• I’m embarrassed by that.
• I’m kinda afraid my photocopy of Katherine’s diary got recycled along with two weeks’ worth of the Times, Hello!, Okay, and the Guardian. The last time I saw it, it was on the brown sitting-room carpet.
And what we didn’t:
• I am a sad but decent liar. As in “Oh, yeah, I’m tired, too. Absolutely, we should go inside.”
• I am a shameless thief, too. I’m still wearing his sweater. I plan on sleeping in it.
And some more Twee-kus to shut off the computer by:
catTcat: When going off roofs—the very best way to fall—is slowly slowly.
catTcat: Yes, I can do this. Be chipper gal pal he wants. It’s only two days.
catTcat: How he said good night: “Have sweet dreams, Moneypenny.” Just like Connery.
catTcat: Damndamndamndamndamn. I’m not over him at all. Damndamndamndamndamn.
18 June
I woke to see a lone magpie in the tree outside my window. Mama and I used to sing the Magpie Rhyme as we looked for the second bird. We always sang; we always found a second magpie, or more.
One for sorrow, two for joy
Three for a girl, four for a boy
Five for silver, six for gold
Seven for secrets never told.
Today I did not sing. Why would I? Of course, I searched the garden for a second, but not with any true effort. I could not be bothered. I wonder, if I had . . . But no, things would be just as they are.
Supper is being served in the dining room. I am not hungry. I cannot imagine when next I shall be so.
Luisa has gone home, taking her comforting presence with her, but leaving the unhappy news with which she came. Thomas Baker is to marry Julia Northrop. The ceremony is to be in four weeks’ time at her family estate in Northumberland. There is to be an engagement dinner at the Northrops’ next week. I assume I shall be invited; it would be just like her to do so. I do not think I shall attend.
Mama has just tapped on my door yet again. I do not wish to talk to her. I do not wish to talk to anyone. I wish to stay right where I am, thank you very much, perhaps until the Season is over and I may go home to Percy’s Vale.
Luisa does not think He loves Her. Luisa thinks he is badly in debt to a number of persons, and desperate to find a way out of it. Luisa knows he owes Robert Spenser a great deal of money, an amount Mr. Spenser is too polite to allow to be known, but Mr. McCoy has hinted it is above five hundred pounds.
I do not care. I do not care if it is ten times that. What is money in the face of affection?
Then, again, what is affection in the face of want of money?
I am too sad to write. I believe I shall go to bed.
20 June
There are so few pages left in this diary. I suppose I should purchase another soon. Only I do not much feel like writing.
Luisa has just left again. She has been worried for me. She arrived with a box of Irish linen handkerchiefs embroidered with various handheld weapons (I have no idea how she managed to have that done so quickly, but how they made me smile—I especially like the dagger), far too many Gunter’s chocolates, and Nicholas. He did not come into my bedchamber, of course, but stayed with Mama in the drawing room.
Luisa says she encountered him outside the house, pacing back and forth, uncertain as to whether he ought to come in. Poor fellow. Nicholas is scarcely ever at a loss for words, but I daresay this might flummox him. He has heard. I am certain all of Mayfair has heard. I am not to have Thomas Baker; petty, rich Miss Northrop is. It does not matter that I did not make my expectations widely known. I am the heartsick foolish girl nonetheless.
I do not want anyone’s pitying glances. I do not want Nicholas’s sympathy. It would be hard to bear. Even if there were not a touch of “Did I Not Tell You?,” and I expect he could control any such impulse, I am not ready to face him or any of my friends just yet.
I cannot even begin to think of the audience I shall have with Papa. The very idea makes me feel cold.
Luisa asked me no questions, for which I am grateful. Mama, too, has refrained. I have no answers, only questions of my own.
Did he ever care for me? I was so certain, even if only for a short time.
Had it all been decided already when we met at the Quinns? Before, on the night when he danced with everyone except me?
Was it a jest with him, a challenge to make me fall a little bit in love with him, a game?
