Falling in Love With English Boys (31 page)

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 second 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.

“That’s it?” I demanded, peering through the water rivulets that were cascading down the window, looking for stone walls or anything resembling a castle fort. “There’s nothing there.”

Will stopped the car and leaned over to look. “You think you’re going to look like much after fifteen hundred years? It’s a pretty spectacular view from the top. Wanna try?”

I could see small rivers running down the hill. “Umm . . .”

“How about elevenses, then?”

We ended up at a half-full half pub, half teashop nearby. (See pix; yes, that is a real, stuffed dormouse in that teapot—very Mad Hatter’s tea party). The woman running the place greeted Will by name, asked after his family, and passed on a message for his grandfather. Apparently bookies are giving 179-1 odds against Portsmouth winning next year, either.

Will thanked her, greeted the dormouse (“Gordon”) like an old friend, then settled us in a corner with our coffee and cakes. “I thought we’d have a look ’round the house this afternoon, see if there’s anything there about Katherine.”

He downed half his coffee, then turned the mug back and forth, back and forth between his palms. Truth be told, he was looking a little rough. Gorgeous but rough. Why oh why does my brain not have a torture-prevention switch? All I could think of was him whispering till the wee hours over the phone with Bella. Who, no doubt, was stretched out in La Perla’d splendor in London, longing for him. I felt no pity.

“So, Catherine.”

“So, William.”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Oh, the possibilities.
“Shoot.”

“Why did you ask me about my favorite poem?”

Allow me to refresh your memories.
#9
on the list of things a girl should get from a guy the first time:
Sends a poem after.

I blew on my coffee, added another sugar, gazed around the room (must’ve missed the stuffed cuckoo coming out of a clock—at least I assume it was a cuckoo—not sure I’ve ever seen a cuckoo, but enjoy using the word). Stalled. Had a stroke. Of genius.

“Why did you pick ‘
No Second Troy’
?” Gracefully deflecting the question.

“That’s dodging the question. But I’ll humor you. First year at Charterhouse, my Housemaster’s wife was a mind-bogglingly gorgeous woman from Galway. She liked Yeats. Every boy in the house learned some Yeats that year. That one made sense to my hormones then. Now”—he shrugged—“I like all of it: the imagery, the symbolism, the idea that love and war are so close.” He did the one-eyebrow thing. “Doesn’t hurt that it reminds me of Mrs. Fahey.”

Not Bella at all. He hadn’t chosen a poem about the most irresistible woman in the world because of irresistible Bella. He liked it because he’s Will and he’d been awed by the power of the words. He’d chosen it because of an adolescent crush on a hot older woman from Galway. I let my fingers do a quick, cheerful little Irish step dance on the lace tablecloth.

“Now tell me why you asked,” he commanded.

“I was drunk,” I said. “It’s a good drunk question.”

He didn’t look entirely convinced. No dummy, Will Percival. But just as much to his credit, he’s not a pest, either. “Fair enough. Your poem?”

“I’m still working on that one,” I admitted, “but lately it’s ‘She Walks in Beauty.’ ”

“Ah. Byron.” Will snagged a piece of my cherry scone. “Good choice, although I’m a ‘So We’ll Go No More ARoving’ man, myself. No one does breakup songs quite like he does.”

Twee-ku:

catTcat: Do I deserve this? Add insult to injury: the boy knows Byron.

After eating, we decided it was high time to read the end of the diary. I had a few pages to go; Will admitted to having stopped when Baker threw Kitty over for the girl with more money. I had this thought that he would read out loud to me and it would all be very English Country House Party. It was a good thought. But my copy was (somewhere) in London; Will’s copy was (somewhere) in London. Bronwen’s copy, we learned when we found her and the (s)mother having tea in the West Parlor (Will actually called it the West Parlor, suggesting there is an East, North, and/or South), had been eaten by one of the Labradors. Two, actually. “They shared,” Bronwen said proudly, patting the nearest dog on its drooling head. She thought for a sec. “Try the library. There should be an old family Bible there. It might at least tell you who Katherine married.”

I think Will and I both had a pretty good idea who Katherine married. I didn’t think it would make me feel any better to see Lord Chilham’s name in ink.

We went down a few corridors and across miles of ocean, road, and tundra to the library. What a place. Shelves floor to ceiling, tall enough that there are actually ladders on runners that go back and forth from wall to wall. Have you ever known me to go all goofy over anything other than a guy or the perfect pair of jeans? Okay, maybe a hamachi roll at Hikaru . . . I felt like Belle in the Disney movie.

Will took the six thousand books on the left; I took the four thousand on the right. Most are hardbacks. Most have leather binding and gold lettering. The paperbacks are pretty impressive, too. I pulled out a copy of
Brideshead Revisited
and opened it. The inscription said,
To Chaz. Couldn’t buy the hardcover, you old Scrooge? Always, E.W.

“My great-grandfather Charles,” Will explained, completely unimpressed by the presence of Evelyn Waugh. “The one with the flowerpots. Probably never bought a hardcover book if there was a paperback available.”

After a while, it was like being in the tenth store on a shopping trip. Everything was starting to look the same. I found myself only noticing the colorful books. “Hey.
Waverley
. I’ve heard of . . .”

An old copy of Walter Scott’s
Waverley
, bound in red leather. I gotta say, my heart started beating a little faster as I reached for the book. It felt smooth and a little cold as I slid it out. And there, there it was: a tartan ribbon tucked through the book. There were other things tucked between the pages, too: several folded papers, a single dried and blackened flower, and a piece of a playbill. From the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.

“Uh, Will. I think I might have found one of Katherine’s books.” I carefully opened one of the folded sheets. The lines were written in very bold, very masculine printing.

A Riddle for Miss Percival, by An Admirer

My first is in the Lanes but not the Plants.
My second is in the Song and in the Dance.
My third you’ll find at Court but not at Home.
My fourth comes when you Walk but do not Roam.
My fifth is in the Skies and in the Rain.
My six begins not Bliss, yet ends the Pain.
My seventh is in Whole but not in Part.
My eighth is in your Head but not your Heart.
When joined together, you shall surely see
Our lives have always been; So shall we be?

Will had been reading over my shoulder. “Oh. Right. I remember that. Couldn’t figure it out.”

Okay, so I gloated just a little. I am very good at puzzles. I’d figured out that one in no time.

“You find the letter that’s either in one or the other, or in both.” I explained, resisting adding a “duh.” “The first one’s easy. There’s no
E
in ‘Plants.’ ” (You with me here, ladies?) “Then, only
N
is in both words . . .”

Edison would’ve been proud of the lightbulb that went off over Will’s head.

Figured it out yet?

E-N-T-W-I-N-E-D.

“Our lives have always been. So shall we be?”

It gave me a little tummy tingle the first time I read it. Now, standing next to Will, holding a two-hundred-year-old book and a two-hundred-year-old love letter, I got full-on butterflies. I looked up at him, at that perfect mouth and even more perfect skin and blue blue eyes, and wished like I’d never wished before (pony Prada parents-back-together Adam were nuthin’ compared to this).

Gentle Readers, he kissed me.

He tastes like ginger ale, too.

He kissed me in the middle of the library and I kissed him against the huge antique desk and, after a few minutes, when my legs were totally weak, we moved the action to the squashy, tufted leather sofa.

“Wow,” I gasped when we finally came up for air. “Wow.”

“I agree. Let’s do it again.” We did. After a while, he flopped back against the cushions, grinning. “I have wanted to do that since . . . Well, maybe not the
first
time I saw you.”

I remembered the first time. Best not to think too much about that first view he would have had of me coming at him across the BM floor like a human windmill. “You did?”