Falling in Love with English Boys

by Melissa Jensen

  I made Mama stop reading and did as he asked, speaking the words aloud.

  Now, please, when next you see Luisa Hartnell, tell her this: I shall return to her, and when I do, I will not leave again. Yet, and I wish I did not have to write these words, should I breathe my last on a Belgian field, it will be with gratitude for having had even a day of her love. Tell her not to mourn long, but to be happy for the time we had, and when she is old and grey and sitting surrounded by grandchildren, to remember one man who loved her well and not nearly long enough.

  For you, Mama, and you, Katherine, I have not adequate words. You have been my cornerstone, the core upon what the best of me is built, and the Home to which I have always cherished the return. Pray that I shall have one last such return from war and no more to it.

  Yours ever,

  Charles

  Luisa. Charles loves Luisa and she him. I thought, for the merest instant, that I should be angry for the secrecy, for the fact that they must have met in private, perhaps even in the middle of very public places, and found themselves so connected that the rest of the world, that I disappeared. Yet I am not angry. What better connection to have, than my brother and my dearest friend?

  I have not wished to go out in the days since we received word of the battle. I have thought it best to be home at every moment, in order to be here for the one moment when that all-important missive arrives. Mama has urged me to go; Nicholas has done the same. Luisa came this morning, as she has done every day. Now that I am aware of her circumstances, I am awed anew by her kindness. Always it has been about my worries. In retrospect, I know now that she has been paler of late, and has certainly grown thinner even in a mere few days. Still, not once did she require comfort from me, only offered it. Tonight I shall accede to Mama and Nicholas’s urgings and attend the Stuarts’ party. I shall give Luisa Charles’s message. I do not think I shall be very merry, but I expect I shall not be alone. Among those celebrating England’s victory are many like me, still waiting for news of brothers and sons and husbands who were part of it.

  When I told Mama of my intentions, she wholeheartedly approved. Her own health has not been helped by this waiting, but she rallied and will, I believe, be well enough to accompany me.

  “Shall you feel easy in the company of Mr. Baker and Miss Northrop, should they be in attendance?” she asked after we had sent off a note to Nicholas.

  “Oh, certainly” was my reply. Oddly enough, it is true. I have thought so little of Mr. Baker in the last few days that I was almost surprised to have to do so now.

  He bruised my heart in his way—as did Papa in his—but had no power to break it. I do not think I care to sit and have a cosy chat with him, but I believe I will be able to be in the same room and feel neither fury nor sorrow. A little sadness, perhaps, for the loss of my romantic plans. They made me quite happy. Mr. Baker did, perhaps, for a short and illusory time, but I think could not have in the end.

  We have not heard from Papa. He is too angry. Nicholas has seen him. He says Papa is desperate, too, for news of Charles. We are a shattered family, but a family still, in pieces. That is something.

  Becky has arrived and wishes to know which dress I shall wear tonight. Oh, what does it matter? I do not care how I appear. Well, perhaps a little. I have yet to wear the pale green with embroidery. I shall be Spring, bearer of life and hope and good things in the air.

  (the clock has just chimed half-two)

  I do not know what to write first. What a night it has been. I suppose writing things in order is the best way to go about it.

  Luisa cried when I read Charles’s letter to her. Then the first words out of her mouth were a plea for forgiveness. Silly, lovely girl! When Charles comes home, I shall make him marry her immediately so we may be sisters.

  Mr. Baker and Miss Northrop were not in attendance. Winnie Stuart told me with great glee that she made certain they were not invited. She bounced while telling me, then quite left the ground after saying, “Just wait until you see who has just arrived!” She would not tell me, but confessed, “I must view him from afar. I fear that if I were to try to speak to him, I might do something awful like forget his name or my name or, God forbid, poke him or bump him or spit upon him in my excitement!”

  With that, she hurried off to compose herself in some quiet corner.

  I thought perhaps Walter Scott himself was in attendance, as I could think of no one else who would set her off so.