Am I not pretty enough for him?
More to the point, am I not rich enough for him?
I do not care for the way I feel. I detest the way I feel. So foolish, angry, and . . . I have never imagined heartbreak to be so angry. Miss Austen has not, I think, taught us much about anger. I had always imagined I should feel as Marianne Dashwood (oh, that I have had a Willoughby! how galling!) does: ill and weary and possessed of a sorrow that turns a girl’s visage pale and lovely. I am blotchy and red-eyed and my hair, very much in need of washing, resembles a rat’s nest.
I find I do not wish to cry. I wish to yell. And should people not stop scratching at my door when I wish to be alo
I yelled. Mama yelled. Papa yelled, but only briefly, before the two of us quite shouted him down. He has stormed from the house with his portmanteau and though, for a moment, I almost went after him to beg him to return and not be angry with me, I did not try to stop him. Mama certainly did not.
I will not marry Lord Chilham. I do not care in the least that he wants me. It does not matter, although I suspect I will come to care a great deal later, that father so wished him to have me.
“I would sooner wed a pig farmer!” I yelled. “Far sooner, as a farmer has an honourable profession, and produces a great deal more than hot air! Give me a ditchdigger. An undertaker. A beggar! In fact, I could easily spend the rest of my life composing a list of the men I would sooner marry.”
Father was holding a brandy glass, now empty, so tightly that I feared he would snap it in two. “A life you might damn well spend alone! Do you think there will be another offer for you, miss?” he bellowed, going so red in the face that I scarcely knew him. “I hear your poet fellow did not want you. If a stupid, penniless scribbler does not wish to marry you, tell me who will!”
I admit, that quite knocked the wind from me. That was when Mama began shouting. “And you, you selfish, arrogant beast! Just because I was stupid enough to marry a man clearly my inferior in all ways, do not think for a moment I will allow my daughter to be pushed into doing the same! Thank God Chilham does not have a pretty face or clever tongue to hide behind. The toad one sees is the toad one gets!”
There was a harsh crash as Papa slammed the glass against the mantel. It shattered, leaving him brandishing the base and jagged stem. I am certain he did not intend to threaten us with it, but in a motion, Mama and I stepped in to stand shoulder to shoulder, the two of us an indestructible wall against him.
He sputtered for a moment, then cursed and flung the remains of the glass into the fireplace. It broke in two, but lacked all of the drama of the first shattering.
“I am leaving. And do not think I will return!” With that, he stormed from the room, slamming the door so loudly behind him that it banged open again and thudded against the wall.
I stood, mouth open, staring at the spot he had just been, and felt tears welling, tears I had not shed in the two days prior. I would perhaps have bawled, would perhaps even be standing there still, caterwauling like an angry tabby, had not Mama suddenly slumped against me.
I helped her to a chair, and offered to call for the doctor. She waved off the suggestion, and my concern. “No, no. I shall be fine. I rather believe we all had that coming sooner or later, and I have merely staggered when relieved of the weight of it. God, what a pitiful exit. I could have written him an infinitely better one.”
Suddenly she was laughing and crying at the same time, and I was laughing and crying with her. It did not last long. Soon enough, we were sit
ting with tea (Mama did have a good amount of Papa’s brandy with hers), Luisa’s chocolates, and a house to ourselves. Until Charles comes home, I believe we shall have everything very much to ourselves.
I am calmer now, several hours later. I am clearer in my own mind. In truth, life shall be much as it was before we came to London. I shall be Miss Percival of Percy’s Vale, an important house in our little part of England. I shall be expected to marry well—when I choose to marry. Chilham will wed some other poor girl. He will produce toadlike children, hence depriving Papa of both the title and the possibility of being grandsire to future Lord Chilhams. I do not care if I ever see the baron again. I do not know when I shall see Papa. Eventually, I am certain, but perhaps not soon. Mama does not believe he will go to Percy’s Vale. He has never been happy there. I expect he will stay here in London, with his pompous, overdressed friends and stuffy gentlemen’s clubs.
