Falling in Love With English Boys (12 page)

~ A party of round-hatted rectors from some distant county.

~ A marble statue of Saint George.

~ Three yew hedges, two holly, and thirty-six elm trees. (“Note the deceptive strength of the Wych elm, named not for the magicking hag, but for pliancy or weakness. Like most females, it is to be found everywhere and useful for little save decoration. Hyaw. Hyaw.”) I became closely acquainted with one yew and one holly hedge when I thought I spied Mr. Tallisker and dove in so as not to be seen. My shawl will not recover.

~ A man standing upon a box, playing a flute.

~ A pile of rocks intended to be a Grecian ruin.

I wished to see the acrobats, the actors, the murals of Greek gods revelling above the mortals. The mural in our supper box was of one shepherdess, eight scraggy sheep, and two ducks. Chilham found it “delightful,” the music of the distant orchestra “stirring,” the view “most excellent.” I was huddled at the very back of the three-walled chamber, where I had chosen my seat so as not to be visible from the outside. I had a very good view of the appearance and disappearance of Chilham’s handkerchief and my father’s flask, and not a great deal else. It was not a well-positioned box.

I suspect, too, that Chilham chose an inferior menu. The chicken was like warmed wood; the potatoes tasted strongly of earth. I found a ragged-edged leaf amid my strawberries. It appeared to be from some sort of ivy. I had never taken Chilham for a miser, not with his vast array of silly silk waistcoats and enormous silver shoe buckles. I believe he must pay more for his hair pomade than he did for the food.

He did not hold back, however, on the champagne. There were three full bottles at the ready. We’d scarce sat down before he pressed the first glass upon me. Remembering the last time I had drunk champagne, both my mind and stomach recoiled.

“I fear I am not partial to wine or spirits, my lord,” I told him, opting for politeness. “A glass of lemonade would suit me far better.”

“Nonsense!” he replied. Honk. Snort. “You must have champagne!”

I demurred. He insisted. He was so close I could see the little patch of bristly hairs his valet had missed while shaving beneath his chin. I scooted my chair a few inches to the right. He leaned farther, overfilling my glass, his knee bumping against mine. I scooted again, jostling the table, and upsetting my glass.

“You see, my lord,” I said with forced cheer. My voice sounded shrill in my ears. “Champagne and I are a sorry match.”

I thought I heard him grumble something about investments, but it was lost to a burst of laughter from the merry party in the next box. Then he was plying the bottle again, I was trying to discourage him, and suddenly Papa’s fist hit the table, spilling yet more and startling me into stillness.

“Drink the bloody champagne, Katherine!” he snapped. They were the only words he addressed to me during the brief but torturous meal.

What have I
done
to displease him so?

Chilham gloated. He honked and snorted. I took to sipping (how sour it was!), then tipping out the contents of my glass when neither man was looking. I believe I emptied the better part of two bottles onto the already unclean floor.

I was altogether too glad to quit the box. I barely noticed the man in brilliant silks and brocades passing, a chattering monkey atop each shoulder. Nor could I find any pleasure in the knowledge that the fireworks would soon begin. I wanted only to be home, in bed, losing the memory of a dismal night to one filled with friends—and possible sweethearts.

I did not notice at first when Chilham quitted the brilliantly lit and busy avenue for a darker side path, much less occupied. The copious amount of drink seemed to have quieted his snufflings, leaving him free to drone on about the culinary joys of mushrooms.

By the time I paid attention, we were deep in shadows. I had heard of these paths. They are where couples go for their romantic trysts, where men behave not like gentlemen and ladies not at all like ladies. It was
not
a place I wished to be at all, and most certainly not with Lord Chilham.

I looked about, but Papa was nowhere to be seen.

I turned, ready to hurry back to the lighted promenade, back to where Papa was most certainly looking for me. But in the very next moment, my unwelcome companion had both of my hands gripped in his. His were decidedly moist. Feeling a bit alarmed and slightly ill, I tugged. He held fast.

“Katherine!” he breathed, much too close to my face. He smelled of sour champagne and onions. “Most lovely, most charming Katherine.”

“Sir!” I jerked away and retreated until a prickly hedge brought me up short. “This is most improper!”