  I mentioned the matter to Nicholas when he brought me a glass of lemonade. We had settled ourselves at the edge of the party, neither much caring to dance or to chatter. “I would not know Scott if he were to tread on my toes,” he mused, “but I think perhaps I have just spied . . . Ah, yes. I have heard he and James Stuart are friends . . . Come along, Katherine. I am going to quite cheer you up.”

  I confess I did not know how, but I accepted his arm, and even allowed myself to step those few inches closer to him than might be entirely seemly, but which allowed me to feel his comforting warmth and solidity. He guided me through the crowd, toward a gentleman who was standing, back to us, chatting with Winnie’s brother. At first, he was wholly unfamiliar, but as Nicholas led me around and his face became visible, I felt my steps falter a bit. It was a familiar face to anyone who read London’s society news and the illustrations that accompany it.

  “I cannot!” I whispered fiercely. “Nicholas, I—”

  “Oh, stop. You are charming and you are especially lovely this evening. Now chin up and smile. Or look bored, whichever you feel better suits the moment. He is merely a man with a very, very good way with words. Ready? Good. Byron . . .”

  The poet turned. At first, his handsome face was cool, unwelcoming. I imagine he is much besieged by fawning attention, and it appears he does not relish it. Upon seeing who was addressing him, however, he smiled broadly, making it very clear why he is considered so handsome. “Everard!” he cried. “Damn but if it isn’t good to see you!” His eyes lit on me. “And in the company of a fair lady, no less. Should I be offering congratulations?”

  I felt my face flame. Nicholas, however, laughed. “I do not believe Miss Percival would have me even if I possessed half of your smoothness of tongue. Miss Percival, allow me to present Lord Byron, wit extraordinaire. Byron, this is Miss Katherine Percival.”

  “Miss Percival. It is a great pleasure. I apologise if I inadvertently insulted you by suggesting a connection with my pitiful friend here. He has an air of arrogant satisfaction about him. I had thought perhaps the Fates have at last taken pity on him and put him in the path of something splendid.”

  “You are too kind, my lord. I know little of Fates,” I said without thinking, “but Sir Nicholas is frequently inclined to put himself in the way of a Fury or two.”

  “Ah, yes, indeed he is. I have had my own encounters with their kind, usually in search of a Grace. I am always in search of Grace, it seems.”

  “Fates and Graces, sir? They are not to be found in England, I think. I believe you possess an affection for the Mediterranean. Perhaps a holiday in Greece?”

  “Not a bad idea, that. Are you a traveler, Miss Percival?”

  “Only if one counts very long drives on very muddy Somerset roads. No, I am not, but I should like to be.”

  “A reader, then.”

  I am certain that only I heard Nicholas’s very faint snort. In fairness to him, I do not believe he intended to make any noise at all. “I am becoming one,” I said, giving his ribs a quick poke with my elbow. “I should be certain to have a good book upon my person at all times.”

  “Except those muddy drives.”

  “Most especially those muddy drives,” I countered. “If I cannot have Odysseus’s Aegean waves or Childe Harold’s Channel, I can at least make use of Somerset’s gulleys.”

  “Well, invoking both Homer and my humble self in one clever speech. You seem to have a fine mind, Miss Percival.”

  “I often have my doubts on that, sir,” I returne
d. “What I had was a very fine governess.”

  Byron laughed. “You are outdoing me in my own game of words, Miss Percival. I cannot have that. No, no, don’t you dare look down in modesty and denial! I cannot have that, either. So . . .” His marvelously blue eyes narrowed and he was silent for a long moment. Then: “I shall leave you with this:

  ‘Now this mortal bows before thee,

  To admire and adore thee,

  Left in awe of wit and beauty,

  I salute the Grace that you be.’ ”

  With that, he bent over my hand, all boyish charm and undeniable appeal. I fear I might have stayed right where I was, giggling like a schoolgirl, had Nicholas not taken my arm, bade our farewells, and firmly led me away.