We shall go back to Somerset when the Season is over. I shall forget Thomas Baker. At least, I trust I shall forget how very miserable he made me and how foolish that made me feel. I hope I shall not forget how nice it was to be part of our lively little group. I shall certainly not forget Luisa. She has promised to come to Percy’s Vale later in summer. And I expect we shall all meet again at the occasion of Henrietta Quinn’s marriage to Mr. Troughton. I think perhaps Mr. Baker and Miss Northrop, who should by then be Mrs. Baker, will not be there. Luisa has heard they will be rusticating on the Isle of Man at least until autumn. Perhaps by then I shall feel gracious enough to wish them well and mean it.
I have received a note from Nicholas. His handwriting is very difficult to read. I do wish he had printed the missive. I cannot make heads nor tails of several words.
Katherine,
Your mother has informed me that you have (I do not suppose he can have written “slimily deceived”) a voucher for Almack’s. Although I still believe it to be (“a machine”??), it would be my pleasure to escort the two of you there Tuesday next. I shall even wear (I would not even hazard a guess as to what he has written there). You have only to inform me of your desires.
Most sincerely yours,
Everard
I sent a reply: “Yes, thank you.”
I believe I shall be saying a good deal less in general in coming days. Shakespeare himself has said that brevity is the soul of wit. Miss Cameron was very fond of Shakespeare.
21 June
Although it is nearly midnight, we have had another note from Nicholas. He could not deliver it himself. He has gone to Whitehall to gather any further news.
Word has arrived from the Continent. There has been a Battle, near a village called Waterloo, some ten miles south of Brussels. Reports of casualties are severe. I shall return when I have further information to give you.
N.E.
Oh, dear heaven. Oh, Charles.
August 7
I’m Yours
The Top Ten Things I Have Learned from Jane Austen (in our relatively brief and limited acquaintance)
1. There are a lot less rich, handsome, decent guys than there are pretty, terrific girls who should have one. Meaning, we are all Elizabeth Bennets, but the guy sitting next to us in Biology ain’t no Mr. Darcy.
2. Getting a guy really shouldn’t be Everything, but somehow, still, it is. Even though Jane herself didn’t in the end.
3. The Competition is always prettier, smarter, richer, nicer, or meaner. Or a frightening, insurmountable combination thereof.
4. Silly (s)mothers will do more to damage a potential relationship than chronic halitosis; good mothers are the Altoids of the parenting realm.
5. The good guys don’t want stupid girlfriends.
6. Being clever, erudite, and slightly enigmatic helps. But . . .
7. Guys generally need us to come with subtitles, cue cards, and liability waivers.
8. Second loves are often the Real Thing.
9. It’s really hard to look good in really hot weather.
10. Guys whose names start with W (Willoughby, Wentworth, Wickham . . .) will always break your heart at least once.
I woke up the morning after the night on the roof feeling slightly less than fine. Here I was, on the verge of having a full 24 hours with Will, and I had a stomachache. Okay, not stomach, actually, A little higher. Like my entire rib cage hurt. I guess this is it; this is why it’s called heartbreak.
Outside, it was pouring rain. Great.
I had a shower, remembered to put a sweater (not Will’s alas—I’m not that pitiful) on over my shirt, and slumped down to breakfast. The Percivals actually put maps of the house in the guest rooms. I still got lost, and ended up in the mudroom instead of the breakfast room. They have a breakfast room. A room just for breakfast. I found it eventually by following one of the dogs. HAL! was the only one there. He looked up from his coffee and pile of newspapers and grinned, obviously delighted to see me. The dimple, apparently, is a Percival family trait. This morning, he was wearing what I was pretty sure was an Edun sweatshirt with his threadbare cords and Crocs. I figure he probably knows Bono, who owns Edun and is a green god, too.
“CATHERINE!” he bellowed. “Sit down! Let me get you some breakfast!”
