by C F Dunn
“Pro… Professor D… D’Eresby,” he stammered, his eyes hardly meeting mine before darting away again to a fixed point somewhere behind me. “I… I understand you have come from the University of Cambridge.”
He spoke rapidly like a typewriter, his head hunched forwards so that his body made a rough “s” shape. The same height as him, his gaze now rested on my clavicles and stayed there.
“Yes, I have…” I said, unsure to whom I spoke and what he wanted. My hand twitched to my neckline protectively.
“Good, good. Per… perhaps you might know Dr Hilliard? He would be in the same faculty as you.”
For a moment I thought I misheard him. He glanced at me again and pushed his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose with one finger. “Ah, Dr Hilliard – yes, yes, a leading academic in your own field.”
I heard myself reply, surprised by the dispassionate tone in my voice.
“I don’t believe he is at the university any more.”
The small man blinked rapidly as if this represented a grave piece of news.
“Pity, such a pity, but of course you have heard of him, a man of his standing?”
I smiled stiffly. “Yes, I have heard of him.”
I wanted this conversation to end. It had taken me unawares and the resulting knot in my stomach was an all too familiar sensation I didn’t expect tonight – not here – not now. I caught sight of Matias talking to a man I couldn’t quite make out in the dimly lit corner of the room.
“Will you please excuse me?” I said, politely. The jittery academic looked crestfallen. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him as there was no reason why he should have known, but talking to this awkward little man with the strange mannerisms about Guy Hilliard and another life brought me to my limit of endurance for one evening. Besides which, my head began to throb.
“Ye… yes, of course,” he stuttered, but he remained rooted to the spot so that I found myself obliged to edge around him to escape.
Matias saw me and smiled an invitation to join him. I wished fervently we were alone so that I didn’t have to go through all the introductions again and make “small chat”, as Elena put it so succinctly.
“Hi, Emma,” he greeted me with a jocularity born of the near-empty glass in his hand. “I see you were cornered by our resident campus eccentric. You’re doing well for one evening. You didn’t look very happy over there; what did Eckhart say to you and how did you manage to shake him off?”
He meant only to tease but my head ached and I struggled to find my sense of humour. His companion turned away and went to the table nearby.
“He only asked if I knew someone, Matias. I think he finds it difficult to talk to people. He can’t help it; he didn’t mean anything by it.”
Matias sobered for a moment. “I stand corrected; I’m getting crabby in my old age. Now, I’d better go look for Elena and make sure she’s behaving herself.” He winked at me then suddenly remembered the man who had returned from the drinks table and now stood quietly to one side, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Emma, let me introduce you; this is Dr Lynes.”
With some reluctance and a degree of curiosity as to who could get away with being called simply Doctor if I couldn’t, I turned to the person I scarcely glanced at before. My breath caught as I met the intensely direct gaze of the tall, singularly attractive man in front of me whom I instantly remembered from the scene of the crash.
“How do you do, Professor D’Eresby?”
He made no indication he recognized me as he offered his hand.
“How… how do you do?” I faltered, my eyes leaving the disconcerting familiarity of his fair hair, dropping to his arm where no sign of a bandage interrupted the immaculate line of his sleeve. Instead, his long fingers were strong, and I reacted slightly to his touch as his pulse beat against my palm. He smiled apologetically and withdrew his hand. I gathered my wits.
“Please, I’m just Dr D’Eresby – I can’t get used to this Professor thing everyone insists on here.”
I realized with a jolt that I had probably just managed to insult him without trying and a flash of heat rose to my face, but the corner of his mouth almost lifted into a smile.
“Would you care for a drink?” I couldn’t place his accent, but it might have come from either side of the Atlantic; a measured voice, resonant and instantly appealing. He offered me the glass he carried, ice suspended in the clear liquid.
“Thank you.” I took it without thinking, finding it difficult to look away from eyes the colour of indigo that had remained focused on my face from the moment we met.
“You are most welcome,” he replied.
My attention slid to his hair again and this time he questioned it in the slight upward lift of an eyebrow.
“I saw you – the other day – at the crash,” I stumbled in way of explanation. “With the dead woman,” I clarified, in case he’d forgotten – as if anyone could forget.
The merest flicker of reaction in the tightening of his mouth.
“Did you.” His response didn’t invite further comment and I searched for something to say rather than endure an uncomfortable silence.
“Lynes – did your family originate from England?” I asked.
He looked surprised – a slight frown creasing his forehead.
“Scotland, I believe,” he replied.
“Oh, yes – well, it’s the right island anyway.”
I could have kicked myself for being so asinine. He smiled politely. I looked away, embarrassed. Another pause followed.
“I understand you are on secondment from Cambridge.” It came as a statement rather than a question. I glanced up at him as he calmly looked down at me, his corn-gold hair contrasting with eyes that now seemed more denim. I deemed this topic safer ground.
“Yes, it’s part of a research project. History,” I added, although he probably already knew that, given his presence here at the reception. For me. For the first time in my life it occurred to me that my subject might sound dull to someone else.