  “Close your mouth, Katherine. You are pulling your fish face again.”

  I bit back a retort, closed my mouth, and looked up to see if he was annoyed with me. On the contrary, his eyes were bright with amusement and, I dared to imagine, affection. “One day,” he said cheerfully, “Byron shall be old and grey and dottery as anyone, and perhaps by then he shall have lost the ability to make everyone he meets fall under his thrall. Until then . . . Come and dance with me, Katherine.”

  It was but one short dance before the sight of Mama’s weariness had us leaving for home. One dance where he only held my hand for the briefest of moments, and we had no time to speak at all. Still, I was very sorry when it ended, sorrier still when he bade us a good night at our door. Mama thanked him for the escort, then stepped inside. I lingered on the stoop.

  “I must go,” he said gently. “There is more to be done tonight.”

  “But you will come back?” I asked. I needed the reassurance that, no matter what, he would never leave me completely. I know I sounded like a frightened child when I demanded, “We will always know each other, will we not, Nicholas?”

  In the faint glow of the hall light behind me, his face was so familiar, yet possessed then a softness that was not familiar at all. “I cannot imagine it being otherwise.”

  “We are . . . friends?”

  “Dear friends.” He touched my cheek fleetingly, then walked halfway to his carriage before turning back. “Some might even say entwined. Good night, Katherine.”

  And he was gone.

  Entwined.

  That was Nicholas. Thomas Baker offered me fields and cowpats in his words. Nicholas Everard gave me the earth, moon, and stars in his.

  I think I have been a very foolish girl indeed.

  My world is more than a bit off-kilter tonight, and I a bit dizzy. It is not all bad, however. It should not surprise me at all that I am in love with Nicholas Everard. What surprises me is how long it has taken me to admit that I have always been a little bit in love with him.

  The idea that Nicholas might feel as I do? That is the greatest shock of all.

  August 19

  Say Hey (I Love You)

  I hate packing. I really really hate packing.

  I hate leaving. Always. I tend to get entrenched wherever I am. Even Whole Foods.

  By this time tomorrow, I’ll be winging my way back over the Atlantic toward Philadelphia. There are only two reasons why I am not, at this moment, chaining myself to the big wrought-iron gates at Percy’s Vale.

  One. You’re all waiting for me at home, and I’ve missed you like crazy. Now, while you can deny it all you want, I am perfectly aware that the quiet Chinese-delivery-and-video night Keri sez she and I are going to have at her house Friday is a ruse and a crock. I can smell a surprise party from three days away. Alex, I know as a fact that your Pappous’s birthday is in January (remember who slogged through the snow to Paper on Pine last year in search of the perfect card to go with the Wii you all gave him?) and there is no family celebration. Nice try, Kel, but no one is protesting anything in D.C. this week. JenJen, I thank you for not giving me a silly excuse, but the going mysteriously incommunicado thang was pretty weak. Sophie, the shop closes at 7. You won’t be working. Djenan, while you get the most points for creativity, I remind you just whom you were trying to fool. I invented the need-to-stand-in-line-for-tix-but-still-might-not-get-them excuse to avoid more than one unappealing evening.

  Two. The BM has pull with BA and apparently likes to impress visiting Americans with it. Hence the (s)mother and I will be flying back business class. Think big squashy armchairs, scads of legroom, goody bags that actually have goodies in them, and independent video screens with seventy-two options for my viewing pleasure.

  So this is it, goils, the last entry in Cat’s Cat-astrophic Cat-aclysmic Cat-atonic Summer Blog. I could just end there, That’s All She Wrote, but would I do that to you? Actually, I would, of course, but I hate packing, and I’m not meeting Will and the crew for another hour, so I have some time to kill.

  I can’t really think about leaving Will right now. Or the London gels. Or Cadbury’s or the orange sofa or Eastenders. I figure I’ll cry a lot and you guys will give me Häagen-Daz and go to TLA for videos and eventually I’ll be just fine and I’ll e-mail and Skype and I will come back. When I can.

