Becoming Mrs. Lewis(28)

“Thank you so much for having me here.”

It was my accent that made the men turn from their plates to stare. Another man drew near. “Well, good afternoon. You must be Mrs. Gresham. How very much I’ve enjoyed your letters.” The man was shorter than Jack, but I knew who he was immediately, his sincere smile and earnest eyes the giveaway.

“And you must be Warnie.” I smiled. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to meet you.”

Warnie’s face was much rounder than Jack’s, and his chin seemed to fade into his neck, but his smile lit his features. He wore a similarly drab suit but without the robe. His tie was askew, as was his smile, and he was charming in his rumpled way.

“We’re pleased you’ve come to visit,” he said from under the hood of a bushy moustache.

And with that greeting, Jack guided us out of the main room and through the arched hallways to a private dining area where lunch was set for us. We settled into the warm stone room, the dark wood and towering bookshelves nearly making me forget the press of my bladder. The deep plush furniture seemed made for men to sit and light their pipes and read to their hearts’ content. What did it say of me that I felt more comfortable there than in any ladies’ sitting parlor?

Jack turned to greet another man, and I turned to Warnie. “Is there anywhere in this man’s enclave that a woman might relieve herself?” I asked, slightly desperate by then.

Thank goodness Jack and his acquaintance didn’t hear. As it was, Warnie blushed and averted his eyes. Women must not talk about the bathroom in this country.

He pointed me in the right direction and off I went. My low heels clicked against the cobblestones. Instead of feeling embarrassed, I experienced a flash of envy: I wanted to be a part of a place like this—a tutor, an academic, a writer of great import. I wanted so much. But I’d start with lunch.

In the wavy and dusty mirror over the sink in the lavatory, I stared into my own wide eyes, surrounded by horn-rimmed glasses. What did Jack and Warnie see? I swiped on red lipstick and smoothed my hair. Not bad at all.

I returned to have sherry poured into cut-glass goblets, and I drank mine too quickly, feeling the soft buzz that came with it. Far-off bells rang and then more, echoing upon one another’s cymbal-sounding peals.

“It seems that bells never stop ringing around here,” I said. “From your high pinnacled towers.” I feigned covering my ears.

“Yes, our bells in the various colleges are off a few minutes here and there,” Jack said and waved his hand toward the window. “Not as congruent as we’d like.”

I allowed my attention to wander as I glanced around, pausing at the words etched on the Magdalen crest. “Floreat Magdalena,” I murmured. “‘Let flourish . . .’”

“You read Latin?” Jack asked me.

“Excuse me?”

He pointed to the crest.

“Oh. Yes. Latin, German, and French. I’ve taught myself Greek, but I’m a bit rusty. The Latin and Greek tend to flip over into each other sometimes.” I paused, embarrassed, afraid that I sounded like a braggart. “My college roommate, Belle, spoke Russian, but I never could quite get the hang of it. But you know more languages than I do, Jack. Latin, Greek, French, and Italian. Probably some others as well.”

Warnie’s laughter echoed through the room as we sat to eat. “It seems there isn’t much our American friend can’t do.”

“Oh, there’s plenty,” I said. With that I turned my attention to him. “Tell me, Warnie, what are you working on? What are you writing now?”

“I’m toiling away on a book about Louis XIV, the Sun King. Probably not of much interest to you, but an exceeding obsession to me.” He sounded so like Jack that I felt a kinship I was not due.

“Not of interest to me?” I asked. “Well lordy! I’m working on a book about Charles II, and my Lord Orrery, whom I wrote my thesis about for Columbia, sat in the House of Commons at the very same time as your king.”

And we were off into the world of history as if Jack weren’t there at all. We talked about France and kings and battles. We chatted about research and how difficult it was to write history that had long ago disappeared and left only hints of its life for us to unravel.

Soon Jack joined in our conversation and we returned to the present. I reached to take another bite of my grilled sausages and tomatoes and noticed that Jack had polished off every bite on his plate.

“Am I a slowpoke?” I glanced at Warnie. “I’m sorry. Do you have someplace you need to be? I’ve been talking too much.”

“No!” Jack stated with a loud voice, his hands held in supplication. “It is a problem of mine. I eat too fast. I blame it on Oldie.”

“The horrid headmaster at your old boarding school,” I said, remembering a story from one of his letters.

“You know?” Warnie asked.

“Not very much, but some.” I glanced at Jack. Was I betraying a confidence?

Jack placed his fork over his empty plate, lit a cigarette. “We were in great trouble if we didn’t finish our meals on time or finish at all. It led to this terrible habit of gobbling, which I’ve tried to no avail to break.”

“That or he’s just itching for his cigarette,” Warnie said with a laugh.

“Well, I will savor mine.” I took an exaggeratedly slow bite, the tomato juice dripping onto the plate.