Falling in Love with English Boys

by Melissa Jensen

  He stared down at me, blinking lazily. Rather like a lizard. “Mmm. Lady Victoria is rather perfect, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, certainly,” I countered, “if one does not mind vapidity.”

  “A decent word, ‘vapidity.’ Did Miss Cameron teach it to you, or was it your putative poet?”

  “Putative? Putative? How dare you call him such a name? Why when compared to that . . . common . . . creature, Mr. Baker is positively . . .”

  I confess it is most difficult to find a contrasting word to “putative” when you are not entirely certain what it means.

  Nicholas continued making his lizard eyes at me. “You know, Katherine,” he drawled, “you really ought to be careful making comments about my tastes, lest I soundly prove you wrong.”

  Oh, the thought of him marrying that creature—of having to endure her drapey presence at countless dinners and parties, and all those occasions when his position as Charles’s closest friend would make it a certainty—it was just too distressing to contemplate. Sadly, my vocabulary was not what it might be, and I struggled for any clever, stinging, perfect retort.

  I am sorry to say I resorted to sticking my tongue out at him and flouncing a few feet away to the next window.

  And there I was still when the butler appeared in the doorway, cleared his throat, and intoned the three sweetest words in the English language. In any language. “Mr. Thomas Baker!”

  There he was, finally, my Thomas. Hair damp with rain, eyes alight, smiling at the company and looking like heaven itself. He started into the room, toward the assembled party, toward me.

  “Oh, splendid!” Mrs. Quinn cried, appearing in the doorway behind him. “Now we have an even number. Come along, Mr. Baker, all the young gentlemen, follow me now. Ladies, you will wait five minutes, then come into the grand parlor.”

  We were to have dancing after all!

  We did not. We arrived to find all of the furniture pushed back against the walls.There was a chair for each lady, set before a makeshift screen—a sheet held up tightly by two household servants. Behind each sheet sat a gentleman we could see only in profile, a shadow, a silhouette. I was not surprised to find several sheets of heavy black paper and a small pair of sharp scissors on the chair to which Mrs. Quinn waved me.

  “Ladies, cut out your gentleman’s silhouette. When you all are done, we shall move you to a different seat. Gentlemen, you will then cut a silhouette of the lady at your screen. At the end of the evening, we shall arrange all finished images on a table. Only I shall know which is of whom. You shall write down who you believe each is. The person with the most correct shall have a prize.”

  It took me a single glance around the room to see the outline of Thomas’s curls against Miss Northrop’s screen. It took even less time than that, a single sharp glance, to recognise the profile in front of me. It was more than familiar. Oh, perverse Fates: Mrs. Quinn for her game, the rain for spoiling the day and delaying Thomas’s arrival, and my Luck for placing me before the one person I wanted least to reproduce.

  “Resist the urge to give me horns, if you please.”

  How had he known? Not only that it was me, but precisely what I was thinking. Against all desire, I found myself smiling. It has always been this way, as long as I can remember. The first gentle tease from Nicholas and I am hard put to stay angry.

  “I shall be as faithful as my meager talent allows, although I daresay none shall know you in the absence of your scowl and scar—” I had not meant to mention the scar. In fact, I had quite given up ever learning the truth of it. “I am sorry, Nicholas, I did not mean to be indelicate.”

  From behind the screen came a snort, but not a harsh one. “You never do.”

  “Be kind. I shall promise not to speak of parties or Belgian chocolate or war . . . only . . .”

  “Yes?”

  I do not know why it happened then. Perhaps it was the dubious divider of the screen separating us, or the gentle candlelight flickering, but I heard myself asking, just once more, “Will you tell me, please? I so very much wish to know . . .”

  “What happened to turn me into such an ugly creature?”

  “What utter rot, Nicholas! You know perfectly well how handsome—” I sniffed. “Vain creature!”

  He chuckled. “And you such a gullible one.” Then, far more seriously, he said, “Give me one reason I should satisfy your lurid curiosity.”

  “Because,” I replied without thinking, “I cannot help but believe that if I am able to understand how you have come to be who you are, I will understand why you find me so lacking in who I have become.”

