Falling in Love with English Boys

by Melissa Jensen

  I counted five and tried again. “I have also read that the ladies of Brussels are quite enamoured of the Scots soldiers in their kilts. It is rather like Winnie Stuart and her delight in Walter Scott’s Highland warriors.”

  “Have you read any of Scott’s work, Katherine?”

  I confessed I had not. “I understand it is very romantic and dramatic.”

  He all but rolled his eyes. “Just like war, hmm?”

  I gave up. What else could I do? “Fine. Fine! I have tried to engage in your sort of conversation, yet you continue to mock me because I choose the wrong words or subject or degree of seriousness. How am I to speak intelligently of current events if no one will discuss them with me?”

  “A good question, that. How have you learned in the past?”

  “Well, I suppose Miss Cameron chose the materials, as a governess does.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “Children have governesses, Katherine. Do you not think it is time, perhaps, for you to take responsibility for your own growth? You are eighteen, past time to stop being a child.”

  I shoved my embroidery from my lap and rose to my feet. It would have been far more satisfying had not the chair tipped first back and then forward into my knees, making me wobble.

  “I would rather be eighteen and thought a child than four-and-twenty and regarded as an old man! Is it not exhausting, Sir Nicholas, to be so very impressive at all times?”

  I expected him to be angry at that, at least as angry at my insults as I was at his. He was not. He smiled, that lazy smile that so irks me and that silly Winnie finds so dashing.

  “I would ask the same of you. Is it not exhausting to always be searching for just the right word or action to make yourself seem fashionable?”

  I was speechless. I expect I did resemble a fish, mouth opening and closing, making no sound save a faint popping.

  “Poor little Katherine,” he said, in a tone so gentle it quite pierced my anger. “You cannot win, can you? Grown-ups will not discuss serious matters with you, yet scold you for twittering.”

  Sympathy from Nicholas? I confess I was quite uncertain as to what to do with it. I chose to be tart. Otherwise, I feared in the moment, I might cry. I seem to want to cry every time I encounter Nicholas Everard of late. I hate that.

  “How kind of you to notice. I am certain, too, you will be so kind as to offer a suggestion as to how I could change that sad circumstance. You always have a suggestion for how I may better myself.”

  He must have known I was being sarcastic. He would certainly have heard it in my voice. He does, after all, know me rather well.

  “I do. Of course I do.” His smile turned wry and, although I could be mistaken, self-effacing. He came away from the mantel and stood directly in front of me. “Are you interested in hearing it?”

  “Will you go away if I agree?”

  “Ah, the Kitty shows claws.”

  I remembered so many days in years past, when I would pester him and Charles at their play, tagging behind them, mimicking their battle cries until they would chase me off. Or, sometimes, indulge me in a game of chase or hide-and-go-seek, where I would inevitably stand behind a curtain with my feet poking out, or hide behind a pillar not quite wide enough to conceal me. They would pretend not to see but, to my delight, would stumble about in comical haplessness, calling “Here, Kitty, Kitty . . .”

  Suddenly I was bone-weary. “I am exhausted, Nicholas,” I told him, “by trying to please everyone who cannot be pleased. Papa, Mama, the sticklers in Society, you . . .

  “To hell with us,” he growled. I gasped when, without warning, he wrapped both hands around my shoulders. They felt very warm and very strong, and I thought how easily he could hurt me. But he was perfectly gentle when he turned me about and guided me to stand before the wall mirror. He stood behind me, tall and serious and, I was reminded by this reflected view of him, only four-and-twenty. So young to be so unyielding.

  “This is the view that matters: yours. None of the others. You need to decide what you truly wish to see when you look at yourself, Katherine. I suspect you will be quite splendid when you do. Until then, cease with the twittering. It is wholly unattractive.” He dropped his hands and, in a gesture utterly unlike him, thrust them both into his hair, sending it into dark disarray. “Now I will go away.”

  And he did.

  5 June

  I do not understand gentlemen at all!

  I confess, I was in a Mood after Nicholas left. I sat at my dressing table and glared into the mirror. What did I see?

