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Without waiting for an answer, he left.
I just buried my face in my hands and sobbed.
TWENTY
Iwasn’t going to go. I mean, I really wasn’t going to go.
The second Xavier left the room, all I wanted to do was pack up whatever random things had been brought to Parkvale, go back to Mayfair for as much of our other stuff as I could find, then get a couple of one-way tickets home to New York for Sofia and me and forget this summer of experimentation ever happened.
When I had finished crying, I yanked on a T-shirt and stormed into Xavier’s bedroom to tell him, too, only to find that he had already left. But what I saw on the nightstand stopped my emotions cold.
A small two-by-three picture, framed in unassuming silver, sat at the bedside table along with a book of classic Japanese poetry, a culinary magazine, and a notepad with my name scrawled across the top, under which he had written and crossed out three separate poems.
How desolate my former life,
Those dismal years, era yet
I chanced to see thee face to face
Just as I would beckon you, my love,
Heedless of stinging rumours…
With rudder lost, how can they reach
The port for which they long?
I picked it up and brushed my finger over each unfinished stanza that appeared to be copied from the book. It wouldn’t have been the first time he had used this sort of poetry to apologize. It was like he realized his own language wasn’t working, so he was trying to speak to me in mine.
I put down the poems and picked up the picture. In it was a photo I’d never seen before—a picture of me and Sofia, asleep together in her bed at Mayfair, when the afternoon sun was shining down on us. He must have snapped it sometime after we’d first arrived. I’d obviously fallen asleep while putting her down for a nap, and something about it had touched Xavier to the point where he’d felt the need to capture it and keep it close while he himself slept.
“Damn,” I whispered as I put the frame back on the table. “Oh, damn.”
More than anything I had seen in weeks, this collection exemplified Xavier. A reminder that even if he didn’t show it, he kept the things most important to him near and dear.
And that did, apparently, include Sofia and me.
I sighed then. I had to get ready for a polo match. And, apparently, a mea culpa.
* * *
Unlike the Ortham Ball,the Troop’s Polo Cup was a public event, so Elsie had made sure as soon as Xavier was invited to play that Sofia and I had tickets to get in along with Miriam. There would be no snooty hostesses to embarrass me at the gate. Nor would anyone look down at me for my inappropriate clothing. And I’d have company in the form of Elsie and Jagger, much to my relief.
“It’s hardly the Royal Ascot,” Elsie had told me. “But you must dress up a bit and wear a hat. And have some fun!”
I followed her advice, making use of one of the conservative outfits supplied to me by Regina. Today’s rendition of “Frankie Attempts Society” consisted of a sleeveless brown frock with cream polka dots, coordinating cream pumps, lacy kid gloves, and a matching wide-brimmed straw hat that would shade my face in the sun. Sofia, too, was dressed in a little blue sailor dress and patent-leather Mary Janes. We’d even gotten an outfit for Miriam so she wouldn’t feel out of place.
The polo cup, however, was more than an event. It was a spectacle. The crème de la crème of English society were all here to see and be seen by everyone else who’d procured a ticket—if the hats hadn’t told me, nothing else would.
Elsie shepherded Sofia, Miriam, and me onto the grounds, which contained a clubhouse, stables, restaurants, and several pitches corralled by a ring of white fences. On the far end, I could see the players warming up atop their horses (which everyone called ponies, for some reason), swinging the mallets around as if they wished they were lances for jousting, or perhaps swords, instead. Xavier was easy to spot in his red and white polo shirt, sitting at least a head above most of the other men on the field.
The Troop’s Polo Club was apparently one of the most prestigious clubs in the UK. It was sponsored directly by the crown and where many members of the royal family had learned their sport—so I was informed by at least three different people as we walked in. Royal sighting was at least as important as watching the actual game.
“Why was Xavier asked to play?” I asked Elsie as we found seats on one of the bleachers set up around the main pitch. “This seems like a professional sort of thing, or at least something where the players need to be very proficient.”
“It’s not professional, no,” she said. “More something you watch for fun, simply because it’s a chance to see the Royals, for a lot of the spectators. But Xavier is quite good. His father taught him to play, and he took it up at Eton, which, of course, practices here. It was the only thing he and Rupert Parker really had in common, actually.”
We watched him for a few minutes, practicing with some of the other players and occasionally flashing the broad smile I rarely saw anymore. Once, he even appeared to laugh. When he did that, he really was charisma incarnate. A born leader. I could understand why these people were attracted to him like flies. From what I could see, that kind of natural charisma was rare in any class. For a duke to have it and command of one of the largest fortunes in the country? He was the catch every mother in the country wanted for their daughter and what every man wished he could be.
