Still, I must confess I am pleased for her. Miss Cameron is a good sort of lady. She has always been kind to me, even when I could not be bothered to practice or recite or pay attention, and in those times when I was not very kind to her.
If one squints a bit, Mr. Piper could be found quite handsome. He has always seemed perfectly pleasant, and Mama says he has a gentleman’s manners and a sense of humour that most gentlemen do not possess. I do hope he will make Miss Cameron happy. I shall be happy to have her nearby in the parsonage
I do not recall what I’d meant to write about the parsonage. I was interrupted by the arrival of far less happy news than that of Miss Cameron’s engagement.
We have just had word that Charles must go, and so much sooner than we could have imagined. Napoleon has taken more of France and will try to take Belgium. Charles’s regiment is being sent abroad, to halt the Little General’s march. He leaves tomorrow.
I do hope it is not too long before he returns. If all goes as it must, if I am to have an autumn wedding, he must be home by September. I would not care at all to have to be married in the cold dead of winter (or, even worse, have to wait even longer!) because my brother is cavorting with his fellow soldiers in Brussels.
I shall miss him. Frightfully.
July 14
I’ll Take You There
Okay, so I gotta find ten places ditzy Miss Kitty visited and Will will take me there.
In case I haven’t mentioned it already, this is what Katherine does with her life:
1. shops
2. eats
3. dances
4. rhapsodizes about a guy
Don’t say it, any of you. I will change the password of this blog and not tell you what the new one is.
I don’t dance.
Not here, anyway.
Now, considering that there were no department stores in 1815, restaurants were of the pub-grub-tavern-wench variety, and I don’t think the London club scene exactly welcomed nice girls, I’m a tad stumped. And there is no, I repeat no way I’m going back to the BM with Will. Once we’re old and gray and can laugh about such things, we can go back to the place we met and have a good chuckle. Until such time...
I’ve been rereading and reskimming. Jeez, enough about Mr. Baker, already. But I did find some possibles among the punch and poetry (which, I feel compelled to agree with that angry Nick dude, still sounds like bad copies of Byron). This is serious, goils. Will has offered me near-total access to him for ten different occasions. Which, even if combined into trips of two, makes for five very nice days.
(He can’t mean ten in one day, could he? Or even three? No. No, no, no, no, no. I need to make very sure I choose ten things that require a minimum of five days. Barring Love at First Sight—which was me sailing at him across the BM floor like a baboon on skates—five days should be enough. Right?)
Was Notting Hill a First Date? I can’t very well ask, can I? Will’s so British; I feel intrusive even asking what’s on his iPod. “So, BritBoy, are we dating yet?” is beyond contemplation. I mean, Notting Hill kinda fits the criteria: Boy took Girl to Someplace, that someplace being a place he didn’t already need to be, and that someplace involved consumption of both food and drink. No sports, education, or group of friends were involved. Definitely Date.
But then there was that impromptu “Mother requested/got some time to kill” thang, too. Definitely Not-Date.
Sadly, I fear, (S)mother trumps Someplace. But I look on this as an opportunity. I have been given the chance to Create-a-Date. Ten, in fact. Yay. The prob? All ten locations have to have been mentioned in a two-hundred-year-old diary, written by Princess Poesy. Bleagh. And Boy might not be thinking Date.
An insurmountable challenge, you say?
Nay.
Never underestimate the power of a good speed-skim and the Internet. Ladies, I have found my ten places. Each and every one meets Will’s criteria and mine.
His:
• mentioned by Katherine
• still in existence
Mine:
• no (s)mother
• no dust
• no “mates,” “blokes,” or “posse”
• requires a minimum of two hours to fully appreciate, as I intend to give Will as much time as possible to fully appreciate me
Drumroll, please.
