Falling in Love With English Boys (11 page)

It was Consuelo’s turn to grab. “Oh, he’s Lord Chilham’s grandson.” She looked up at me. “Does he speak French?”

“Yes, Yank.” Elizabeth slung an arm around my shoulders. “How is his French?”

Chilham? I suppose I’ll sort out that bit later. At the moment, I felt compelled to sort out Elizabeth. “You can wipe off that smile. I barely know him. He’s just—”

“Yummy!” From Consuelo.

“Dishy,” Imogen agreed, making the two of them sound like food wonks.

“Posh,” was Elizabeth’s comment, and it didn’t sound like an endorsement.

She showed me the screen. It was Will all right, tuxedoed and tall, standing half a head over an older man I’d never seen before and a younger older man I definitely had. The caption read,
Lord Chilham, longtime Liberal MP for Wiltshire, celebrates his eightieth birthday at the Reform Club. Pictured with the guest of honour are the Prince of Wales (r.) and Lord Chilham’s grandson, William Percival (l.), now in his last year at Charterhouse, where both his father and grandfather were pupils . . .
The rest, I saw as I scrolled down, was just a recap of the birthday boy’s fifty years in politics. What I got from a quick glance was that he seemed to be in favor of preserving forests and red squirrels and against Walmart.

“I see your future,” Elizabeth said solemnly, “and it is up a tree in Wiltshire.”

“I don’t like squirrels,” I told her.

“If you say so,” she shot back, and laughed.

We wandered over to the cricket field . . . excuse me, cricket
pitch
in Regent’s Park to watch Consuelo’s boyfriend play. He’s named Bayard and he looks like a Viking. He’s twice her size, has the longest nose I’ve ever seen, and has a jaw you could crush rocks with. He plays “deep midwicket,” which Consuelo tried to explain to me, but all I got was that it has something to do with boundaries and damage control.

Cricket is incomprehensible. A bunch of guys in white pants and sweaters smack balls all over the place, then run back and forth and back and forth (and then back and forth) between sticks in the ground. They use words like “popping crease” and “cow corner” and “wicket,” which very probably tells you everything you want to know.

It was endless. Consuelo pretended to be interested for the first hour. After that, even she gave up. Elizabeth and Imogen and I had gone from ranking the players in order of bone structure, shoulder span, and butts, to trying to see who had the largest . . . feet. Finally, Elizabeth groaned and flopped onto her back in the grass.

“God, this is deadly. Im, give me your
Tatler.
” (
Hello!’
s aristocratic third cousin, who doesn’t acknowledge any family connection.) She groaned again as she flipped through a few pages. “What rubbish. Who gives a monkey that Lady Finnuala Lennox is dating the Honorable Frederick Fremont?”

At this, Imogen raised one perfect eyebrow (is it something in the water here?). “Actually, considering the fact that
I
used to go with Freddie Fremont, I have a passing interest.”

“Oh God, that’s right. You did. He was a complete tosser then, and I sincerely doubt Lady F. has improved him much.”

“Finnuala’s not so bad,” Consuelo protested. “We used to do dressage together.”

“It’s not about Finnuala, although you really might want to keep your dressage past to yourself. The point at hand is what Freddie used to want to do with Imogen when
they
were together. What was it again, Im? Clotted cream and the family cat?” Imogen did the eyebrow thing again. Elizabeth rolled over and brandished the
Tatler
at her. “Right, here’s one for you. Would you rather sleep with Lord Voldemort or the Queen?”

Imogen thought for a minute. “The Queen, I suppose. Maybe she’d let me try on her jewels.” Back at Elizabeth: “Would you rather lose your hair or your powers of speech?”

“Evil woman!” Elizabeth has fab hair. Have I mentioned her fab hair? Yards of wild black and gold. “Oh, take the hair, then. Consuelo . . . Would you rather never drink champagne again, or have to drink Pepto-Bismol at every meal?” I love these people.

“Pepto,” Consuelo answered, “definitely! Doh! And now it’s Cat’s turn. Would you rather be married to Donald Trump for a year—no prenup, I might add—or have Jake Gyllenhaal sneak out the restaurant window halfway through your first date?”