“What period do you specialize in?” he asked.
“Sixteenth-and seventeenth-century England – persecution of minority groups.”
Dull and trendy.
His eyes flashed momentarily over my face. “It sounds interesting.” His voice didn’t reflect the sentiment and I suspected he wanted to be polite, but he continued anyway. “Why are you interested in that era in particular?”
“A number of reasons, I suppose.” I thought for a moment, arranging my answers in order of priority, aware that I didn’t want to test his limits of boredom.
“First, it’s a time of immense change socially, politically and culturally. Secondly – from a practical point of view – it’s reasonably well documented compared with earlier periods. And thirdly…” I glanced up to see if I still had his attention. I did, but with an expression now veiled. I found it difficult to articulate my ideas under his scrutiny and I lost my train of thought.
“And thirdly…?” he prompted.
“And thirdly, it’s of particular significance to the region I come from.”
Dull, trendy and pointless. The wisp of hair disengaged itself again and I pushed it impatiently behind my ear. His eyes followed the movement.
“And where is that?”
“Lincolnshire – the East Midlands and East Anglia really.” For the briefest moment, his eyes narrowed as he looked at me, and I felt myself blanching beneath his gaze. I shuffled uncomfortably, the ice clinking noisily in my glass. I took a sip – just water; I remembered how thirsty I was and took another.
“I expect you miss your home.” His voice held an echo of longing and my reaction to it took me by surprise.
“Don’t you?”
I don’t know what made me assume him to be far from home, perhaps his name or his accent, or even the colour of his hair, but he reacted immediately. His face became blank as a shutter fell between us.
“This is my home,” he
said quietly.
I bit my lip; he responded as if I had tried to cross a threshold unbidden and uninvited. I attempted to rescue the situation by answering his original question, although I doubted whether he now wanted to hear the answer.
“I… I haven’t had time to miss it yet, but I will – I always do – though there are certain similarities between here and Britain which might make it easier.”
“Such as the weather?” he suggested, wry humour breaking through his reserve.
“Definitely the weather,” I allowed a smile in return; “and the functions,” I appended. We simultaneously looked at the still-crowded room, more as observers than participants. His voice – gently inflective, soothing almost – indicated he seemed to have forgotten my faux pas, even if I hadn’t.
“Not your choice of an evening’s entertainment perhaps?”
“No, not really, but I wasn’t given an option. ‘Resistance is futile’,” I intoned in imitation of a Borg, then thought that if he never watched Star Trek, the reference would be lost on him. I reddened again.
He smiled faintly. “Quite.”
Someone threw open a window and a stream of fresh air wrapped itself around my shoulders, cooling my flaming cheeks which I knew would be clashing horribly with my hair and freckles. In contrast, he maintained a quiet dignity, which the heat didn’t seem to touch. I found it difficult to pinpoint what made him so attractive. I sneaked a look and found him scrutinizing me in return.
“There you are, Ginger! I wondered where you’d got to; I thought I’d lost you.” Sam’s buoyant voice cut in. He cast a look at my companion, then back at me. “Lynes.” He nodded a cool greeting.
“Professor Wiesner,” Dr Lynes returned, but Sam barely acknowledged him as he looked at me.
“Matias mentioned you were probably wanting to leave pretty soon, and that you don’t want to go on your own; something about Staahl, he said. I told him I’d go with you – see you safely to bed.”
His brown eyes were expectant, and his full, sensual mouth twitched suggestively, making me immediately wary. I glanced towards the edge of the room where Staahl had been, but the shadows were still empty; I shook my head.
“No thanks, Sam – I’ll go with Elena and Matias; where are they?”
I scanned the rest of the room for them. Despite the thinning crowd, I couldn’t see them anywhere.
“They left a few minutes ago. Elena thought you might like some company and I said I’d take you back when you’re ready.”
He obviously relished the idea and my jaw clenched as I restrained the wave of irritation at Elena’s betrayal and Sam’s supposition that I agreed to it. Denied a choice, I resented being manipulated. Sam peered at me, “Emma?” His cloak of confidence slipped. I felt suddenly tired.
“Yes, all right, Sam,” I responded, a little sharper than I needed to be. “Thanks,” I remembered to say with a little more grace, and resigned myself to being escorted back to my room by him. I’d let Elena know exactly what I thought of her when I saw her in the morning. He threw an arm around my shoulder, his unexpected closeness making me flinch away from him. I removed his hand firmly, and gave him a warning look, but Sam’s self-assured grin returned and I reddened, embarrassed and annoyed. I caught Dr Lynes watching, his face impassive; he saw me look up and pretended not to have noticed my discomfort.
“Well, I’ll say goodnight then – Dr D’Eresby, Professor Wiesner,” he inclined his head slightly in an almost antique gesture of courtesy.
“Yup sure, ’night Lynes.”
Eager to leave, Sam’s manner neared dismissive. I wanted to say something that would let the other man know how I appreciated him listening to me, and asking me about my home, and that Sam made assumptions that I neither welcomed nor shared. But I couldn’t and I didn’t so I could only say “Goodnight, Dr Lynes,” and hope that the tone of my voice said it all.
