I started to pick up the broken dish when Boggs appeared in the doorway.
"What's gain' on in 'ere?" he demanded.
"What's it look like?" I fired back.
"You pay for what you break in this 'ouse, you know," he said, looking at the pieces of the dish.
"She didn't break it," Mrs. Chester told him.
"You payin' for it then?"
"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'll pay for it. Slip the bill under my door when you march by in the morning. And if you want, you could add the VAT tax," I said. The value-added tax, I had learned, was like a sales tax in America.
He glared at me, nodded and left the kitchen.
"I wouldn't rag that man, I wouldn't," Mrs. Chester warned.
"Why not?" I demanded more firmly.
"E's got somethin' bad inside 'im, 'e does."
"Then why does Mr. Endfield keep him working here?"
"I don't know," Mrs. Chester said turning away from me quickly, "and it ain't me place ta ask."
I shook my head and returned to the dining room to finish clearing the breakfast table. The Endfields were already gone. Mary Margaret came in to help, her eyes bloodshot and downcast.
"It's all right, Mary Margaret," I said. "Maybe you can go out with me some other time."
She looked up at me with relief in her face as if I had freed her from some horrible obligation. And all I had done was ask her to go to a play.
I would have been happy to take Mary Margaret to the play if she had wanted to go. Perhaps we could have become friendlier as a result. Now that she wasn't going, however, my mind settled on Randall. I called the dorm to tell him about it and he was very excited.
"When you come today, you might bring a change of clothes with you," he suggested. "We'll spend the day on the river and do some more sightseeing, and then you can freshen up here and we'll go directly to the Old Vic. I've been there before. It'll be fun," he said.
I thought he had made a good suggestion, so I chose what I would wear and put it neatly into a large bag. Then I headed out to take the underground and go to the dorm, which was really only a two-story house about three blocks from the school.
As the skies cleared, it was turning out to be the prettiest and warmest day since I had arrived in London. Perhaps because of all the rain the city got, the flowers were the brightest I had ever seen, and that included some of the magnificent gardens on the estates in Virginia where Grandmother Hudson lived. The brightness seemed to put more smiles on the faces of people around me, too, and I wondered if people blossomed like flowers. If so, Mary Margaret could certainly use more exposure to sunshine, I thought.
The residence hall was a gray stone building on a side street. There wasn't a dorm mother or anything like what might be in a school in America. There was a caretaker for the building, but other than that, everyone who lived there had their own apartments. The building had no facilities for meals, but in the lounge there was a small electric stove for a teapot.
Randall was sitting there waiting for me when I arrived, and with him were the French sisters, Catherine and Leslie. They all looked up.
"Ah, but here she is, the American princess," Leslie said. They both wore jeans and pretty light blue sweatshirts with designer logos on the front. Catherine had a pearl barrette in her hair.
"After clearing dishes, washing the table, and scrubbing a sink, I don't feel very much like an American princess," I explained.
"I told them where we were going and they wanted to come along," Randall said in the tone of a confession. "I hope that's all right."
"Why shouldn't it be?" I replied.
"You can't have him all to yourself so soon, cherie," Catherine declared, threading her arm through Randall's. He blushed and rolled his eyes.
"Are those your things for later?" he asked, nodding at my bag.
"Yes."
"Let me take them to my room for you, and then we'll get going," he said. I handed him the bag as he rose and he went out and up the short stairway to the second floor.
Almost instantly, Leslie reached up and pulled me down to sit beside her and Catherine.
"So, you tell us how you win this handsome boy's heart so quickly, eh? We have both been trying since we first gazed into those beautiful eyes."
"You practically threw yourself into his arms," Catherine said, nodding with a grouchy face at her sister. "You frightened him," she charged. "I told you not to be so aggressive. Canadian boys are like American boys, right, cherie? They don't like their women to be, how do you say, in their faces. Am I not right, cherie?"
Why was it, I wondered, that everyone I met here thought I was some kind of an expert when it came to romance and men? Was it the clothes I wore? The way I walked, some gesture? When Mama was in a fun mood, she would slide her eyes from side to side and say, "You're going to be some heartbreaker, honey."
"I don't know much about Canadian men," I said. "Randall is actually the first boy from Canada I have ever met, and as for American men, most of the ones I know want to take advantage of you as quickly as they can. They'd love to have you in their faces."
"So?" Leslie shrugged. "What is wrong with that?" she cried and they looked at each other and giggled.
"What is wrong with that? They don't respect you," I said. "That's what's wrong with that."
They both grew serious for a moment as if I had introduced a whole new idea.
"You mean you think a man will respect you only if you are frigid?" Catherine inquired.
"No, not frigid. I'm not saying you have to be the ice queen or anything, but you shouldn't just lay back like a piece of meat on a platter," I told her.
Again, they both laughed. They were beginning to annoy me.
"Why is that so funny?"
"We don't think of ourselves as pieces of meat, but perhaps we think that of some of the boys we've been with, eh, Catherine?"
"Oui. Big sausage, eh?"
They smiled licentiously and nodded.
