Falling in Love With English Boys (3 page)

I must say, I did not entirely mind when she spoke of Mr. Baker. She asked if I did not find him very handsome and charming. I replied that he seemed pleasant enough. She then mentioned that he is a poet. Mama even seemed interested for a moment, until learning that he composes romantic verses. She does not care for anything without a moral or a lesson. I cannot help but think that is a
sermon
, not a
poem
. I will have the romance, thank you.

A trip to the modiste, at last! We sat and perused the very latest repositories of fashion (such fun!), and then I stood for what seemed like hours (not nearly so much fun; my feet ache abominably and one careless assistant stuck me with a pin!) while they draped me in fabric and pinned and tucked. What a funny little woman the dressmaker was, with hands that looked just like a mouse’s and hair that was somewhere between black and red. She calls herself Madame Cambon and speaks like “zees” and “zat” and “la belle mademizille.” Once we were back in the carriage, Mama had a good laugh and said she would “eat ’er stockeengs” if Madame were from farther away than Manchester.

I quite liked Mama today, even if she would not buy me an ermine muff. She rather likes ermines (oh, how she and Papa fought over hosting a fox hunt last summer!) and believes they should be able to keep their coats. Perhaps I will ask Papa when the weather turns cold. I confess I do not need a muff while the weather is so temperate.

Here is what we chose:

~ Three day dresses (white embroidered muslin, yellow silk—with the most delicious little puffed sleeves, white silk with tiny pale green stripes)

~ Four evening dresses (palest pink gauze embroidered with tiny white roses, white silk with a silver net overlay, gold lace with the loveliest rosettes at the hem, and white silk with gold tinsel embroidery)

~ Two spencers which, while they are certainly fetching, looking much like the short uniform jackets of the military, give me pause. I fear the manner in which my skirts billow beneath them makes my posterior appear . . . well, fat. I prefer shawls.

~ Three embroidered evening shawls in pink, white and gold silk

I will have matching silk slippers for all, new half boots in gold kidskin, and a dozen pairs of new gloves. I do like the elbow-length ones best. Mama calls my brown spots “beauty marks.” I call them brown spots. The one on my left wrist looks distressingly like a tiny silhouette of a toad.

Mama says I must make do with the walking dresses we purchased in Bristol, especially as I do not often walk. Sometimes Mama finds herself most amusing.

Tonight we attend a ball at the home of Lady Everard, which should be quite pleasant. We have not met with her in some months. It has been just over a year since Sir Lawrence’s death. Lady E. has cast off her mourning black and will no doubt host a lively evening.

It is a pity that Charles has not returned from the south, for Lady E.’s son, Nicholas, will be most sorry not to see him and will insist on playing the brother in Charles’s absence. Perhaps if Nicholas Everard were less severe and less inclined to find me so
young, I should like him better. He is a war hero, after all, and not unpleasant to the eye. I should very much like to hear of his months in Spain and Portugal, fighting under Wellington. It all must have been so fierce and fervent. Charles says Nicholas saved his entire regiment from an ambush by French fusiliers. Yet when I have asked, especially about the scar across his brow, Nicholas (what a bother that I shall have to call him
Sir
Nicholas now, and without laughing) has merely scowled and told me not to pester him with my silly prattle.

Yes, a pity indeed that Charles is not here. More a pity that I shall not have any of my new dresses for a sennight at best. I suppose I shall make do with the cream silk.

I wonder if Mr. Baker will be in attendance tonight.

(three o’clock in the morning and I am yet to go to bed)

Charles surprised us and appeared at Lady Everard’s ball. How very glad Mama and I were to see him (she cried) and how well he looks. His time in the southern counties has suited him, as the Continent last year did not. He was so very thin and pale then. Marching through the Pyrenees in winter and fighting with the French can do that, certainly. Now he is hale and cheerful and looks marvelous in his blue-and-silver uniform. He has been made a captain of his Hussars regiment, and at only four-and-twenty.

I saw many of the young ladies present eyeing him with the hope that he might request a dance. He did not, silly creature, instead withdrawing to some distant room with Nicholas Everard and some other gentlemen for cigars and, I am certain, endless talk of Napoleon Bonaparte’s tiresome escape from Elba. I do wish our generals had done a better job of keeping him there. He caused such a terrible to-do on the Continent for so many years. Only yesterday, Lady Hartnell was reminiscing about how she had so missed French fashion during those sad times.

Charles says there will almost certainly be more battles, now that Bonaparte is tromping through France again. He also says he must leave for the Continent within the month (Mama cried), but he will stay with us until then. Hurrah! I shall have an escort and good company!

There is, of course, so much more to be remembered, and far better words to impart. I can wait no longer to record them.

As stars do glow in darkling skies,
Doth candlelight anoint the shine
Of ruby lips and sapphire eyes
The beauty, love, that is but thine.

I have copied that most faithfully. I think it the loveliest verse I have heard. How very clever Mr. Baker is! He was pressed by his comrades to compose upon the spot. After a few moments of protest, which the others cruelly disregarded, he demanded a bit of paper and a pencil, closed his eyes (the blue of sapphires themselves, I noted after), and within an instant had composed those four lines.

