Falling in Love With English Boys (2 page)

I do not care for Miss Luisa Hartnell. She laughs altogether too much when surrounded by young men. I do not understand why she is considered a Beauty. Her hair is so very
red
, after all, and of course there is the matter of those
freckles
.

Nor can I agree that she is nearly so accomplished as people say. She plays the pianoforte tolerably enough, I suppose. But there is no
style
to her playing, no
passion
. Miss Cameron always declared my playing to be passionate, which I quite liked, although I did not care for her forever telling me that I could temper that with proficiency if I were but to practice more. I prefer passion. What would a governess know of passion, after all? Poor unwanted thing, with her flyaway hair and beaky nose. And those ghastly grey dresses she wears! She has always put me in mind of a little bird whose nest has been caught in a gale—frowsy and twittering and fretful, drab wings aflutter. Mama says I must not be unkind about her, that Miss Cameron’s family fell on great misfortune and, had matters but been a trifle different, she would have every bit as much of a fortune as I, and nearly as pleasant prospects.

I do not wish to write of Miss Cameron, however, as she remains in Somerset with her new pupil, and has no part in my story. I cannot help but wish, however, that she had been perhaps a better piano teacher. My performance at the Hartnells’ last night was not met with quite the enthusiasm of Miss Luisa’s. Had Miss Cameron’s repertoire and skill been better, I’m sure I would have quite enthralled the gathering.

I especially did not care for Miss Hartnell’s way of clapping. To an unbiased eye, she would have seemed all that was friendly and encouraging. I, however, know she was not so kind. Certainly she was gloating inside over her triumph, even as she played modest in refusing a second tune.

No, I simply cannot like her, even if others do.

I daresay, as Mama says of poor Miss Cameron, Money begets Beauty. Miss Hartnell has ten thousand pounds. Hence many people will find her quite pretty.

Then, too, it was her mother’s party. Gentlemen are expected to partner their hosts’ unmarried daughters in a dance. I wonder if perhaps in London, two dances are
de rigueur
. I suspect so, as seemed the way of things last night. I have
a bit to learn in my first Season.
I
am expected to be married by the end of this one, and brilliantly. At least Papa expects it. He teased that I must make myself useful somehow. Mama says I am to enjoy the experience, attempt to learn something of life, and not rush into an imprudent attachment which I will have cause to regret. As if I could possibly regret a brilliant match! Sometimes I simply do not understand Mama at all. She insists her writing is about such matters as imprudence and regret, yet she seems to know nothing
at all
about the way life truly is. Honestly!

I wonder if I danced with my future husband last night. It all went too fast. There was a Mr. Troughton, who had very pretty blond curls, but no chin. Mr. Pertwee wears a corset. Mr. Baker I rather liked; he is quite handsome, rather Grecian in his aspect, and called me an “ebon Aphrodite.” I do wish he had not had two dances with Miss Hartnell. There were several others whose names I do not recall. All were young, all tolerable in appearance, all perfect gentlemen.

I believe I am going to like London very well indeed.

The weather these two days has my spirits depressed. It rains, and it rains. In truth, in the country, I do not mind the rain so much. I rather like a good walk outside while the water washes the air and the leaves clean, and makes things shiny black like onyx.

On a day like this, I might walk to the vicarage to visit Annabel Jerrod, or perhaps cajole Phipps into harnessing the carriage and driving me to Highfield to see the Goodwins. Here, there is little to do but sit thumbing through the Ackermann’s alone (which is a terrible tease, as I cannot purchase so much as a ribbon today!), wishing for half the dresses there, and be wearied by the pattering of the rain on the windows and my own foolish thoughts.

There are always puddles in the courtyard at Percy’s Vale—all those hollows in the stone where three hundred years of carriages have turned and deposited their passengers. How I used to love to splash in them. I have a memory of Mama joining me once when I played in a puddle near the old castle wall. She was laughing and teasing Charles, who would have been ten or so to my four years and would not join us, telling him a bit of mud never injured anyone. Then Papa came out of his library and called us wallowing little sows. How pink Mama turned, as if he had just done magic and turned her into a piglet.

Papa is ever so proud of his beautiful boots, and he cannot bear a lady to be blowzy (he would insist on glowering so at Miss Cameron that she did flutter and twitter like the veriest peagoose on his rare visits home—how I giggled!). I find his compliments to me most gratifying. I stopped playing in the mud that very day, of course. Mama tried to make me join her once or twice after, but I would not. She very likely was trying to spite poor Papa. They were much at odds in those days, it seems. I wonder now if Mama was the one who always encouraged me; I had thought it my nursemaid, but I believe I was mistaken.

How I hate Mama today! She will not accompany me shopping and I cannot very well go alone. I am eighteen, after all, hardly a child, and I could take Becky. I have walked often enough into Sparkford with my maid for company. Mama says this is not Sparkford, Becky would likely faint at the first carriage to nearly run her down in the street, and I would no doubt be lost within minutes of leaving the house.

I do not like her any better for being correct on all counts.

Besides, it is raining. I would not wish to be spattered by a passing carriage and arrive home to find Papa on hand to see me muddied. I see him so rarely, not at all, really, since we arrived, I would not like to have a meeting where I’ve disappointed him and given him cause to call me a pig.

Still, my only outing since Monday’s party has been to the very same house. Mama and I paid a call on Lady Hartnell to thank her. We were not there above ten minutes. Despite Miss Hartnell’s presence, I would have gladly stayed longer. Lady Hartnell is all that is pleasing. She knows
everyone
who is in Town and all the parties that will be worth attending. She knows, too, the very best modistes and ladies’ shops: where to buy gloves and ribbons and hats. Mama, of course, had very little to add to the conversation. She, handsome as she is, does not care overmuch for such matters. How very vexing, although I must acknowledge that she did not embarrass me by discussing her Work, as she so often is wont to do in company.

As for Miss Hartnell, she smiled very prettily, complimented my dress (sprigged white; hers of course, was yellow), and looked all the while like a cat in cream. I will not be fooled by her amiable mien. When she asked if there were any gentlemen I especially admired, I held my tongue. One cannot be too careful, after all, when it comes to such matters. An envious young lady may do untold damage to another’s romance, even one yet to begin.