by Julie Kenner
He took a deep breath and fixed his gaze on the wall behind her.
“Mrs. Eller—”
“Mariah, please.” She sensed something important was coming.
“Mariah,” he said, as if it were a hurdle he had to jump. “I want you to know that I am not insensible to your situation. I know now that this liaison with the prince was not your idea. And I recognize that this marriage requirement has lasting consequences for you. It may not be how you wanted to spend your life, but…it is my hope that we can find someone who will be genuinely acceptable to you as a husband.”
“That is very thoughtful of you,” she said, relaxing as warmth toward him bloomed in her core and flowed into her smile.
“It only makes sense.” He tensed sharply and looked away. “After all, if you are unhappy, you won’t be a very good ‘friend’ to the prince.”
She felt as if he’d just tossed icy pond water on her. Every time she thought she glimpsed some humanity, some warmth or sincerity in him… She yanked his coat from her and tossed it into a heap on the seat beside him.
“Are you sure you want me to be a good ‘friend’ to the prince, Jack?” She speared him with a look that her husband had always likened to blue Damascus steel. “Perhaps you’d rather I be your ‘friend’ instead.”
Even in the darkening coach she could see she’d struck sparks.
“You know, while your esteemed husband was educating you,” he said irritably, “he might have found time to teach you a bit of discretion. Along with some propriety and sense of a woman’s place in the world.”
She leaned over to snatch up her stockings and boots.
“Sorry. Didn’t have time. He was too busy teaching me thirty-seven different ways to make a man moan.” She turned sideways on the seat and folded her skirt and petticoats back.
Lifting one bare leg, she slid toes into the stocking and slowly—ever so slowly—pulled it up while raising her leg. A leg he had explored so briefly but memorably in her hotel room yesterday. When the silk stocking was smoothed up her calf and over her knee, she slipped the garter on and rolled it into place. Halfway through the second stocking, there it was: a quiet, tormented exhalation. She aimed her smile straight ahead, while glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
“That,” she said with a purr, “was number nine.”
THE NARROW Cambridge streets were crowded with black-robed students emptying out of libraries, lecture halls and tutors’ offices into the town’s taverns. The coach had to stop periodically to wait for the throngs of boisterous students to clear. Jack commented that the wheels of Cambridge scholarship—like those of academia everywhere—were lubricated by the nectars of grape and grain. He knew that, he revealed, because some years earlier he had been one of those parched Cambridge scholars headed for the closest tavern at the end of the day.
The gas streetlamps had been lit by the time they reached the University Arms in the center of the city. The large, Gothic-style hotel was furnished with all the modern conveniences: a number of bathing rooms en suite, a ladies’ sitting room, a library and a well-regarded restaurant that served dinner into the evening. After freshening up in their rooms, Mariah and Mercy met Jack downstairs for dinner.
The dining room was large and appointed with fine linen, crystal and china that reminded Mariah of her childhood home. As Jack explained that he had sent inquiries about Winston Martindale to old acquaintances and was awaiting word, she ran her hands over the silver and rolled her empty wineglass back and forth, watching the light reflected in its facets.
It had been a long time since she had thought of her girlhood home…of the way her lovely mother always dressed for dinner and how dignified her father had looked in his evening clothes. They had insisted Mariah take meals with them in the dining room instead of in the nursery, even when they entertained. They were determined that, despite being an only child, she would have a strong sense of family. The thought gave her a hollow feeling. Family. Once she had dreamed of having a home and children—
“Are you listening?” Jack asked with annoyance.
“Sorry.” She abandoned the stemmed glass on the tabletop and smoothed her napkin across her lap. “You were saying?”
He had just begun to repeat his plan for the next day when a stout-looking older man with a ruddy complexion and prodigious mutton chops appeared in the arched entrance to the dining room.
“There you are, my boy!”
At the sound of that voice, Jack was on his feet and turning with an outstretched hand and a huge smile.