1. Hampstead Heath
www.flickr.com/groups/hampsteadheath/
Why: Pix, people. Look at the pix. It’s one great big, beautiful picnic waiting to happen. I’ll pack chicken-and-rocket sandwiches (“rocket,” I have since discovered to my great relief and pleasure, is just arugula), fizzy lemonade, salt-and-vinegar crisps, and a big (but not too big—gotta keep close) blanket to sit on. Professor Fungus has one. It’s purple plaid. Probably for the bed, but what she don’t know won’t hoit her. Me n’ Will n’ hundreds of acres of grass and ponds and sunshine on our shoulders.
Why not: Unless it rains . . . It won’t rain.
I’ll wear jeans (don’t want to take the pastoral thang too far) and a floaty top. I’ll paint my toenails and wear sandals. I’ll carefully avoid all goose poop.
2. The Theatre Royal, Haymarket
www.trh.co.uk/
Why: Nighttime. Pretheater dinner. I don’t care what’s playing. I will be sitting right smack next to Will in semidarkness for two hours. Never mind the hard chair arm between us; if sitting through every Adam Sandler, Sasha Baron Cohen, and Jack Black movie of the last year with Adam the Scum taught me anything, it’s that if one person slides their arm forward a little and the other tucks around them, holding hands in the theater is easy peasy lemon squeezy and very nice.
Nighttime.
Should I say it again? Nighttime.
Why not: There goes my allowance for the month, not to mention a chunk of the b-day money I will inevitably get from the grand’rents.
I’ll wear a little black dress. H&M is full of them. Only they’re red or silver or deep-sea blue. I’ll wear one of those. And heels. And just enough Coco Mademoiselle to reach him. Note to self: wash hair late that day, so as to be sweet-smelling just in case that Head-on-Shoulder opportunity arises.
Nighttime. He’ll insist on seeing me home. He’s that kinda guy. And if there’s ever, ever gonna be a first kiss, and it doesn’t happen on the velvet heath grass overlooking London Town, this is the time.
Note to self: Altoids.
3. The Tower of London
www.hrp.org.uk/toweroflondon/
Why: Face it, when it comes to doomed queens, we’re all ghouls, right, Ghoulfriends?
Why not: Tourists. Lots of them, many American, polyester-clad, wanting to see the ghosts. I don’t count as a tourist. I don’t. I won’t ask about the ghosts. I’ll let the tourists do that, then I’ll make sure we go where the tour guides tell them to go.
I’ll wear whatever makes me look most English. I’ll channel Anne Boleyn. From the time before Henry got tired of her, when she was making the most powerful man in the world fall so in love with her that he forsaked (fine, Keri, but you try saying “forsook” with a straight face) his religion.
I don’t want Will to forsake his religion. Buddhism, even of the nominal variety, is way cool. I just like that “forsaking all others” idea. You know, the one that comes soon after “Dearly Beloved . . .”
4. Hyde Park
www.royalparks.org.uk/parks/hyde_park/
Why: See most of #1. Picnic. Blanket. Sunshine.
They call it “London’s Personal Space.” Which means, in order to give London its personal space, I must take up as little space as possible, which means being as close to Will as possible. Scientific fact: Two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Cat fact: It sure is fun to try. We’ll feed the ducks in the Serpentine. We’ll wander aimlessly among the flowers. He’ll buy me some. We’ll make fun of the rollerbladers in their spandex and kneepads.
Why not: See Why Not #1. This is, after all, London.
I’ll we
ar blue. Like the sky. Like his eyes. Oh, stop with the gagging motions, all of you. Ambience. Y’know?
5. Westminster Abbey
www.westminster-abbey.org/
Why: Byron isn’t buried there (Seems like half of English history is buried there. Inside. Which adds a small ick factor, but what the hey), but he has a plaque in Poet’s Corner anyway. I’ve been reading my Byron. I can stand over his (not)grave and recite:
So we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart still be as loving,
And the moon still be as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
Pretty, huh? Pretty sad, huh? I can do melancholy. It goes with my eyes.
I can say hi to Charles Dickens and Anne of Cleves (a wife Henry VIII didn’t kill). He can have a mano a mano with Samuel Johnson.