I love this game. “Ouch, the humiliation, but Jake, I guess. I mean, can you imagine what Donald’s hair looks like in the morning?” We all shuddered in unison. I should have quizzed Imogen, but nice as she is, she kinda scares me. It’s that utter perfection thing. “Elizabeth. Would you rather be banished for life to America or Siberia?”

“Too easy. America, of course. You disappoint me, Cat-Cat. You haven’t seemed to grasp the difference between blaming a place for the idiots there and blaming the idiots for destroying a place that isn’t theirs. But we’ll make allowances for your excessive exposure to
American Idol
.” Elizabeth did that slightly evil smile thing. “All right, then, Yank. Who would you rather have make every single choice for you for the next ten years: your intrepid Senate or your soon-to-be-stepmonster?”

She’s good, Elizabeth is. She’s really good.

Lucky me, I didn’t get to answer. The match ended then, or went into hiatus, or whatever they do, and Bayard came loping over with a few of his still-remarkably-white-clad lads. Most pretty goofy and totally posh. Picture Hugh Grant really young and sweaty. Bayard scooped Consuelo into his lap and nuzzled her neck.

“Ooh, you’re wet! And smelly!” she protested, but only halfheartedly. You could almost see their
togetherness
. I picture it as a small, rotund panda. Don’t ask why. “You were brilliant.”

“I was crap. You’ve been into the whiskey again, haven’t you?”

Consuelo wrinkled her tiny nose and insisted, “You were sublime, my dearest darling.”

“Got bored again, hmm?” He grinned at me then and I figured I wouldn’t mind the hot and sweaty, either, if I had a boy like him to hold me in his lap and smile occasionally. “She hates cricket.”

“I do,” Consuelo admitted cheerfully. “It’s the only thing about him I don’t positively worship, including his utterly disgusting socks and Amy Winehouse fan-club shot glasses.”

“I, on the other hand, detest absolutely everything about her, except the boots. I really, really love her boots.”

“He loathes them,” she told me, just as cheerfully. “They track dirt into his Porsche.”

He kinda pinched her; she kinda squealed. I kinda hated them. Well, no. They’re kinda extremely likable, even if they put one in mind of fat, furry bamboo chewers.

“So, Bay,” Elizabeth demanded, breaking up the little lovefest, “would you rather Consuelo gained five stone or never shaved her legs again?”

“What?” He was busy smoothing Consuelo’s hair into a perfect little ponytail. “Well, that’s a stupid question, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s a stupid question, you big oaf. That’s the point. Humor us. Five stone—and that’s seventy pounds to you, Yank—or eternal gorilla legs?”

“Ah, now you’ve gone and got me all horny, Bits. Come on, you.” He managed to get from the ground to his feet without letting go of Consuelo. She wrapped herself around him, Docs and all. “I need a wash. You can do my back.” And off they went. I think I might have sighed as they disappeared from sight.

I asked Elizabeth, “How long have they been together?”

“Fifty years tomorrow. We’re buying them a monogrammed silver insulin dispenser.”

“Seriously.”

“Since infancy,” Imogen announced. Then: “Consuelo saw Bayard across a duck pond when they were seven and decided to marry him. He never stood a chance.”

Wow. I can’t even imagine being fated like that. Well, yeah, I can imagine it. I mean, no matter how vehemently we deny it, we’ve all pictured ourselves in at least one Disney movie. And I don’t just mean the (countless) ones where they kill off the mother before the opening credits are done.

“Consuelo does that,” Elizabeth infomed me wryly. “Claims people for keeps. Mind yourself—she’ll do it to you, too.” Like I would object. “She certainly sucked me in, poor, clueless scholarship girl that I was. Eight years old and scared half out of my wits.”

Imogen gave a loud, albeit totally ladylike, snort at this. “Rubbish. You walked into the classroom as if you owned it. We all wanted to be you, or barring that, just sit next to you.” I’m getting the sense that Elizabeth has that general effect on people. “But yah, Consuelo did gather us. I rather think she liked the way we looked as a trio.”