“Professor Jamison! How good to see you. You didn’t have to come here, sir. I intended to call on you first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Balderdash. Did you think I wouldn’t hurry across campus to see my favorite student, no matter what the hour?” He pumped Jack’s hand as he clapped him affectionately on the shoulder. Jack basked in his professor’s delight until the old boy’s gaze fell on Mariah. “Well, well, St. Lawrence.” Jamison’s grin broadened. “I hadn’t heard that you had married.”
“Married? No!” Jack said too loudly, then reddened. “May I present Mrs. Mariah Eller. We’ve come to Cambridge to, um—”
“Locate a gentleman. On a legal matter,” Mariah provided. “Pleased to meet you, professor.”
“Charmed, Mrs. Eller.” Jamison made a courtly bow over her extended hand and then nodded politely to Mercy, whose single-name introduction and simple garments indicated her role as lady’s companion.
“Won’t you join us for dinner?” Mariah waved to the unused fourth place at their table.
“With pleasure.” He quickly took a seat. “St. Lawrence, I never thought to find you in the company of ladies.” He raised his eyebrows and leaned toward Mariah. “Not ‘Iron Jack.’ All work and no play—that was his motto. Never met a more serious eighteen-year-old in my life.”
With that, his garrulous mentor began to recount tales of Jack’s student days that made Jack wince and look pained. The professor, undaunted by his former student’s chagrin and encouraged by Mariah’s interest, rambled on to draw a portrait of an eager and driven young man.
“Rewrote the answers to his exams after scores were assigned. Checked and rechecked his measurements and calculations. Was twice the scholar his brothers were. Would have made a superb scientist. Mathematics came as natural as breathing for him. Damned fine mind.” Jamison sighed, wagging his head. “Begged him to stay on, you know. Had a number of projects for him to undertake as graduate studies. But it was not to be. The faculty still laments his loss to the bright lights and fast company of London.”
“A man has obligations, Professor,” Jack said uncomfortably, studying the wine in his glass.
“To his country, of course. To his family, unquestionably.” Jamison spoke in a way that made it clear they had discussed this point before. “But also to himself.” The professor studied him with visible regret. “One must endeavor to see that all three are served by the course one chooses in life. To neglect to use one’s talents and opportunities is to deny Destiny. And Destiny has a way of calling us to account for unused gifts.”
Mariah noted the way Jack’s face tightened and saw in him traces of the young boy he had been: full of promise and torn between conflicting goals. And there were those brothers of his again. She warmed to the recurring image of him as the always-pushed, ever-hungry “third of five.”
When Jack caught her watching him with a discerning gaze, he cleared his throat to change the subject.
“Back to the business that brought us here. What about this Winston Martindale? Do you know him, Professor?”
“As it happens, I do. He is another old student of mine. Before your time. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a decent enough chap. Now a fellow in Philosophy at Magdalene College. But hardly a serious scholar. Does most of his ‘supervisions’ of an evening—” he paused “—at the Quill and Scroll.”
Jack sat back with a look of distaste. “Thank you, Professor. I shall try t
o catch Martindale someplace more conducive to a lady’s business.”
“What is this Quill and Scroll?” Mariah studied Jack’s disapproval.
“An ale house frequented by students,” the professor provided.
“What’s a perfessor doin’ overseein’ a tavern?” Mercy asked.
“Not that kind of supervision,” Jack explained. “Supervisions here at Cambridge are the core of the teaching-learning process. The fellows hold individual or small-group tutorials in which students discuss their studies, present their work and are evaluated. And Martindale…”
“Conducts his in an ale house,” Mariah said when he paused. It didn’t speak well for her prospective husband.
When dinner was over and the professor had departed and they headed upstairs, Mariah spotted Jack collecting his hat and coat from his room and trying to slip past her.
“Where are you going at this hour?” She planted herself in his path.
He fingered the brim of his hat and refused to meet her gaze. “You’re going to this Quill and Scroll, aren’t you?” She read her answer in his avoidance. “Well, not without me, you aren’t.”
