Falling in Love With English Boys (17 page)
Why: Everyone needs Art. And after all that fresh air, we’ll both be ready for some quiet, informative, inside time. The exhibit now is
Sadanga: Six Limbs of Indian Painting
. Limbs. Indian painting. I envision deep reds and golds and gorgeous gods doing mahvelous things to happy goddesses. I mean, c’mon.
Kama Sutra
under the umbrella of Art. Need I say more?
Why not: Um. Kama Sutra. Y’all know how easily I blush. Need I say more?
I’ll wear something . . . modest. Jeans. A tee. Something red. Maybe some gold bangles. Just for ambience. Betcha Elizabeth has some. Betcha Consuelo and Bayard know all about the
Kama Sutra
. I don’t think I need to think about that.
www.streamdays.com/camera/view/covent_garden_london
Why: Shops. Street music. Audrey Hepburn in
My Fair Lady
. Brunch, maybe, on a Sunday.
Sex and the City
meets
Bridget Jones
. Wouldn’t it be loverly?
Why not: I can’t sing. The dog howls when I do.
I’ll wear whatever I can that invokes Audrey. Ankle pants, ballet flats. Big black sunglasses and red lips.
Why. More shops. Nice shops. The sort of shops where you might see the English Kates (MossWinsletBeckinsale). I could channel Audrey again and do
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
, London-style. Or maybe just buy something at Zara.
Why not: You’re probably more likely to see the Kates’ mums than the Kates themselves.
I’ll wear Seven jeans, a D&G silk top, strappy Manolos, and my crocodile Birkin.
Yeah, right.
Why: The new Sarah Dessen came out last week. If there’s any bookstore in London that will have it, it’s Hatchards. Hatchards has everything. Plus, I can let Will talk me into buying some epic, critical, you-absolutely-have-to-have-it-to-call-yourself-Human philosophy tome. I’ll let him read key passages to me while lying on a blanket in #1, 4, or 5 with his head in my lap. Maybe I should move Hatchards up the list.
Why not: Give me one example of a movie that had a romantic scene in a bookstore.
Thought not.
I’ll wear librarian chic. Little skirt, button-down shirt. Lose the contacts and wear my glasses for the day (he’s going to have to see me in them sooner or later). Some sort of bun. Maybe a messy one, anyway. In the philosophy aisle, he’ll slip my glasses off, pull the clip from my hair, and gasp, “My goodness, Miss Vernon, you’re beautiful!”
And that, ladies, will be that.
(OMG—I almost e-mailed him that whole list, “whys,” “why nots,” and wardrobe included!! That, ladies, would have been all she wrote. Eesh. Is there such a thing as Chocolate Withdrawal Dementia Syndrome?)
Charles departed this morning. He will rejoin his regiment in Portsmouth, and go from there to the Continent. I was terribly sad to see him go, but Mama is positively distraught. She truly fears for him, though he has assured her there is no need. He shall be safe in Belgium. It is hardly like last time, when he was forced to advance through terrible mountain terrain in winter. It is nearly summer; Belgium is a civilised place. Nothing untoward will happen to him there.
“Don’t rush yourself, Kitty,” he told me as he was leaving. “Delight in this time; nothing need come of it but enjoyment.” When he embraced me, he added softly, “Do not be too hard on Mother. She understands you more than you might think. And look to Everard if you need anything. He will be here.”
Nicholas has been here. He came for luncheon at Mama’s request. He seems to comfort her. Heaven knows why. He is such a serious fellow. I prefer fun when I am low. I prefer poetry. I know they were discussing the war before I entered the dining room. The speed with which they stopped speaking told me as much.
I tried not to mind. If they see me as naught but a silly child, there is little I can do to dissuade them. I was determined to be pleasant and cheerful and not let on at all how sad—and lonely—I suddenly find myself in this house with my brother gone. (Papa is scarcely ever here, and I have seen neither hide nor hair of Lord Chilham in days. I know I should be relieved. I am relieved. Yet I cannot be utterly at ease.)
Mama excused herself directly after lunch. She said she was not feeling quite well. I believe she is working on
The Abandoned Bride
. I wonder if I shall ever read it.
I thought Nicholas would leave, then. After all, he has made it no secret that he finds my company trying.
He did not leave, but followed me into the parlor. I sat and took up my embroidery. I am not proficient at embroidery. I make knots where they are not meant to be and tangles where there are meant to be knots. I would much rather have gone out for a walk, or sat with my copy of
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
. It arrived from the binders yesterday and I confess I am finding myself engrossed. I could not have said so to Nicholas of course. He would have mocked me.
Byron’s hero had a mother, and a sister whom he loved. He had a life of entertainments and pleasures. Yet he left them, and went off in search of . . . I do not know just what. I am only through the first canto. Still, for a moment, I thought to ask Nicholas:
What do young men want that we women do not give them? I know there is
something.
I blushed at even the thought of asking.
“Katherine?” He was watching me, looking ever so slightly cross. “Are you feeling well?”
“I am fine. I am . . . Nicholas . . .”
“Yes?”
He was leaning, that leaning that young men do, against a wall, or, in this case the mantel, to show precisely how tedious the moment is—that their disinterest is such that they cannot even bring their skeletons to support them fully. Nicholas, in a forest green coat much the same colour as his eyes, cravat perfectly starched and white, was every bit the fashionable gentleman, even to the slight lift of his dark brows. If he was in such a hurry to be shot of me, why did he not
leave
?
Or perhaps I was being unjust. He does not lounge. Not proud, upright Nicholas Everard.
I wondered if perhaps his leg was paining him. How easy it has been to forget that he was badly injured. One cannot ignore the scar; it is there each time he brushes his sable hair from his brow. Yet the other is hidden, unseen, unspoken.
“Well, spit it out, Katherine, whatever it is you wish to say. You look like a fish with a hook in its mouth.”
“A
fish
?”
“Ah, forgive me. An unchivalrously incomplete sentiment. A lovely brook trout, then, lustrous of scale and graceful of fin.”
Odious, pompous man. I determined not to give him the satisfaction of mocking me further. I would talk of serious matters.
“I read in the newspaper this morning,” I offered—graciously ignoring the further lift of his brow, “that the Duke and Duchess of Richmond have made themselves the center of polite society in Brussels. They will certainly see that the regiments do not lack for entertainment.”
“I am certain the regiments are eternally grateful,” was his reply. “Heaven forbid they not have a party to attend.”
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.
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.