“Love at first sight,” Elizabeth said with high-drama dreaminess.

“Yes, it was” was Imogen’s firm reply. And that, apparently, was that.

So here’s one for you, Yanks:

Would you rather be loved unconditionally and not love, or be desperately in love and not loved in return?

So I went with Lord Chilham to the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. How unsurprising that it was something less than Pleasurable.

I was so very pleased when Papa said he would accompany me. I would need a chaperone, certainly; I could not be seen at such a place as Vauxhall, with its acres of outdoor walks and circuslike entertainments, alone in the company of a single man. To been seen anywhere in the presence of a man with pudding-bowl hair and a pink-and-orange waistcoat would be a tragedy. More than that, I was certain my father’s presence would make the evening bearable. Where he is, I have always
been happy.

Sadly, he was in a Mood.

“Do not even consider being contrary this evening, Katherine,” he warned me as we climbed into the carriage.

I had not, but intent is only half of the way things go, after all. The entire evening was a show of contrariness, beginning with: I do hate to be a disappointment to Papa, but it seemed the Fates were determined I should. It is agony to imagine a Fate so perverse as to determine that Papa should be a disappointment to me.

The skies were perfectly clear, ideal for a display of fireworks. Yet there was a chill in the air. My pale pink dress with little silk roses scattered over the skirt is, I think, most attractive, yet I was forced to cover much of it with a shawl.

I think I could perhaps have been charitable about Lord Chilham’s lack of appeal (we were, after all, going to a place I have been most keen to visit), yet he seemed to choose the occasion to showcase it.

He had a cold. And while one might politely, even eagerly, ignore watery eyes and a dripping nose, it is entirely beyond
my
capabilities to ignore honking, snorting, snuffling, and wheezing, all punctuated by the frequent trumpeting expulsions into his grubby handkerchief.

He thought to take my hand as we descended from the carriage. I thought otherwise.

“Of course, a man of lesser fortitude would certainly have taken to his bed,” he announced as we walked through the grand gates, “yet I would not have disappointed you for anything.” (In the moment, I would have given anything for that particular disappointment.)

And off he went: honk, snort, blast, announcing our arrival at Vauxhall like a trumpeter before a queen.

We could not possibly have been more conspicuous, and on a night when I wished to be completely invisible. I thought I should die if I were to encounter anyone I know.

Papa, completely unlike himself, said nothing at all as we went, merely followed Chilham, with his eyes in the distance, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Perhaps we shall see the Prince Regent,” I suggested.

“Don’t be daft,” Papa snapped. “Why should he be here?”

“To see the acrobats, perhaps. Or the fireworks. I have heard he quite enjoys—”

“Be quiet, Katherine, and listen to his lordship.”

Stung, I fell silent, which Chilham took as encouragement to continue the very discourse I had been trying to stem. For in between his enthusiastic nasal blasts, he was, with equal dedication, pointing out every small detail we passed as we walked along the lamp-lit paths.

I knew there was much to be seen beneath the hundreds upon hundreds of glass lamps lighting the tree-lined avenues: musicians and actors and tame beasts, sailors fresh from their ships and farmers fresh from the country. Luisa has told me of acrobats in Oriental costume with trained monkeys on leads. Charles spoke, though it was to Nicholas and he did not know I overheard, of Ladies of the Night in brilliantly red dresses that stop above their ankles. Mr. Davison swears he saw the Duke of York with a turkey upon his knee there a fortnight past. From the Quinns I heard tell of true Gypsies who read their fortunes—one who said Henrietta would be married before the end of the Season. Eleanora Quinn said she had a nose like a plum and curled hands with knobs and claws, like those of a very large rodent. I do not think Eleanora much cared for her, but I wanted to see
that
fortune-teller.

Here is what I saw, with Lord Chilham as my guide:

~ Six geese with ribbons about their necks, being led by a tired girl with dirty ribbons about her waist. (“Is she not charming?” Chilham insisted.) Her skirts stopped just below her knees. She had goose poo on her stockings.