“Look, I know this place,” he said, exasperated. “The Quill and Scroll is an old college hall that was bought by a German brew master and turned into a large tavern. It’s loud, rude and not at all suitable for ladies.”
Was this new designation as a “lady” an elevation or a dismissal?
“All the more reason I should accompany you. I need to see my prospects in their natural settings, whether appropriate for ladies or not.” She turned to Mercy. “Don’t let him leave without me.”
The loyal maid positioned herself between Jack and the stairs, crossed her ample arms and glowered. Shortly, Mariah returned, wearing her coat and hat, and gave the old woman a one-armed hug.
“You needn’t wait up, Mercy. After such a long day, I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
Mercy nodded gratefully.
“Careful, miz. Them students look none too trusty.”
11
THAT WAS how she and Jack came to be entering the noisy hall of the Quill and Scroll at ten o’clock on a weekday evening. The place was filled with smoke, the scent of spilled ale and tables ringed by a motley collection of chairs and benches swiped from lecture halls. Generations of aspiring scholars had whiled away their undergraduate years on those worn seats and carved their names for posterity in the posts and beams that held up the roof.
All the way over in the cab, Jack had admonished her to stay close, let him do the talking and not engage any of the drunken students. He behaved as if she—essentially a tavern-keeper herself—had never been in an ale house before. By the time he steered her briskly to the crowded bar to inquire after Winston Martindale, she was roundly annoyed.
They were directed to one side of a massive fireplace, where two groups of young men in black robes were engaged in a rowdy and freewheeling dispute. As she and Jack approached, it became clear that their discourse was being refereed by a portly, red-faced fellow in a scholar’s robe and cap. He had on the table before him a stand holding a line of wooden beads, which he shuttled back and forth with sausage-like digits whenever one of the sides made a point. Martindale.
Oh, dear.
They watched for a few minutes, trying to make sense of the ale-fueled chaos. Between issuing “hear-hear’s” and awarding points in the debate, the pudgy professor gnawed on a roast turkey leg and sucked ale from a large tankard. Then he caught sight of Mariah watching him.
“Whoa-ho—we have company, ladsss!” he roared. “Mind your mannersss and make some room!” He shoved to his feet and beckoned. “Come, join usss, my lovely. And you, too—” he pointed at Jack with his drumstick “—whoever you are. Beer—get our visitors sssome beer!”
“Jack St. Lawrence, Professor Martindale. And this is Mrs. Eller.” Jack held his top hat with one hand and Mariah’s elbow with the other. He looked over the seats the students had vacated and urged Mariah forward. “We were hoping we might have a private word with you.”
A wave of oooh’s from the students and calls of “Winnie needs a word with a lai-dy!” mingled with derisive laughter and drunken male giggles. Winston ordered the students away, calling them ingrates and sophomoric twits and pelting them with crusts of bread. When the three were finally seated together at the ale-sticky table, Martindale wiped his greasy hands on his robe and looked Mariah over…a bit too appreciatively.
“Now what’s ssso urgent that it must interrupt my sssupervisionsss?”
That was when she noticed how odd the professor’s teeth were. Huge and unnaturally white…all exactly the same shape…like the staves of a picket fence. When his grin broadened, she saw that his gums were gray and realized that they—like his enormous teeth—were artificial. Which accounted for the mushy nature of his s’s.
“I never object to being interrupted by one of the Gracesss,” he said, reaching for her hand with smarmy familiarity. “Essspecially Beauty.”
“We are putting together a roster of speakers—” Mariah scrambled to concoct a story as she freed herself from his grasp “—for a lecture tour, and hope to include a professor who can address advances in modern knowledge. The topic of our tour will be ‘The Future: Are There Any Mysteries Left?’ We were given your name and hope to add you to our list of speakers.”
“Given my name?” He seemed delighted at first, but pleasure soon gave way to confusion. “By whom?”