"Maybe things are different for you and where you're from," I muttered dryly, looking toward the doorway for Randall to rescue me from this
conversation.
"You are much too serious, cherie," Leslie said, She put her hand on my hand. "Being in love, having a lover, this should be amusing, too?"
"Amusing?"
"Maybe that's not the right word. Catherine?"
"Joyful, pleasureful," Catherine explained. "If you moan and groan and sigh and cry over every little kiss and touch, you will miss the raison d'etre, the reason to be. To be is to enjoy.-Joie de vivre, no?"
I thought about the gloom back at Endfield Place: Boggs growling at everyone, Mary Margaret whimpering and shy, Mrs. Chester a work hog, and my formal and stiff great-uncle and -aunt barely showing any feeling for each other.
"Maybe you're right," I said as Randall returned.
"Right about what?" he asked.
"Making love," Leslie eagerly offered. "What?"
"Shouldn't we get started?" I asked quickly. "Making love?" Leslie teased.
"Making love to the sights of London," I countered and they laughed again.
"Touche, cherie. Come, show us your London, Monsieur Glenn," Catherine declared, jumping up. She put her arm through Randall's and tugged him toward the front door. He looked back at me helplessly. Leslie and I followed and we all headed for the underground and our day on the Thames.
As Randall had planned, we took a sightseeing boat up the river and stopped at the Tower of London. Now that he had three of us in his party, Randall was even more of a guide, but he didn't fool around as he had with me. He remained as serious as a
schoolteacher.
"William the Conqueror founded the Tower. It has served as a military citadel, a royal residence, a political prison, mint, observatory and repository of royal property from precious documents to jewels.
"Those men in the brilliant red, black and gold outfits are known as Yeoman Warders," he said.
"That one is ve
ry good looking," Leslie whispered. Randall ignored her.
"The White Tower is the major building. It was home to a long line of medieval kings who lived on the top floor, but everyone is interested in the Bloody Tower?'
"Why?" Catherine asked.
"It's where the ghoulish fifteenth-century royal murders occurred, the murder of the young princes, Edward V and the Duke of York."
"I want to see the jewels," Leslie cried. "Who wants to look at some dirty old prison house?"
"We can see it all," Randall said firmly.
The sisters smiled at each other, enjoying it when Randall took control. I started to laugh with them. Maybe they were right; maybe I was too serious about life. It was more fun to be carefree.
After our tour, the sisters wanted lunch so we bought bread and cheese and to my surprise, two bottles of wine. When I questioned it, they looked at me as if I had been locked away with the poor dead princes.
"How do you eat without wine?" Leslie wanted to know.
I explained that where I came from, wine was not something adults wanted younger people to drink.
"There are too many winos on our streets, guzzling some cheap wine out of paper bags."
They finally looked serious as I described some of the scenes I had witnessed where men were sprawled on sidewalks, homeless, living in cartons or in alleys, getting a cheap high from wine that would probably take paint off a car.
Like Randall, the sisters came from a privileged life. They lived in a chateau outside of Paris with land that bordered on the Seine. They, too, had gone only to private schools, and my stories and illustrations were as fascinating to them as some television drama.
"We have heard about such things in America, but you are the first one we know who lives in such a place," Catherine said.
Then, as if unpleasantness was nothing more than a bubble to be burst, they both clapped their hands and declared we should never talk about sad things.
"You will be a great actress and never go back to such a world anyway," Leslie declared.
Even Randall had to laugh.
"That's why we're all here, to become stars," he said.
I actually enjoyed our little picnic and the wine, too. I was surprised at how much Catherine and Leslie knew about good wine, how important it was to know from what area in France the grapes were grown, and how it all had an important effect on the taste. They taught me how to taste wine, how to hold it for a moment in your mouth and suck air over it to feel the burn. How they laughed at my confusion and surprise.
We really were having a fun day, but Randall wanted us to go back early so he and I had time to prepare for the theater. The sisters wanted to know where I had gotten the tickets and I told them about my great-uncle, referring to him as Mr. Endfield. They exchanged subtle smiles.
"What?" I asked while Randall went to throw away our bags and paper from lunch.
"An older man, cherie?"
"What? You don't think ..."
"Why not? Leslie almost had an affair with a married man last year," Catherine said as if it was something about which to brag.
"You did?"
"He was really just married, but still, he was desperate to have me as his mistress. He swore he might even kill himself if I refused."
"What did you do?"
"Refused. Imagine, to have a man kill himself over you, eh, cherie?"
"You'd like that?" I looked at both of them and smiled. "You're making fun of me, telling me fantastic stories to see what believe."
"No," Catherine said. "It's true."
They exchanged knowing glances again.
"What?" I demanded.
"Our papa has a mistress," Leslie revealed.
"He does? And you know about it?"
"Mais, oui. But of course," Catherine said.
"What about your mother? Does she know?"
"Oui"
"I like her," Leslie said.
"Who? Your father's mistress?"
She nodded.
"But he's having an extramarital affair, isn't he? How can you like her?"
She shrugged.