  There was a long silence. Then he sighed. “Ah, Katherine. You really do understand nothing at all.” But before I could get huffy, he sighed again. “Very well. It was almost exactly three years ago, and we had been fighting for weeks. The French had been holding the walled city of San Sebastián, and Wellington was determined to take it . . .”

  He told the story quickly, sharply, only pausing to scold me when my hands stilled. “Keep cutting, Katherine. That is your part of this bargain.”

  Oh, Nicholas.

  His regiment was among the first to reach the walls. But it was not a French cannon that fired the fateful blast; it was English, his own country mistakenly shooting her own soldiers. Large segments of the wall fell on him, breaking his leg in two places and pinning him to the hard earth. He stayed there while the battle raged over him, expecting every minute to die, to see a massive stone falling, or a French sword or bayonet stabbing down to where he lay helpless. None came. And eventually, the screaming and the thundering and the booming stopped. Still, no one came.

  He lay there for two days, trapped beneath the rubble, listening to the moans of the wounded and dying, smelling the stench of blood and gunpowder. He listened while the lowest of British soldiers ran wild through the city, destroying and pillaging and looting. He lay there, silent, knowing that a call for help was as likely to bring death as aid. He waited to die, waited for a French soldier or one of the thieves who rob battlefields to find him and finish him off.

  By the time he was discovered by one of Wellington’s aides, he was nearly dead, his leg crushed, his face in tatters, and the city was burning.

  “They did not support the French, the people of San Sebastián. They were not the enemy. They lost everything because they lived in a place two warring countries desired. That, Katherine, is why I don’t speak of it. That is what war is to me.”

  I had not realised I was crying. The little maid who was holding half of the sheet screen silently handed me a corner of it to wipe my eyes. She was crying, too.

  I was poor company indeed for Mr. Troughton while he attempted my silhouette, although he did not object. On the contrary, he praised me for my stillness. When all were done, I did not recognise my image (I later discovered it was the one that resembled a ferret in a bonnet), but nearly everyone recognised the one I did of Nicholas. Henrietta won the prize, correctly identifying seven silhouettes, but Mrs. Quinn declared mine the very truest and promised Nicholas that he would have it at the end of the party.

  I did not exchange more than a dozen words with Thomas before the clock chimed one and Lady Hartnell hustled us off to bed.

  “Your presence was missed,” I managed as we stood examining one of the lumpish silhouettes.

  “By the important parties, I trust” was his rejoinder.

  “I should like—” I began.

  “I believe it is time—” He stopped. “Please.”

  “No, you continue.” In truth, I did not know what I wished to say.

  “I believe it is time for us to speak in private, Miss Percival.”

  And there it was. At last. I know I would have felt that long-awaited, that eagerly anticipated thrill of victory, of joy, the certainty that no one could force me to marry a man I did not love. But I was still haunted by Nicholas’s tale.

  “Yes,” I did answer. “Yes.”

  “Soon” was his promise, jus
t as Miss Northrop arrived and tugged him away, giggling and chattering that he simply must see her creation.

  I feel a new certainty

  Wait. I believe I hear steps in the hall. Thomas?

  I have returned. It was not Thomas, come to speak to me. A good thing, too, I must say. I could not have had him in my chamber, most especially not with Luisa asleep in the bed. How scandalous, too, would it have been to be creeping about with him, seeking a place for our conversation. To receive a proposal in a dark hallway, or even worse, a linen cupboard!

  It is all a moot point. I did see something, a gentleman’s leg and foot, I believe, disappearing through the door of a chamber near the far end of the hall. Whose, I do not know. I believe at least two gentlemen have a room there, as do Lady Victoria, Lady Hartnell, and Miss Northrop. The hall is quite long and very dark. The leg and foot might have belonged to any of the men, although considering the amount of leg I did see, I suppose he must be rather tall.

  Oh, I have a headache.

  I am tired. Luisa snores.