I had images of him whipping up some green eggs and ham. But no, there was an array of cereals on the sideboard, and a funny little toaster that would have looked antique had it not had twelve buttons and three digital displays. The coffeemaker looked like its evil twin.
“Cook’s off today,” HAL! told me as he shoved bread into the toaster. “Breakfast is DIY. Cereal? Everything’s organic and whole grain.”
Sure enough, the cereal boxes all displayed photos of bumpy brown flakes, krisps, or twigs. “Oh, no, thanks. Toast will be great.” Oddly, it was. Must’ve had something to do with the butter, which was like no butter I have ever had in the U.S. Yum.
Anyway. Three pieces of toast and cup of coffee later (“Hope you’re all right without orange juice,” HAL! said apologetically. “We’re having free trade issues with Brazil.”), I felt human enough to ask if we were the first up.
He laughed. “We won’t see Caroline for another hour, but everyone else has been and gone. Your mum’s off somewhere with Bronwen, delving into history. Here.” He whipped an iPhone out of his pocket and tapped furiously for a second. “Ah. Will’s in the office. Fiddling with the routers, no doubt. Can’t convince him that this is high speed for Somerset . . . Now, you just go out the door here, turn left, and go down the hallway until you reach the main hall. Go right across and through the third door . . .”
I did fine until I got to the main hall. I assumed it was the front of the house, the main entrance. We’d come through a nice, welcoming little ivy-covered courtyard the night before. This was all twenty-foot ceilings and marble floors and a big sweeping staircase going up two ways, with crested banners along the sides. There was even a pair of standing suits of armor flanking the bottom steps. Très creepy, the way they look at you with those eyeholes. Every time I have ever seen one in a museum, I’ve wanted to lift the visor and peek inside. So I did.
“Unhand me, demoiselle!”
I jumped a foot, let go of the visor, and squeaked when it snapped down on my finger. I hadn’t seen Will standing in a doorway off to the side. “Well, that’s ten years of my life I won’t get back.”
“Couldn’t resist it.” He grinned (floppy hair, dimple . . . gonna kill me faster than fright) and levered himself away from the door frame. “You looked so . . .”
“Furtive?” I offered.
“Excellent word.”
Ah, SATs. I rested one arm across the armored shoulders and gestured around the hall with the other. “This is all very . . .” No SAT word came to mind.
“Pretentious?” Will suggested. “Pompous? OTT? Doesn’t usually look like this. The place is usually full of boxes of pamphlets and bins of onions. But Dad’s group had a herd of potential investors here last week from Texas. They like the naff English trappings.” He patted the seco
nd suit of armor on top of its helmet. “These are from my grandfather’s house. He decks them out in Portsmouth colors, despite the fact that the club hasn’t won the division title in sixty years.”
“There’s a red something hanging inside the helmet. Looks like a scarf.”
“Sock. So, on this beautiful day, in or out?”
I looked through the window at the deluge and pointed. “Out?”
He pointed, too. “England.”
“Right.”
“So?”
“Out.”
“Brilliant.”
I had already been in the mudroom that morning. It was delightfully familiar. Will sorted among the countless Barbour coats and wellies until he found some for me and we made a dash for his Land Rover. A few minutes later, we were bumping and squelching our way down the long drive and away from the house. I turned in my seat to watch it get smaller in the back window. I can’t say I’d felt much of Katherine, or anything other than the current Percivals’ cheerful presence. But it had only been twelve hours.
As Will showed me his hood, I kept my face to the window. It helped not to look at him. I was afraid that if I did, I might climb over the gearshift and into his lap. I was afraid, if I did, I might cry. So I swallowed the sadness and watched the English landscape slide by.
It’s awfully pretty, even in the rain. There was the big house on the hill where Will’s best friend, Sam Goodwin, lived, the village of South Cadbury that I pretty much missed because I was trying to clear the condensation from the window, the modern local school that Will attended when he was very small, and finally, Cadbury Castle. Or, at least, a small sign, a big hill, and some trees. It was all very, very green.
Falling in Love with English Boys Page 22