  I know I’ve been less prolific than usual in the last two weeks. No surprise, huh? Of course, I promised Will that I wouldn’t share too many details here. Note: I didn’t promise not to share exactly the right number of details once I got home.

  I will share this, since Soph has informed me that the last page of Katherine’s diary was unreadable. Sorry about that. Will and I were . . . multitasking . . . while I was scanning. So, here it is:

  1 July

  There is still no news of Charles. I have looked hard for a second magpie whenever Nicholas walks with me in the Park, which has been much of every day this sennight, despite the rain. I cannot abide being inside. Nor can I bear to think of how these days would have been without him.

  How odd it is to think how much has changed since I arrived in London mere months ago. How I have changed, in nearly everything I want and admire and believe.

  Today, I believe this. I believe Charles will come home. I believe, too, that if I am very, very fortunate, and he does not change his mind about me, I shall marry Sir Nicholas Everard and be very, very happy.

  Bummer, ain’t it, that she never got to tell us what happened to her bro?

  Well. Will found this in an old Debrett’s Peerage. That’s kind of a who’s who of English aristocracy. It’s pretty cool if you like that kind of thing. Consuelo’s in the newest one. So’s Will, of course, since his grandfather is the current Lord Chilham. Which means Will’s dad will someday be Lord Chilham, which means . . .

  Anyway. His Studliness had a brainstorm and got his hands on an 1840 edition. Here’s what he found:

  Chilham, Baron. (Percival.)

  CHARLES SAMUEL SPENSER PERCIVAL, 6th Baron.

  Born April 2nd, 1791; succeeded his cousin, who died without issue 1828; entered the army 1811, made Captain 1814, retired 1815: married (1816) the Hon. Luisa Jane Hartnell, daughter of Baron Hartnell of Howth, and has issue living,

  The Hon. William Nicholas Percival, b. 1817,

  The Hon. Mary Katherine Percival, b. 1821.

  Residences: Chilham House, Odstock, Wilts; Percy’s Vale, Cadbury, Somerset; 108 Half Moon Street, London.

  Will is descended from Charles and Luisa. Which means Katherine is his great-(insert proper mathematical number of extra “greats” here)-auntie.

  Pause for sloppy, sappy sigh.

  So, as I prepare to return to the land of substandard chocolate and fab friends, I leave you with the question of the day:

  What would you rather have, O My Friends: a good beginning or a happy ending?

  To: will_percival@mayfair.eng.

  From: overnon@thewillingschool.org

  Date: December 19

  Subject: Kiss Me Thru the Email

  Yes, Mr. Percival, I am studying extra-hard for my AP History and English exams. And stop nagging—I’ll have my Glasgow and St. Andrew’s applications done in plenty of time. Besides, remember Dr. Furbal
l from the BM? Turns out he’s actually one of the UK’s premier scholars in the field of 18th-century Gaelic Literature and holds some honorary St. A’s chair called Sconce or Scone or something. He told Mom he didn’t think it would be necessary (can you say 4.3 GPA in Brit?), but that he’d be happy to grease the wheels anyway.

  Consuelo sez hi. She’s going to Bali for the holidays. Imogen’s going to Norway. Elizabeth has family coming in from Jordan. Her cousin broke off her engagement and is trying to get into the London School of Economics mid-year. Economics. Ick.

  Interesting tidbit for you. While perusing my Byron book for the English exam, I came upon this:

  Stanzas for Music (1816)

  There be none of Beauty’s daughters

  With a magic like thee;

  And like music on the waters

  Is thy sweet voice to me:

  When, as if its sound were causing

  The charmed ocean’s pausing,

  The waves lie still and gleaming,

  And the lulled winds seem dreaming;

  And the midnight moon is weaving

  Her bright chain o’er the deep,

  Whose breast is gently heaving

  As an infant’s asleep: