easier on the chocolate . . . So here’s a question for you, O my friends:
We’ve all read interviews where skinny starlets say they looooove chocolate, but have you ever seen one where they say they actually eat it?
On that note. Or not. I betcha none of you knew that Lord Byron had an eating disorder. Yup, the Bad Boy of all Romantic poets used to binge and purge. Apparently he also went through days when all he consumed was green tea and soda water, and would often sit down to a pile of lettuce dressed with vinegar, hold the oil. And we think New York fashionistas are a 21st century phenomenon.
Can you say “The Devil Wears Knee Breeches”? So that’s what I learned today.
Falling in Love with English Boys Page 3