“Oh, but I have your parents’...well, your father’s permis ...” He paused, head turning from side to side as if in search of something. “My intentions are not improper, Cousin.” He peered intently into the darkness. “What . . . ? Hmm.” And back at me, as if I were somehow causing a distraction: “Ah, well. You cannot possibly mistake my intentions . . . What was that?”

I had heard nothing, but glanced around, too, hoping desperately to see Papa, hoping for
any
rescue from the moment. All I could detect was a soft rustling from the plants some yards away, and the soft giggle of someone far happier in her situation.

“As I was saying, Cousin Katherine. I do believe it is something of a certainty that we . . . Confound it! What
is
it?”

I very nearly jumped from my skin when a hand clamped about my wrist and tugged me firmly away from Chilham and from the shrub. Heart pounding, hopeful, I turned to see not Papa, but a tiny woman peering up at me from under a broad head scarf. It was difficult to see anything in the dim light, but I could make out the shape of a bowed back beneath her shawl, and eyes glittering from deep sockets. The fingers about my wrist were gnarled, but had the strength of youth.

“ ’ Tisn’t safe for the likes of you in a place like this, missy.” There was a hint of far-off lands in the soft cackle, and a touch of humour. “All sorts’ll be thinking to take advantage.”

Chilham noticed her then. “Take your filthy hands off the lady!” he commanded snuffily. “Begone, before I summon the watch.”

She tilted her head and seemed to study him closely for a moment. Then: “Nay, thought not. Ye’ve no place in what’s to come. Begone yerself.”

He puffed up so visibly that I feared for his buttons. “Why, you vile old—”

She waved her free hand at him. Abruptly, his words were lost to a fit of sneezing.

“Does the young lady wish to hear her fortune?”

Mesmerised, I nodded, but it was difficult to hear much of anything above Chilham’s noise. The old woman tugged at my arm until I was bent nearly double. “Cross my palm,” she commanded into my ear. I knew she wanted money. I fumbled in my reticule and found a half crown. She folded it into her fist.

“Ye young chickies,” she grumbled, “only wanting t’hear of love and marriage. Am I right?” Well, of course she was. “Even if ’tisn’t what matters most. So be it. Yer beloved . . . Yer beloved is a man of words. Listen.”

I did. Chilham sneezed.

I listened. “Well?”

“Not to me, foolish girl! To him. To your beloved.”

She let go of my arm and started to turn away.

“Wait. Please. My beloved is a poet, is he not?”

“If so ye say . . .”

Suddenly there was a whistle and a crack, and the sky was briefly lit by a thousand brilliant sparks. All over the Gardens, people cheered.

“Mind those dear to you.” The woman shook a finger at me. In the darkness, it looked skeletal. “Mind them good!”

More fireworks boomed and sparkled. I spied Papa then, standing at the branch of the path, calmly smoking one of his Egyptian cheroots. I hurried toward him, thinking he must have been there all along. Then, deciding I’d best be absolutely certain the old Gypsy had said “words”—rather than “swords” or something far less portentous (truly, soldiers are so very common, after all—Charles and Nicholas and the Goodwin brothers and the fat princes . . . and poets so rare), I turned back.

She was gone, vanished into the shadows.

I am not entirely certain, but I believe in the last flare of fireworks, her nose did appear veined enough to be almost the colour of . . . a plum.

Chilham’s sneezing subsided after that, but he could not seem to regain his earlier vigor. Papa said nothing on the ride home, but it was clear he was in no better form than when we had left the house hours before. He and Chilham disappeared into the library as soon as we reached the house. Neither took leave of me.

Once in bed, I thought of Chilham’s speech.

“You cannot mistake my intentions, Cousin.”

I could. I could quite easily and with pleasure. I would very much like to mistake his intentions. I wish, too, that I could be mistaken in Father’s desires on the matter.

Could he, could he
truly
wish to see me wed to awful Lord Chilham? Is a title worth so much? Or am I worth so little?

No. I am certain it is not. I am not.Yet, there are his lectures and scoldings and could it have been just that he was strolling too far behind us tonight to see what Chilham intended? I cannot think on the matter now. Perhaps tomorrow.