"She's nice. She buys us nice things, too. These earrings are from her," Leslie said indicating the tiny pearl earrings she wore.
"You took a gift from the woman who is cheating with your father?"
"You don't like them?"
I guess I had my mouth open in shock when Randall returned. He looked at me askance and asked if I was all right.
"Yes," I said."I think."
On the way back to the residence, the sisters talked more about their love affairs. They prided themselves in being what they called femmes fatales, women who deliberately inflicted emotional pain on their lovers. They called it the agony of desire or some such expression Leslie had read in a romance novel. I was afraid to ask them how many times and with how many different men they had made love, but there was no doubt in my mind they would reply honestly-- even in front of Randall.
Yet, I had to admit there was something about them that kept me from thinking of them as merely loose girls, like some of the girls Beni had been friendly with despite my and Roy's warnings. Catherine and Leslie still had a good image of themselves. I couldn't explain my feelings; although I didn't approve of what they were telling me about themselves, I didn't disapprove of them either. It was as if the lives they were leading were good lives for them and should be left at that. I did keep coming back to what they called joie de vivre, wondering if there wasn't something for me to learn and something for me to imitate and accept.
Goodness knows, I wanted to throw off the chains of depression and sadness that the last year of my life had wrapped around me. Maybe throwing myself into a romantic fling or two was the way to do it.
"Remember' Grandmother Hudson had advised before I had left for England, "when in Rome, do as the Romans?'
I wasn't exactly in Rome, but I wasn't back home either.
We parted in the lobby of the residence hail because Leslie and Catherine's room was downstairs. As we said good-bye, Leslie smiled softly at Randall and then leaned over to whisper in my ear.
"Make him long for you, cherie," she said, "until he is in pain'
I started to laugh. Randall looked away quickly and then we went upstairs.
He had a comfortable, nice sized room, but I suppose anything would look good to me considering the closet I inhabited back at Endfield Place. I saw that he kept it very neat, everything in its place. There were two windows that looked out on the street and got the afternoon sun, each draped in white cotton curtains. A light brown oval area rug was under and around the bed so he didn't have to put his feet down on a cold wooden floor. The bed itself was a rich cherry wood. It had a headboard with an embossed crest that was designed around the head of a lion. The room had a large closet and a matching armoire as well as a dresser, a desk and chair and two nightstands with a standing lamp next to the desk. The room was lit mainly by an overhead fixture that washed the antique white ceiling in a warm glow.
"I share the bathroom with two other students," he told me, "but they're both away for the weekend."
I was happy to see the bathroom had a decent shower in the tub.
"Why don't you go first," he said. "I know how long girls take. I have a sister. Here," he added, reaching into his closet to come out with a terry-cloth robe, "use this."
"Thank you."
He gave me some towels and a fresh bar of soap and I went into the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. Living in the servants' quarters at Endfield Place after having been spoiled at
Grandmother Hudson's was difficult, but it helped me appreciate things I had taken for granted.
After I showered, I brushed out my hair. Randall was waiting in another robe when I returned to his room, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling, trying to be patient. He sat up quickly as soon as I appeared.
"I'll just be a few minutes," he said. His eyes lingered on me as if he was unable to stop them from staring.
"I miss my shower," I said. "I'm sorry I took longer than I should have."
"It's all right." He smiled. What a beautiful smile he has, always so fresh, I thought. His wellprotected life had kept him so unscathed there wasn't a mark or a scar, not an ugly sight or thought souring what nature had given him at the start. The purity and innocence of his eyes made me feel young and fresh and full of hope.
As he started past me, we touched and the contact stopped him only inches from my lips. I could see the confusion in his eyes, the struggle within him between the forces that wanted him simply to reach out and seize me, and that part of him that demanded he be respectful and polite. At the moment, I hated that part and perhaps tempted him by moving my face closer.
"Rain," he whispered, and we kissed. It was a sharp, clean touch that put little sparks on my lips, tiny explosions sending a hot sensation down through my stomach. I was still naked beneath the soft terrycloth robe and he was naked beneath his as well.
We kissed again. His hands undid my robe and mine undid his. His lips went to my neck, to my chin, to my nose and eyes as he leaned forward. I felt his hardness grow against me, but my robe remained partially closed.
He lifted his face away and gazed at me,
"Rain," he said, "I can't pull myself out of your eyes. I felt myself drawn to them as soon as we looked at each other."
He made it sound like a confession. It was as if he was a little boy admitting his mischief.
"It's all right," I said and he kissed me again as his hands moved under my robe and over my breasts.
I moaned, and my legs felt weak. I thought he would lift me into his arms and bring me to his bed, but he kissed me again and again and then he pulled himself back and closed his robe quickly, grimacing as if he was in terrible pain.
"We'd better stop," he said.
Before I could reach for him or even shake my head, he turned and fled the room. I stood there, trembling. I had to sit on the bed and wait for my heart to stop pounding and the blood in my body to cool. I could hear the shower going. I would rather never have been brought to this point than brought here and left dangling, I thought. A surge of anger rushed through me and then I lay back and told myself he was only trying to do the right thing.