Chapter 3
The Library
… thou art the book,
The library whereon I look
Though almost blind.
HENRY KING (1592–1669)
Elena’s excited knocking on my door woke me next morning, accompanied by her high tones urging me to hurry up. Dragging myself out of bed, I pulled my dressing-gown over my pyjamas, shivering in the cold room. The ancient radiator bravely fought to pull heat from the boiler in the basement but at best it remained tepid and hardly warmed the air. Outside, a freezing mist had risen in the night, obscuring the mountains I greeted every morning, and the frozen fingers of the tree tapped my window impatiently with the lightest breeze.
Elena knocked again, more urgently this time. I remembered to be annoyed with her and arranged my face accordingly. She tripped lightly through the door, wearing fluffy pink pig-slippers with cerise noses and coiled curly tails on the heels.
“Well?” she demanded immediately without stopping to say “Good morning”.
“Well what?” I scowled. Oblivious to my chagrin, her face lit in anticipation.
“How did it go with Sam? Did he hit on you?”
Glaring, I took a deep breath. “Don’t you ever, ever do that again,” I fumed. Elena took a step backwards, her mouth dropping open in surprise.
“What did I do?”
“Don’t you ever put me in a situation like that with Sam – or with anybody else.”
Her mouth turned down at the corners, making her look sulky.
“But I thought you liked him; he likes you.”
“Don’t assume anything with me, Elena. I don’t like being manoeuvred into relationships, or anything else for that matter. You said you would wait,” I added accusingly. “He’s a serial womanizer; I could have been wearing a wig and a tricorn hat and it wouldn’t have mattered a jot to him.”
Her eyes widened with astonishment. “I’m so sorry, Emma,” she whispered. “He didn’t try… anything, did he?”
I calmed down slightly.
“No – nothing like that; it’s just… well – it was embarrassing. He’s like an overeager puppy who knows he’s adorable and plays on it. It might be more flattering if it wasn’t habitual with him. It was like I was expected to roll over and…”
Elena stifled a giggle. I looked sternly at her and she managed to look suitably serious again.
“I am truly sorry, Emma. I didn’t think you would mind and I wouldn’t have let you go with him if I thought it would upset you or anything…” she trailed off. “It’s just that Matias and I – we are so happy, and I thought…”
“That you would like me to be happy too?” I finished; she nodded emphatically.
“You don’t know me very well yet, do you?” I said. She shook her head, her expression pleading. “I possibly over-reacted, OK – probably over-reacted,” I relented. Elena bounced over, flinging her arms around me in a hug and kicking me in the shin accidentally with a piggy snout.
“Just don’t do it again, OK?” I warned her.
“OK, OK, I’ll be good, I promise. But he is very good-looking, isn’t he?” She flumped into one of the two armchairs that made my cramped flat a little more homely while I sat in the other, pulling my feet under me to keep them warm. I considered her assertion.
“Ye-es, I suppose so – for a puppy,” I said.
She squeaked with laughter, wiggling her feet up and down. Her contagious enthusiasm drew me into the conversation against my better judgment.
“I think the two ex-wives are a little off-putting though, aren’t they? He said they left him; do you know why?”
“He’s never said and I have not asked, but he used to flirt with me before I met Matias and he was still married then.”
“That just about answers the question then, doesn’t it? How old is he, by the way?”
Elena thought for a moment. “Thirty-five, thirty-six, something like that. Not old. He is younger than Matias.”
“Well, he’s older than I am and I haven’t even had one marriage to my name. In my experience – not that I’ve had
much,” I said rapidly, “multiple relationships become a pattern of behaviour and – like history – are doomed to repeat themselves. I’d rather steer well clear. Anyway, there’s no future in someone like Sam – not with his proclivities. I want someone I can trust without question; someone who shares my values – who doesn’t lie.” I found myself tugging at my dressing-gown cord and stopped before I ripped it.
Elena pulled a face, waving a correcting finger at me.
“You sound like my mother; she is always saying such things to me. You are too young to be thinking like this; it is boring and for the middle-aged. You know, ‘Live a little – love a lot’ – or is it the other way round?” She shrugged. “Anyway, you could have fun with Sam, no?”
Although this was not the first time I’d been accused of being too old for my years, coming from Elena, whose childlike approach to relationships was becoming increasingly clear, this seemed galling.
“Fun? Yes, possibly – while it lasts; shallow – definitely; but it’s not the sort of relationship I’m looking for. I don’t… it’s not… just let’s not go there, Elena; not now.”
Her eyes narrowed with curiosity but before she could pursue it, I asked a question that had niggled since the night before.
“Matias introduced me to Dr Lynes yesterday evening.” Elena looked up, interested again. “What is he a doctor of, exactly?”
“He’s a doctor, doctor. But he is also doing research. Matias works with him sometimes.” A doctor – of course, how obvious; that explained his presence at the crash.