Mama came in just as I was falling asleep. She had been out, too, at one of her literary evenings, I would think. She looked unusually pretty, in good health and a new sapphire dress that glowed in the light of her candle. She did not look happy, though.

“Katherine.” She ran one hand gently over my brow, as she had done when I was small and she would come in each night to be certain all was well. “Did anything . . . unusual happen tonight at the Gardens? Anything I perhaps should know?”

I was so sleepy. Different images flitted through my mind.

“A Gypsy woman told my fortune,” I murmured.

Above me, her face relaxed. “Oh? And what did she destine for you, my lovely girl?”

“I shall marry a man of swords,” I told her.

“Ah,” she said, and smoothed my hair from my face.

I thought to tell her no, the Gypsy had said “words,” but I must have fallen asleep.

July 11

Stronger

What doesn’t kill us . . .

Mr. Sadiq was a science professor in Baghdad. I learned this over dinner tonight with the Sadiq family. And here is how that happened:

I was in the shop, keeping Elizabeth company while she worked, and trying to decide between Wine Gums (think Gummi Bears with serious ’tude) and Liquorice Allsorts. No chocolate this week. I’m bargaining with Fate:

If I am very very good and abstain from what I love best, the gods of love will smile favorably upon me, and Will will call.

Will hasn’t called. It’s been four days since I saw him. It could be nothing. (“I’m sure he has every intention of calling!” From Consuelo. “But they’ve such dismal senses of
time
, boys.”) He didn’t specify
when
he would call. It could be that he’s been busy. And has a dismal sense of time. (“Prats. All of them.” Imogen.) It could be that my heavy chocolate consumption has made my rear view appalling, and the fact that, if he’s half as fab as he seems, I think I could really really like him has turned me into a blithering idiot, not fit for average company, let alone his.

“Cat, you pinheaded eejit!” Elizabeth, not mincing words, again, as I sigh over the liquorice. “You’re fab. Losing your mind, but fab nonetheless. He’s losing out. Period. If he has a single brain cell in that inbred aristocratic head of his, he’ll come worship at your feet.” I love Elizabeth. “Now, your mum’s got that museum do tonight, right? Right. You’re coming home to have supper with me.”

It was true. Mom did have an event at the BM. A dinner for visiting researchers or something. She invited me. I declined. To her credit, she didn’t push. Even my mother knows there’s a limit to how much dust, real and figurative, that a girl can take.

So, it was whatever I scrounged up for dinner (note for future reference: “Pot Noodles,” especially the “Bombay Bad Boy” flavor, are pretty yummy, colorful, and available one aisle over, two shelves down from the chocs) or a glimpse into Elizabeth’s home life. “Your parents . . . ?”

“Think ‘hospitality’ is a sacred duty. They’ll be chuffed. Dad likes you.”

I hesitated. For like a second. “Sure. Should I . . . um . . . bring something?”

“Box of chocolates?” Elizabeth kept remarkably poker-faced for an impressively long time. She thinks my chocolate abstention is hilarious. She took pity on me eventually. “My mum likes lilies.”

So three hours later, Elizabeth, the lilies, and I walked out of the Finsbury Park Tube station. The Sadiqs’ neighborhood is famous, Elizabeth told me, for the mosque and the fact that Arsenal Football Club has its stadium nearby. There did seem to be a lot of red-and-white shirts around. It was my first trip to a part of London not found in most guidebooks and Hugh Grant movies. To be honest, I’d expected it to look a little more . . . exotic, maybe? Stop rolling your eyes, Djenan. I’m being
honest
, after all. Y’know, like Will said.
Uncensored
.

So I expected to see minarets and gold embroidery and women in burqas. They were there, sure. But so were belly shirts, gangsta hoodies, and a lot of very pale people in ugly jeans. A sociological polyglot, the (s)mother would call it, trying to expand my frame of reference. It just kinda looked like South Street to me, right down to the bling-y accessory shop sandwiched between the mobile phone store and the pub.

We walked for a few minutes, away from the shops and into a narrower street lined with identical orange-brick houses with supersize white trim and tall windows. The Sadiqs’ flat is the whole bottom floor of one of them. As we entered the foyer, we could hear the only-slightly-muffled thump of drums coming from upstairs. In the offbeats, I could just make out a sort of garbled moaning. It wasn’t a recording.