  15 June

  By the time I arose in the morning, the gentlemen were all gone, on their way back to London. I returned home to discover Mama much recovered and well amused. I have received a voucher to attend Almack’s. Lady Sefton, always lauded as the sweetest of the Patronesses, was kind enough to see to it. What a pity I no longer care overmuch. What is a night of dancing when one cannot count upon the right man to be there as a partner?

  August 3

  You Can’t Always Get What You Want

  Will was waiting for me in front of Apsley House, thankfully alone, and holding the gaudiest gift bag I have ever seen. Purple and green metallic striped, blindingly adorned with gold glitter, scads of corkscrew ribbon spilling over the top. He left a little trail behind him when he walked up to meet me.

  “Happy Birthday, Cat.”

  I eyed the bag. “You shouldn’t have. Really.”

  “Oh, this? This isn’t for you. It’s my laundry.”

  “Har har.” I reached for it, glitter and all. He pulled it out of my reach.

  “First things first. History lesson, then laundry.”

  We walked up the stairs and into the museum. I expected the guard to promptly seize the bag and rush it into some nether region where a bomb squad would drop it into a vat of disabling goop. The guy just nodded us in.

  “I wasn’t sure you would come,” Will announced as we rounded a corner.

  “I . . . Oh.” There it was, the huge statue of Napoleon. A naked Napoleon. Well, he is wearing a fig leaf, but for all intents and purposes . . . I seriously doubt the runty little guy we learned about in European History had that bod. I don’t think Orlando Bloom even has that bod. I lost my train of thought for a sec. “Ah . . . um . . . Oh, yeah. Why?”

  Will gave the statue a dismissive once-over. “Doubt Napoleon had those biceps. I, however . . .” He grinned and did a decent flex. I saw a muscle or two. “You tore off so fast last time.”

  I didn’t wanna go there. I so didn’t wanna go there.

  I shrugged. “You know us girls. When someone we care about calls . . .”

  “I get it. But let me apologize anyway. I shouldn’t have brought Bella along without checking first. Not on our time. It’s just that she’s been in Greece for much of the summer, and . . . well. You understand. When someone you care about calls . . .”

  Now you tell me; what was I supposed to say to that? Huh? “No prob,” sez I. Then exactly what I shouldn’t have said, for my peace of mind, anyway, came tripping merrily out of my mouth. “She’s really pretty.”

  “Yeah. She is.”

  Oh, stop me, someone! “You’ve been together a long time.”

  “Three years.”

  Three years. Three years. Like he was ever going to jeopardize three years of bella Bella for a couple of weeks with me. No wonder he likes that Helen of Troy poem. He’s got his very own personal Helen. Because she is, ya know, much as I hate to admit it. Beautiful, careless, confident enough to ask for what she wants and to expect to get it.

  Me? I think Adam the Scum once wrote me into one of his god-awful rap songs. In the first line, he described me as “my itch.” The next one rhymed. He thought it was flattering.

  I made another deliberate, deliberately weak grab for the gift bag.

  “Uh-uh.” Will shook his head. His hair still smells like ginger ale. “Come on, then. See the rest.”

  The rest, I gotta say, was a little like upstairs at Tiffany. Silver, silver, china, and more china. But with the silver and china is some stuff you don’t see over breakfast.

  “The sword Wellington carried at Waterloo,” Will informed me. Unnecessarily. I can read the display cards. I figured it would be too snarky of me to mention that. “And Napoleon’s.” Shore ’nuff.

  I thought of Charles Percival and wondered if he’d been at Waterloo. He’d certainly been in Belgium at the time. Katherine’s diary was about the spring of 1815. The Battle of Waterloo, the display card told me, was June 18, 1815.

  I haven’t gotten back to the diary. After Mary’s über-depressing (not to mention rhyming) Abandoned Bride, I needed something less incredibly heavy. The new Sarah Dessen, this seems a good time to mention, is really good.

  As we wandered, I read some of the info on Waterloo. One card made me stop and reread. “Is this right?”

  Will leaned in. “I’m sure it is.”

  “No way. Twenty-two thousand soldiers died? In one day?”

  “Or were wounded. And it’s closer to fifty if you count both sides.”