Mariah turned to Jack, but he gave her a don’t-look-at-me-this-is-your-story scowl, and she answered with the name closest to her tongue.
“The Prince of Wales.”
“The Prince of—you got my name from the Prince of Wales? For a lissst of ssspeakersss?” He shook off some of his bleariness. Looking from Mariah to Jack and back, he was struck by a tardy burst of comprehension.
“But that’s not the lissst you truly mean, isss it? I’m on the lissst again!” He clapped his hands as a schoolboy does at the prospect of licorice whips. “They’ve put me back on the husssband lissst.” Then he astonished both Mariah and Jack by fixing her with a conspiratorial grin.
“Is it you?” he said with a giggle, barely able to keep himself in his chair. “Jenkies—you’re a beauty, my girl. You could do better than me.”
“What?” Mariah jerked back on the bench, grabbing Jack’s arm to steady herself. “What are you talking about?”
“They’ve put me back on the lissst to marry one of the prince’sss lady friends, right?” He looked around, as if trying out the notion in his head. “Usssed to be tried out quite regular. Thought those daysss were over.” He jiggled with excitement. “Mussst ’ave heard about my new teeth.” He turned his head from side to side, grinning like a Cheshire cat to show them off. “Imported, you know. From Germany. Quite the clever little craftsssmen, those Hunsss.”
To impress her further, he took them out—uppers and lowers—and put them on the table for her to admire.
She stared at that set of huge porcelain teeth with bits of turkey caught between them and clapped a hand over her mouth.
Jack was on his feet in a heartbeat and pulling her up. She was aware of him telling Martindale that he was sadly mistaken and that they would find someone else for their “lecture tour,” before ushering her out.
She was still seeing big porcelain-white teeth before her eyes when they reached the pavement outside.
“I told you it was no place for a lady,” he said in a choked voice as he propelled her along. “You should have listened and stayed at the hotel.”
“And miss seeing that?” She found her voice. “Not for all the tea in China.” The full impact of it hit her. “He just popped his teeth out of his head!” She stopped on the pavement, pantomimed him plopping them on the table in front her, and then burst into giggles of disbelief. “Lord—I thought he was going to insist I try them out! Can you imagine?” She bared her teeth, feigning she was bucktoothed, and clacked her uppers and lowers
together…before dissolving into full gales of laughter.
RELIEF ALLOWED Jack to chuckle at her expression. Then an internal barrier snapped and he joined her in shoulder-quaking laughs; the sort that dispel tension and remind people of their common ground in humor.
He hadn’t laughed like this in—well, in a very long time.
Weakened, she leaned against him. It seemed only natural to put an arm around her in support, and for the next few moments he gave himself over to the pleasure that migrated into him through that contact. His blood warmed as something new and precious unfolded around his heart.
Her eyes shimmered with moisture as she looked up, and he reached into his breast pocket, intending to offer her his handkerchief. Instead, he found himself dabbing her eyes. His other hand came up to cup her warm cheek and he stared down into dark-centered blue pools filled with genuine pleasure. A surge of protectiveness washed over him.
“Did you really get his name from the earl of Chester?” she asked.
He nodded, grappling with the strength of this new feeling.
“Though, I believe he did say it was his son’s recommendation.” He looked back at the doors of the Quill and Scroll. “The little sod. Probably had a good laugh handing over the name of his toothless old tutor.”
“Well, I had a good laugh, too, so I won’t hold it against him. Or against you. Though, I confess, I am losing all faith in this list of yours.”
“I had no idea, Mariah,” he said. “I was asked to solicit names from among the prince’s intimates and I…trusted their judgment.”
She winced as if she were about to confess a mortal sin.
“Heaven help me, I believe you.”
He offered her his arm as they began to walk and he set a leisurely pace that seemed perfect for the cool autumn night. Together they wound their way in companionable silence along the cobblestone streets beneath gas lamps that cast circles of soft golden light.
