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Daisy felt herself blush. She hated snobbery and often accused others of it, especially in Buffalo. She thought she was totally innocent of such unworthy attitudes. "I've got off on
the wrong foot with you, haven't I?" she said as the dance came to an end.
"Not really," he said. "You think it's dull to talk about Fascism, yet you take a German refugee into your home and even invite her to travel to England with you. You think housemaids have no right to be friends with undergraduates, yet you pay for Ruby to see the dentist. I don't suppose I'll meet another girl half as intriguing as you tonight."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Here comes your Fascist friend, Boy Fitzherbert. Do you want me to scare him off?"
Daisy sensed that Lloyd would relish the chance of a quarrel with Boy. "Certainly not!" she said, and turned to smile at Boy.
Boy nodded curtly to Lloyd. "Evening, Williams."
"Good evening," said Lloyd. "I was disappointed that your Fascists marched along Hills Road last Saturday."
"Ah, yes," Boy said. "They got a bit overenthusiastic."
"It surprised me, when you had given your word they would not." Daisy saw that Lloyd was angry about this, underneath his mask of cool courtesy.
Boy refused to take it seriously. "Sorry about that," he said lightly. He turned to Daisy. "Come and see the library," he said to her. "It's by Christopher Wren."
"With pleasure!" Daisy said. She waved good-bye to Lloyd and let Boy take her arm. Lloyd looked disappointed to see her go, which pleased her.
On the west side of the quadrangle a passage led to a courtyard with a single elegant building at the far end. Daisy admired the cloisters on the ground floor. Boy explained that the books were on the upper floor, because the river Cam was liable to flood. "Let's go and look at the river," he said. "It's pretty at night."
Daisy was twenty years old and, though she was inexperienced, she knew that Boy did not really care for gazing on rivers at night. But she wondered, after his reaction to seeing her in men's clothing, whether he might really prefer boys to girls. She guessed she was about to find out.
"Do you actually know the king?" she asked as he led her across a second courtyard.
"Yes. He's more my father's friend, obviously, but he comes to our house sometimes. And he's jolly keen on some of my political ideas, I can tell you."
"I'd love to meet him." She was sounding naive, she knew, but this was her chance and she was not going to miss it.
They passed through a gateway and emerged onto a smooth lawn sloping down to a narrow walled-in river. "This area is called the Backs," Boy said. "Most of the older colleges own the fields on the other side of the water." He put his arm around her waist as they approached a little bridge. His hand moved up, as if accidentally, until his forefinger lay along the underside of her breast.
At the far end of the little bridge two college servants in uniform stood guard, presumably to repel gatecrashers. One of the men murmured: "Good evening, Viscount Aberowen," and the other smothered a grin. Boy responded with a barely perceptible nod. Daisy wondered how many other girls he had led across this bridge.
She knew Boy had a motive for giving her this tour, and sure enough, he stopped in the darkness and put his hands on her shoulders. "I say, you looked jolly fetching in that outfit at dinner." His voice was throaty with excitement.
"I'm glad you thought so." She knew the kiss was coming, and she felt aroused at the prospect, but she was not quite ready. She put a hand on his shirt front, palm flat, holding him at a distance. "I really want to be presented at the royal court," she said. "Is it difficult to arrange?"
"Not difficult at all," he said. "Not for my family, at least. And not for someone as pretty as you." He dipped his head eagerly toward hers.
She leaned away. "Would you do that for me? Will you fix it for me to be presented?"
"Of course."
She moved in closer, and felt the erection bulging at the front of his trousers. No, she thought, he doesn't prefer boys. "Promise?" she said.
"I promise," he said breathlessly.
"Thank you," she said, then she let him kiss her.
iii
The little house in Wellington Row, Aberowen, South Wales, was crowded at one o'clock on Saturday afternoon. Lloyd's grandfather sat at the kitchen table looking proud. On one side he had his son, Billy Williams, a coal miner who had become member of Parliament for Aberowen. On the other was his grandson, Lloyd, the Cambridge University student. Absent was his daughter, also a member of Parliament. It was the Williams dynasty. No one here would ever say that--the notion of a dynasty was undemocratic, and these people believed in democracy the way the pope believed in God--but just the same Lloyd suspected Granda was thinking it.
Also at the table was Uncle Billy's lifelong friend and agent, Tom Griffiths. Lloyd was honored to sit with such men. Granda was a veteran of the miners' union; Uncle Billy had been court-martialed in 1919 for revealing Britain's secret war against the Bolsheviks; Tom had fought alongside Billy at the Battle of the Somme. This was more impressive than dining with royalty.