Why not: See aforementioned ick factor. We do not want the boy to think I am a ghoul. But then, I’ve never met a guy who didn’t have some ghoul in him, too. It’s a Metrospectral thang. A combined zillion Friday the 13ths, Chainsaw Massacres, and I Know What You Did on Elm Street last Halloween sez it all.
I’ll wear something black. A hat with a veil would be overkill, no? Maybe just my Lucky black hoodie with the wings on the back. Seems right for church, no? With a skirt.
5. Kew Gardens
www.kew.org/
Why: Yeah, yeah, more lawns and plants. And a Chinese Pagoda and a fair amount of fungi. I’ll check out Professor Fungus’s books and do a little reading up. I’ll point out the poisonous ’shrooms. We’ll compare lists of who we would feed spore s’mores to (not enough to kill, of course, just enough to induce several days of appropriate digestive distress). We’ll relive our slightly-macabre-but-nonetheless-sweet visits to the Tower and Abbey. We’ll be cute like Morticia and Gomez Addams.
Why not: See #s 1 and 4. Why not, too: Ya seen two massive urban plant places, ya seen ’em all.
I’ll wear a floaty dress. I’ll buy a floaty dress. Or maybe Consuelo will lend me one. Yeah, right, like I’m going to fit even half of me into her size-0 Temperleys. But she would let me try. That’s what matters.
7. The Royal Academy
www.royalacademy.org.uk/
Why: Everyone needs Art. And after all that fresh air, we’ll both be ready for some quiet, informative, inside time. The exhibit now is Sadanga: Six Limbs of Indian Painting. Limbs. Indian painting. I envision deep reds and golds and gorgeous gods doing mahvelous things to happy goddesses. I mean, c’mon. Kama Sutra under the umbrella of Art. Need I say more?
Why not: Um. Kama Sutra. Y’all know how easily I blush. Need I say more?
I’ll wear something . . . modest. Jeans. A tee. Something red. Maybe some gold bangles. Just for ambience. Betcha Elizabeth has some. Betcha Consuelo and Bayard know all about the Kama Sutra. I don’t think I need to think about that.
8. Covent Garden
www.streamdays.com/camera/view/covent_garden_london
Why: Shops. Street music. Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady. Brunch, maybe, on a Sunday. Sex and the City meets Bridget Jones. Wouldn’t it be loverly?
Why not: I can’t sing. The dog howls when I do.
I’ll wear whatever I can that invokes Audrey. Ankle pants, ballet flats. Big black sunglasses and red lips.
9. Bond Street
www.streetsensation.co.uk/
Why. More shops. Nice shops. The sort of shops where you might see the English Kates (MossWinsletBeckinsale). I could channel Audrey again and do Breakfast at Tiffany’s, London-style. Or maybe just buy something at Zara.
Why not: You’re probably more likely to see the Kates’ mums than the Kates themselves.
I’ll wear Seven jeans, a D&G silk top, strappy Manolos, and my crocodile Birkin.
Yeah, right.
10. Hatchards
www.hatchards.co.uk/
Why: The new Sarah Dessen came out last week. If there’s any bookstore in London that will have it, it’s Hatchards. Hatchards has everything. Plus, I can let Will talk me into buying some epic, critical, you-absolutely-have-to-have-it-to-call-yourself-Human philosophy tome. I’ll let him read key passages to me while lying on a blanket in #1, 4, or 5 with his head in my lap. Maybe I should move Hatchards up the list.
Why not: Give me one example of a movie that had a romantic scene in a bookstore.
Thought not.
I’ll wear librarian chic. Little skirt, button-down shirt. Lose the contacts and wear my glasses for the day (he’s going to have to see me in them sooner or later). Some sort of bun. Maybe a messy one, anyway. In the philosophy aisle, he’ll slip my glasses off, pull the clip from my hair, and gasp, “My goodness, Miss Vernon, you’re beautiful!”
And that, ladies, will be that.
(OMG—I almost e-mailed him that whole list, “whys,” “why nots,” and wardrobe included!! That, ladies, would have been all she wrote. Eesh. Is there such a thing as Chocolate Withdrawal Dementia Syndrome?)
4 June
Charles departed this morning. He will rejoin his regiment in Portsmouth, and go from there to the Continent. I was terribly sad to see him go, but Mama is positively distraught. She truly fears for him, though he has assured her there is no need. He shall be safe in Belgium. It is hardly like last time, when he was forced to advance through terrible mountain terrain in winter. It is nearly summer; Belgium is a civilised place. Nothing untoward will happen to him there.
“Don’t rush yourself, Kitty,” he told me as he was leaving. “Delight in this time; nothing need come of it but enjoyment.” When he embraced me, he added softly, “Do not be too hard on Mother. She understands you more than you might think. And look to Everard if you need anything. He will be here.”
Nicholas has been here. He came for luncheon at Mama’s request. He seems to comfort her. Heaven knows why. He is such a serious fellow. I prefer fun when I am low. I prefer poetry. I know they were discussing the war before I entered the dining room. The speed with which they stopped speaking told me as much.
I tried not to mind. If they see me as naught but a silly child, there is little I can do to dissuade them. I was determined to be pleasant and cheerful and not let on at all how sad—and lonely—I suddenly find myself in this house with my brother gone. (Papa is scarcely ever here, and I have seen neither hide nor hair of Lord Chilham in days. I know I should be relieved. I am relieved. Yet I cannot be utterly at ease.)
Mama excused herself directly after lunch. She said she was not feeling quite well. I believe she is working on The Abandoned Bride. I wonder if I shall ever read it.
I thought Nicholas would leave, then. After all, he has made it no secret that he finds my company trying.
He did not leave, but followed me into the parlor. I sat and took up my embroidery. I am not proficient at embroidery. I make knots where they are not meant to be and tangles where there are meant to be knots. I would much rather have gone out for a walk, or sat with my copy of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. It arrived from the binders yesterday and I confess I am finding myself engrossed. I could not have said so to Nicholas of course. He would have mocked me.
Byron’s hero had a mother, and a sister whom he loved. He had a life of entertainments and pleasures. Yet he left them, and went off in search of . . . I do not know just what. I am only through the first canto. Still, for a moment, I thought to ask Nicholas:
What do young men want that we women do not give them? I know there is something.
I blushed at even the thought of asking.
“Katherine?” He was watching me, looking ever so slightly cross. “Are you feeling well?”
“I am fine. I am . .
. Nicholas . . .”
“Yes?”
He was leaning, that leaning that young men do, against a wall, or, in this case the mantel, to show precisely how tedious the moment is—that their disinterest is such that they cannot even bring their skeletons to support them fully. Nicholas, in a forest green coat much the same colour as his eyes, cravat perfectly starched and white, was every bit the fashionable gentleman, even to the slight lift of his dark brows. If he was in such a hurry to be shot of me, why did he not leave?
Or perhaps I was being unjust. He does not lounge. Not proud, upright Nicholas Everard.
I wondered if perhaps his leg was paining him. How easy it has been to forget that he was badly injured. One cannot ignore the scar; it is there each time he brushes his sable hair from his brow. Yet the other is hidden, unseen, unspoken.
“Well, spit it out, Katherine, whatever it is you wish to say. You look like a fish with a hook in its mouth.”
“A fish?”
“Ah, forgive me. An unchivalrously incomplete sentiment. A lovely brook trout, then, lustrous of scale and graceful of fin.”
Odious, pompous man. I determined not to give him the satisfaction of mocking me further. I would talk of serious matters.
“I read in the newspaper this morning,” I offered—graciously ignoring the further lift of his brow, “that the Duke and Duchess of Richmond have made themselves the center of polite society in Brussels. They will certainly see that the regiments do not lack for entertainment.”
“I am certain the regiments are eternally grateful,” was his reply. “Heaven forbid they not have a party to attend.”
Falling in Love with English Boys Page 12