  A lot of dark brown hair that absolutely refuses to do what I wish it to do. I frequently think of cropping it all off.

  A pretty face that I do not care to study too long or closely, as I inevitably find a spot in a place not immediately obvious to me, yet visible to everyone else.

  Brown eyes. They are a good shape, thickly lashed, bright. I wish they were blue. I must remember to use Mama’s face cream. I am a bit dry around the eyes.

  I was not in good cheer as I dressed for the evening. So, of course, I spilled tea on my yellow dress, shouted at Becky when she could not make the pins stay in my hair, and poked so at the spot in the corner of my nose that it grew and turned a brilliant red.

  I did apologise to Becky and felt better for it.

  It was merely a party. The person I cared most for would not be there to see me not looking my best. So off I went to the Spensers very late and cross in my white dress, with my disastrous hair and mountainous spot. What did I care?

  Thomas Baker was standing by the fireplace.

  His eyes met mine, he smiled, and I completely forgot the spot.

  We reached each other in the centre of the room. “Cruel lady,” he scolded, hand over his heart. “I had all but lost hope that you would come.”

  “As long as you do not lose all hope,” I countered, “I do not mind that you have suffered a little. I am not the one who flitted off to the country.”

  “No, Miss Percival, you are most constant.”

  We danced. “The weather was appalling,” he told me. “Mud everywhere. So I returned.”

  He did not mention the entertainments or the company. I knew, from Henrietta Quinn, who had been invited but did not attend, that there had been seven ladies and four gentlemen. One of the ladies was Miss Northrop. I was dying of curiosity. Was everyone there very wealthy and fashionable and lively? Did Miss Northrop play nicely with the others? Did she wear ermine and diamonds to breakfast? Did she flirt with him?

  I asked none of it, of course.

  After our second dance, when there could be no other without people talking (and really, why should I mind if they linked my name closely with his?), I feared the evening would become dull. Then he asked, quietly. “Shall we stroll in the garden?”

  Yes. Oh yes, please.

  Being London, the gardens were no more than forty paces square. How I longed for Percy’s Vale, with its acres upon acres of Italian terraces and the yew maze and the pine groves. But Thomas tucked my arm in his, and we strolled.

  “You promised when last we met to tell me what I missed in my absence.”

  Emboldened by the feel of his sleeve beneath my hand and his eyes on my face (oh, drat that spot!), I said, “Certain company, I should think, but as I cannot read your mind, I cannot be certain what you missed.”

  “Ah, so clever.” He glanced carefully around the neat paths and ivy-covered walls.

  Lady Spenser had filled the garden with lanterns. No less than a half-dozen other couples were among the tidy paths. It was entirely proper, and not in the least private. Until we reached the rose bower. Thomas glanced once, then again over his shoulder. I confess, I did not protest at all when he tugged me inside. Despite the fact that it is only just June and the weather has been cool, there were blooms aplenty, pink and lush and fragrant, brushing against my arms and filling my head with their scent. Nearby, a fountain trickled musically through a mermaid’s bronze grasp.

  Thomas
turned me to face him. It was the second time that day I had had a gentleman’s hands on my shoulders. His were not as large as Nicholas’s, nor was he as tall. I did not feel quite as . . . dwarfed.

  Would he kiss me? He should kiss me. I should like it very much if he did. Should I protest the liberty, just a bit? Enough to show him I do not allow just anyone to kiss me, but that he might?

  “Mr. Baker—”

  “Shh,” he whispered. I shushed.

  Then I waited. And waited, and panicked just a little. Would I turn my head to the left or the right? What had I eaten for supper? If I closed my eyes and he did not, would he see the spot . . . ?

  “. . . safe to go.”

  I had not realised I had closed my eyes until they sprang open. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I really do not wish to speak to him.”

  “Who?”

  “Robert Spenser. He has been hounding me all evening.” He smiled down at me. “Lovely, amiable Miss Percival. You have spared me a tedious encounter. I am in your debt.” Then he took one hand from my shoulder. Now, I thought. ’Twill be now. “Yes, most lovely and most unspoiled. Like this.”