  I looked at the lists of the regiments. Foot Guard, 70% of the company lost that day. Dragoons, 45% percent lost that day. 61% lost. 93 . . .

  As it turns out, it all happened in about twelve hours. A crazy, furious twelve-hour battle that ended a long, ugly war. Go read about it. www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/empire_seapower. I don’t feel like writing down details. They’re too sad. Or gross. Or both.

  I really didn’t feel like looking at more plates. “Let’s go,” I begged after about half an hour. I even tugged at Will’s arm. I needed out.

  “It’s really not that big a deal.” He thought I was going for the bag again. I let him.

  We wandered into the Park. I didn’t care that the last time I was there was the fateful Bella fiasco. It’s a big place. It’s an amazing place. I was sad and hungry and tired of everything. I flumped down on the first bench that was free of tourists, nannies, or pigeons. Will sat next to me and stretched out his long long legs. He was either wearing the same jeans as the day we went to Notting Hill, or he has more than one pair with those soft creases at the tops of his thighs.

  His mobile rang. He ignored it.

  “Here.” He handed me the bag. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a little plastic model of a satellite (see pic below; isn’t it wonderful?). “You told me, at the caff that day, that you wanted your own satellite. So . . .”

  You can’t really see it in the picture, but there’s a little blue button under the wing-y, mirror-y thing. When you press it, a voice says “Aim for the Stars!”

  I started crying. Yeah, again.

  Over the silly, wonderful present.

  Over the fact that he remembered the satellite thang.

  Over the lost chance that he might be Mr. Maybe.

  Over Charles and Nicholas and all the young guys who died in that stupid war.

  Over any war.

  After a minute, Will got up and walked away. Great, I thought as I tried to snorfle my way to calm. Typical. Is there one guy out there who doesn’t go all skittery at the sight of tears?

  And then he was back.

  He sat down and handed me a bunch of paper napkins. My English Kleenex. “Thanks,” I hiccuped, and blew my nose.

  “Not at all. You carry on with what you’re doing.”

  Actually, it didn’t take long. He waited until I was down to a hiccup-snuffle every ten seconds or so. Then he bumped me with his elbow. “I c
an take the satellite back, you know.”

  That got him a watery giggle. “It’s not the satellite. I love the satellite. It’s brilliant. It’s . . .”

  What? The fact that, my luck with men (and I am including Prince William, Orlando Bloom, Philly tossers with silver shoes, and even ones to whom I am related) is something less than stellar? That at this rate, the only guys I’ll be able to actually comprehend are the ones behind the counter at the video store? The ones with Doritos crumbs in their wispy little beards. Eww. But hey, we’ll be able to talk Lost, Lord of the Rings (me: movie, them: books, but I assume that’s like Portuguese-Portuguese versus Brazilian—enough commonalities for comprehension) and the current incarnation of Doctor Who. And it will almost make sense.

  I contemplated an idiot-smack to my forehead, but didn’t wanna look any more insane to Will than I already did.

  “It’s this war thing. All these guys our age dying. It gets to me,” I finished. Lame-o but true.

  “Sure. I—” His mobile went again. He ignored it again. “Try to look at it this way. Napoleon was trying to swallow Europe whole. Without Waterloo, we couldn’t possibly be friends. I would speak French with a bloody snooty accent, would wear ridiculous hats, and wouldn’t even consider eating one of these. Que Dieu m’en préserve!”

  I hadn’t noticed the carry box at his side. The napkins made sense. I accepted a hot dog. There were even fries. My dream picnic it was not, but I’m not complaining. I did have a momentary silent grumble over the absence of ketchup. Vinegar just ain’t the same. Still, you can’t have everything. I just wish he didn’t sound so très très bon speaking French.

  “I know how you feel, about the war thing.” He tossed a french fry to a hopeful-looking pigeon. Almost immediately, there were ten more. Of course, being English Hyde Park pigeons (think of them as the dirty doves they are), they were almost polite, refraining from clawing and flapping over our feet. Had they been Philly pigeons, they would have been on our heads by then. “No matter how it ends, it ends badly for most everyone involved.”