I do not think I shall forget that moment. Every sconce, every candelabra in Lady Everard’s salon was lit, reflected again and again in the mirrors on the walls. I was standing near Miss Hartnell (one does not wish to be alone in the midst of a ball, and
everyone
below the age of five-and-twenty or so seemed to be standing near Miss Hartnell), listening to the gentlemen complaining about the food at Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Sadly, I would not know of the food or anything else, as Mama has not been able to secure vouchers for us to attend the Wednesday balls.

Then Mr. Davison and Mr. McCoy procured punch for the ladies (I do not ordinarily care for rum punch, but this was mixed with champagne and cherries and was quite delicious), and they began to quiz Mr. Baker and demand verse. I would not suppose it was written for me, but I venture to believe I saw Mr. Baker’s own eyes fall upon my person as Mr. McCoy read the lines aloud. Of course, my eyes are not the colour of sapphires. Perhaps if a poetic gentleman were to gaze deeply into them, he might be put in mind of topaz.

“Well writ!” called out another of his friends, a fat young man I believe is called Roggut. I am not certain that is truly his name. “But to whom?”

I do so admire an abundance of curls on a gentleman. Mr. Baker’s are the colour of bronze, and he tosses them in a most becoming way. “I leave that for you to guess,” he replied, or some similar words.

It became a game then, ladies and gentlemen alike calling out names.“Miss Hartnell!” was the first, of course. She blushed, red from chin to crown, and laughed. It could not have been her and all knew it. Her eyes are green. “Miss Eleanor Quinn.” “Miss Henrietta Quinn.” And so it went. “Princess Caroline!” cried Mr. Davison, and how we laughed, for everyone knows the Princess of Wales is a coarse, ugly creature.

“Perhaps ’tis Mr. Baker, himself,” teased Miss Hartnell, which I do not think pleased him at all, though his companions thought it most diverting.

Then, Mr. Roggut offered, “Miss Percival!” and the game was done.

Mr. Baker smiled, bowed to me, and announced, “The subject shall remain a mystery, but the dance, I believe, should be mine if Miss Percival will consent.”

Of course I did, thinking all the while that he might perhaps have been waiting for someone to cry out my name, waiting so he could request the dance. Perhaps.

How I dread a Boulanger when one has a special partner. There is so little time to converse as one must dance with all the other gentlemen in the circle. It seemed that every time Mr. Baker took my hand, it was to pass me to the next gentleman. We were barely able to comment on the great success of the ball (it was a terrible crush; I am certain Lady Everard was delighted), the heaviness of the weather, and the pleasant prospect of another such gathering soon, when it was all over, and Mama was waving for me to depart.

I consoled myself with the thought that it was the final dance of the evening. The Boulanger is always the last, when it is danced. Everyone knows that. And Mr. Baker chose to dance it with me.

The drive home was endless, despite the fact that our house is but a few streets away. The crush of carriages departing the Everards’ meant we all moved like garden snails. Then, too, I was soon thoroughly disgusted with Charles and Nicholas Everard, who were to deposit Mama and me at home before going off to one of their clubs or gaming hells or wherever tedious gentlemen go in nearly the middle of the night.

I could not contain myself in my giddiness, but told the tale and recited Mr. Baker’s lines aloud. How I wish I had not! Mama covered her lips with her fingertips—I am certain she was hiding a smile. Charles laughed aloud. And worst of all, Everard gave a terrible snort and declared Mr. Baker’s beautiful words to be “nothing more than a second-rate imitation of Byron.” As if he would comprehend such talent as Mr. Baker’s if it were to smite him in his decidedly large nose! I refused to speak another word for the remainder of the drive.

I shall go to Hatchards booksellers and purchase a book of verse so that I may drop a line or two when next I am in the company of a poet. Perhaps
Wordsworth. I will work very hard at my recitation. Poor Miss Cameron did try. This time, I shall not say, “I wandered lonely as a sheep” and think it amusing.

Tomorrow we are to dine with the Fitzhughs, Mama and me. How lovely it would be if Papa would come, too, but he is so very busy with his own entertainments and quite scorns ours. I asked if I could perhaps accompany him on a night when we are not engaged. He laughed and asked what a silly girl would do at his club, even if they were to allow me in. I suppose he is right. I cannot simply trail after him into Boodle’s in the same way I am wont to follow him about at Percy’s Vale, prattling away until he tells me to spare his ears.

Mama says Lady Sefton will be at the Fitzhughs’ and will grant me a voucher to Almack’s. Absolutely everyone who is anyone gathers on Wednesday nights to dance and be seen. I
must
have a voucher or my Season will be all but ruined. Lady Hartnell says every brilliant match begins there. Charles says many very dull evenings begin there, but I am certain he is teasing. I wish to meet the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Wharton and to dance again with Mr. Baker.

How I wish we could waltz! I have never seen it danced, but Charles has, in France. There it is as common as a Scottish reel. Here, only the most daring hostess will allow it and only the most daring will engage. Charles says the gentleman holds the lady by one hand and at the waist—sometimes so close to his own form that her skirts might tangle about his legs—and twirls her about the room. How very delicious it must be, and how very naughty!

It ought to have been a lovely day. And here is why:

~ Papa promised to take me for a drive in Hyde Park. He says everyone who is anyone drives in the Park on a sunny day. If I am to make a brilliant match, I must be Someone.

~ The first of my new dresses arrived—the white with green stripes. With the matching green spencer, it is the perfect dress to wear to the Park.