  He reached past my ear and plucked a rose from the trellis. He tucked it gently into my hair. It promptly sprang free and dropped to the ground.

  “Pity,” he murmured.

  “Yes.”

  That was all I said, as he tucked my hand again into his arm, as he led me back up the path and up the stairs and into the crowded, brilliantly lit ballroom where he then bent over my hand, let it go, and slipped back into his crowd of lively fellows. I glanced about for Luisa. She was dancing with Mr. Pertwee. I looked for a corner to sit in, a drapery to hide behind.

  “Good night, fair ladies!” Mr. Davison was saying. “I fear we must go to places you cannot follow.” They laughed, the lot of them, bowing and poking each other in the ribs as they left. Henrietta Quinn rolled her eyes, but did not object to her Mr. Troughton going with them.

  “Well, there go the clowns”—she sighed—“leaving us with only this for a circus. “Shall we go watch Miss Spenser? She is going to maul the pianoforte for the next quarter hour or so.”

  “Yes.”

  Am I confused?

  Yes.

  Did I wish for him to kiss me? Yes. Would I have let him? Yes. And yes and yes and yes.

  I have a headache. I have too many questions.

  Is love meant to make us feel like fools?

  July 15

  Hide and Seek

  I’ll let you in on a little secret: boys are tricky.

  Apparently, all correspondence with Will this week is to be done in text. Which necessitates decoding the subtext. Text Subtext—bane of a girl’s existence.

  His Text: (in response to my e-mailed Ten Places list): UR 2 much. So b it.

  Subtext, Option A: Aren’t you just the cleverest thing? I surrender to your desires.

  Subtext, Option B: Are you f-ing kidding me? I said “excursion,” not “seduction.” Fine, but I’m onto your game.

  MyText (choosing to ignore even the possibility of Option B): ;-) Glad u like. Heath 2moro?

  HisText: N. Othr.

  Subtext, Option A: I have a better idea. Trust me, you’ll love it.

  Subtext, Option B: As if. Your little blanket scenario fools no one.

  MyText: ???

  HisText: W8 >∧. .∧<

  Subtext, Option A: It’s a surprise.

  Subtext, Option B: For God’s sake, B, don’t push it!

  Pause for cuteness sigh. >∧. . ∧< Cat. Moi. Now, considering the fact that it takes a lot less time to type CAT than all those little symbols, I am left with two possibilities.

  Possibility A: He is clever, and has seriously dexterous digits.

  Possibility B: He cares enough to have created a macro that will give him >∧. .∧< with a single key tap. Implying he plans to be tapping that key a lot.

  Works for me either way.

  Anyway.

  HisText: GTG. CU 2moro. 11 yr place.

  Subtext, Option A: There’s a fire in the building ahead. I have doors to kick down, puppies and screaming children to rescue. Much as it pains me, I will have to wait until tomorrow to continue our deep connection.

  Subtext, Option B: Enough of this childish chitchat. Better things to do. CU.

  Okay. So now I have to go check my list again and plan for any eventuality. Is there a discreet way to pack a picnic, without it being obvious I’d packed a picnic? “Oh, would you look at that! I just happen to have sandwiches and crisps (that’s potato chips for you all at home) in my bag, not to mention a purple plaid blanket! What a delightful coincidence!”

  Shall I go Morticia chic in the event of Westminster Abbey or the Tower? But then, what if he opts for Hyde Park or Kew Gardens? Black among the blossoms? I don’t think so. So maybe I should just go for floaty dress and hope it doesn’t read flighty when I should be solemn and serious . . .

  I think I can safely rule out the theater. Unless there’s a matinee . . .

  Merde.

  Okay. This isn’t brain surgery. It’s clothes. Infinitely more chance of humiliating failure than brain surgery. Okay. What would Natalie Portman do? Hey. She would channel Audrey. You can’t go wrong with Audrey, right? Phew.

  MyText: CU 2.

  July 16

  These Streets

  Today was tomorrow.

  What Mom said on seeing me in my white button-down, black ankle pants, and mondo shades: “You look like Audrey Hepburn.”

  What Will said on arriving at the door: “You’ll want an umbrella. Looks like rain.”

  He did say hello first, and looked perfectly happy to be here, so despite the fact that he didn’t go google-eyed over my ensemble (and face it, do they ever, unless it’s ho chic or lingerie?), I allowed myself to assume he was happy to be here.

  I put an umbrella in my bag.

  “So where are we going?” I asked as we hit the street. “Or will it remain a mystery?”

  “We are going—” He pulled a crumpled printout from his pocket and I recognized my list, “to Numbers Seven, Ten, and Nine, in that order.” My heart did that icky little sinking thang. A three-in-one. Leaning heavily toward Not-Date. I tried to remember what Number Seven was. “Honestly, Cat, Bond Street?”

  “Katherine went to Bond Street!” I shot back.

  I thought Bond Street was Nine. So Seven . . . ?

  He shook his head, sending a comma of shiny hair into his forehead. Look. Don’t touch. Look. Don’t touch. I really really wanted to touch. “Yah. So, you’re planning on looking at overpriced frocks while I . . . what?”

  Okay, he had me there. “How do you know I don’t just want to stroll the hallowed blocks,” I countered. “Absorb the ambience of two hundred years of fashionable commerce?”

  He was laughing as we ran down the Underground steps to catch the approaching train. He also put his hand on my back as we minded the gap between the platform and the car. “First things first. We’re going to the Royal Academy.”

  Ah, right. Number Seven: Six Limbs of Indian Painting. Kama Sutra, here we come . . .

  No Kama Sutra.

  Still, it was a pretty cool museum. It was a house once, Will told me, belonging to some duke. Some house. Bloody massive, right smack in the middle of London, only set back from the street, so you walk from busy busy into this massive stone courtyard, and it kinda looks like a palace, and kinda feels like a palace, and I gotta say, I felt kinda special walking up the steps with this kinda princely guy.

  “I used to come here with my mum,” he told me as we followed signs to the Indian exhibit. “She thought it important to balance my father’s exterior influence.”

  I realized how nothing I knew about his family. “Oh. Divorced?”

  “Married twenty years and supposedly happy.”

  “Supposedly?”

  “Long time, twenty years.” And with that chipper dismissal of Happily Ever After, Will pushed open the
door to a small gallery, and we were alone among the limbs.

  I gotta say, it was amazing. The room was full of cases and each case was full of miniature paintings. The biggest was the size of a paperback; some were the size of Triscuits. Each one was of a person or people, head to toe, standing or sitting, alone in the image or in a detailed background. Some were clearly modern (think Picasso with turbans), some were so old that they were faded and creased and torn at the edges.

  Not a single one involved heavy breathing. They still took my breath away.

  “This was a good choice,” Will said softy as we stood, arms pressed against each other’s, looking down at a teeny tiny woman floating on a teeny tiny sea. The whole thing was, like, five inches square, but you could see every whorl of every wave, every swirl of the bracelets on each of her (four) arms. “Lakshmi,” he explained, “goddess of light, beauty, and wealth. Vishnu’s consort.” He pointed to the next picture, where the same woman was sitting with a blue guy on a sofa that looked like a coiled snake. Or coiled peacock. Logic aside, it was hard to tell. Vishnu had his (two) blue feet in her lap. Lakshmi had her (four) hands on various polite parts of him.

  “So I should pray to her for cash?” I quipped. Oh, Lakshmi, West End tix are insane and the dollar is crap these days.

  “You can. But be careful just using her for money. She’s worth far more than that.”

  Like Katherine. Well, lookee there, a connection. I told Will. There was a smidgeon of no, duh in his smile, but just a little one.

  “So, what happened to her, to Katherine?” I asked. “You’ve gotta know, being a Percival and all that.”

  “Did you finish the diary?”

  Yeah, right.

  “Um. No, but I will. I’m at the point where Thomas . . . sorry, Mr. Baker is getting ready to profess undying love or something. Do they live happily ever after?”

  “Why don’t you just skip to the end?”

  I do a pretty good “what, are you kidding me?” smile, myself. “Never, never, never. I hate people who read the end first, just to see if they should bother with the middle!”