My Professor(67)

In every room, the original carpentry remains but has been given a facelift. In the main sitting room, the paneled walls and ornate crown molding have been painted white. The original fireplace has been left on display, its charred bricks bringing a rustic charm to an otherwise bright, white room. Comfortable chairs sandwich an iron and stone coffee table that’s covered with objects begging to be studied: a tray with Roman intaglios safely secured behind glass, a book on Picasso that’s lovingly worn. In the corner of the room, a Greek-inspired bust sits atop a sleek podium. For all I know, it’s an original or an early Roman copy.

From room to room we go, and I fall more deeply in love with the house with each step. There’s a blend of antiques tucked in among new furniture and modern artwork.

It’s obvious he’s taken great care with his home. This is about the furthest thing from a bachelor pad I’ve ever seen, and I tell him so once we’ve finished our loop and made it back down to the kitchen on the first floor.

It’s the most updated room in the whole house. There are sleek appliances, marble countertops, and an abstract painting of concentric circles I recognize but can’t place.

Professor Barclay takes two bottles of La Croix from a beverage refrigerator tucked beneath his kitchen island and slides one over to me as I climb up onto a kitchen counter stool.

“Some of the pieces I inherited from my great-grandparents and grandparents, though I do like hunting for things when I find the time in Europe.”

“Of course. Who wouldn’t? Y’know, I grew up in a historic home,” I say, fiddling with my water. “Nothing like this though.”

“Tell me about it. Your childhood.”

He leans onto his elbows, and I resist the urge to fidget.

“Oh…well, I grew up in Scotland. Did you know that?”

He seems to be fighting back a smile when he replies, “No, Emelia. I know hardly anything about you—at least nothing about your past.”

I nod. “Well, in my mother’s divorce from Frédéric, she was given a property in Scotland called Dunlany Castle. It’s a Victorian castle that dates back to 1228.”

“You’re kidding.”

I smile and shake my head. “It’s true. Temper your expectations, though. The place was a hovel when she purchased it and it’s a hovel now. Once they got divorced, money was tight. Her plans to restore it were no longer feasible.”

“But you still lived there?”

“Yes. We closed off most of the house and lived primarily in the west wing. It didn’t have central air or heat, but there was electricity, and indoor plumbing had been added before my mother moved in. There were enough modern conveniences to make it doable. No dishwasher though, and we had to do laundry in a wash basin outside.”

He seems amused by this, so I continue.

“My mother stayed there after I left for boarding school in England. I’d travel back on the weekends and stay there whenever we had long breaks.”

“And now who takes care of it?”

I look down at my drink.

“No one.” It’s impossible not to feel a wave of sadness about that fact. “There was a groundskeeper, Mr. Parmer. He checks up on the property every now and then for me, though no one has done any improvements in almost ten years.”

“Have you thought of selling it?”

My eyes widen in alarm. “No. Never. It’s my home…the birthplace of every childhood memory I hold dear. Besides, I have plans for it.” I regain the courage to look at him. “I want to eventually finish the restoration work my mother began.”

“So Dunlany is where your interest in architectural conservation was born,” he gathers.

I nod. “What about you? Did you grow up in a historic home?”

He smiles. “Not even close. My parents live on a newly built estate on a vineyard in California. My parents own a winery…among other things.”

Hearing that, more of the puzzle pieces fall into place—his privileged upbringing, his connection to the Mercier family, his ability to attend a school like Saint John’s.

“Polar opposites then,” I say, trying to make light of the fact that we come from two extremely different worlds. “I don’t think you were scrubbing your panties in a wash basin.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “No.”

I can’t believe I’m sitting here holding a light conversation with Professor Barclay when only a short while ago he was whispering dark words into my ear. It’s hard to reconcile both sides of him: the man in this beautifully decorated home, every vase perfectly centered, every painting thoughtfully hung, and the man who’s more villain than hero, the one who pulls me in a direction I’m scared to explore.

“I want to know more,” he says, leaning back against the counter opposite me, crossing his arms.

I wet my lips. “About what? Dunlany?”

“That, yes. Your boarding school. Whatever you want to tell me.”

“Well my boarding school was nice, but it was no Saint John’s, let’s say that.”

“Your mother was American?”

“Yes.”

“So where is her family?”

Isn’t that a million-dollar question. “I think I have an aunt in Idaho or something, but I’m not sure. My mother wasn’t very forthcoming with details, but I do know she was anxious to leave her family in the States for one reason or another. It’s part of why she moved to France to attend school. I don’t recall her ever speaking to her family on the phone or anything, and I definitely never met anyone.”