In Love with a Gentleman (8 page)

Each morning, Abby awakens me with a cup of tea, which she brings to my bedside. The first morning, I was scared out of my wits to see someone entering my room at dawn. The shadow moved to the window and pulled the curtain back, so that the first rays of sunlight hit me right in the eyes. “Good morning, love, I’ve got your tea,” she said.

I’ve tried to dissuade her from this habit, especially since she makes no exception for days off when I can sleep in over the days that I have to go to school. Abby is relentless. A good English hostess brings a cup of tea to her guest’s bedside every morning, and that’s final!

At this point, I’ve found I’m no longer completely against it. I shove my pillow under my head, grab the cup, and pull the blanket under my chin to keep warm. Then I bring the cup to my mouth with numb fingers. The warm, strong drink gives me the courage to push back the bedcovers and face the room’s frigid air.

One afternoon I visit the Seafields and complain to Melissa about my cold bed.

“How do the English endure such strange bedding?” I ask. I can speak frankly with Melissa. It’s fun for her to hear my comments on English lifestyle.

“How many pillows do you have on your bed?” she asks.

“Only one, of course,” I say. “At first I had four—heaven only knows why—but I gave Abby three of them back. Now I only have one.”

“Oh,” says Melissa, “that was a big mistake.”

“Why?”

“Because you need the pillows to keep you warm. Here in England, you stuff them on the right and left side of your body under the bedcovers. That’s how we stay warm.”

Help! Why didn’t anybody tell me this before? Now the pillows are gone. I suppose I can tell Abby that I want the pillows back, but instead I buy a hot-water bottle. Every evening I fill it with boiling water in Abby’s kitchen and take it to my icy bedroom. Then I curl up under the cold sheets with it, hoping I can fall asleep before it gets cold. Abby notices this undeniable I-am-cold signal, and very soon I’m lying underneath three heavy wool blankets, pressed flat like a fly between the pages of a book. Not good. Making the bed each morning is now an especially tedious task, because I have to sort out the sheets and three blankets, smooth them on the bed, then tuck everything under the mattress. Then I drape the pink bedspread on top of it. It’s maddening.

But I hadn’t counted on the exuberant graciousness of the old couple. One day at lunch, they wink meaningfully at each other. The whole afternoon and evening, the air crackles with excitement, but I don’t know why. As the evening in front of the TV begins, Glen disappears, then returns. What are these two up to? Later, as I lie in bed, the penny drops. My bed is comfortably preheated. From beneath the sheets, a cord leads to an electric socket. I’m now equipped with an electric blanket. What other wonders are in store for me in this bizarre little house?

Just as I’m snuggling under my mountain of blankets, Abby discreetly knocks at the door, then looks in.

“Well, is that better now?” she asks, beaming at me.

“Absolutely,” I say truthfully. “Many, many thanks!”

“The only thing is, the store said that you can’t fall asleep with the blanket switched on. You’ll have to pull the plug now.”

I obediently hop out of bed and unplug it, then quickly dive back under the covers. Abby wishes me good night and disappears. After about ten minutes, though, the miracle blanket and the entire bed cool off again. In frustration, I bite into my one and only pillow.

I try the electric blanket for a couple of nights. I even plug it in three hours before going to bed. Again, it becomes cold ten minutes after I unplug it. As I’m preparing the hot-water bottle, Glen and Abby make dubious faces.

“Dear,” Glen says, “if you use the hot-water bottle, then the electric blanket could be destroyed.”

Argh! What now? With a heavy heart, I remove the electric blanket, fold it neatly, and give it back to my hosts. Abby frowns, obviously disappointed. Two days later, their bedroom door is cracked open and I recognize the telltale cord peeking out from under their bedding. The electric blanket has found a new home.

The next morning, Mr. Henley asks how I like my accommodations. I confess that I don’t know where I can study in the little house.

“I discussed it with your hosts,” he replies. “You can study in the dining room. You can use the dining table as a desk, and there’s also heating in there.”

Oh, so it’s already been planned. Of course, I don’t tell him that Abby and Glen eat their meals on a camping table in the living room to save on heating costs. I don’t want to embarrass them. So, in the evenings, I curl up on the armchair in the living room, trying to understand D. H. Lawrence novels through dense clouds of tobacco smoke and the earsplitting racket of television soap operas. I gradually get quite good at blocking out everything around me.

Sometimes Abby falls asleep while watching TV. When she wakes up, she’s racked by a terrible cough.

“Abby,” I say, “you smoke too much. You need to quit.”

“Oh no,” she replies. “That has nothing to do with it. I inherited sensitive lungs from my mother.”

Why don’t I just search for new accommodations?
Mainly because it’s extremely difficult to find something here in the village. I could search in neighboring towns, but then I would have to take a long bus ride to school every morning. The Lanes’ house borders school property; I’m at work in two minutes. And something else—I’ve become quite fond of the old couple. They are so touchingly concerned with my well-being. For example, I mention one day how nice it would be to have a bicycle. The next day, Glen comes home with an old beat-up bike that he borrowed from a sister. The bike is black, heavy, and at least fifty years old, but Glen greases up the chain, inflates the tires, and shows me where to park the old wreck in the shed.

Now I can explore the area with my new bike. I cycle on country roads, over stubbly fields, and into villages. I discover old churches and dreamy parsonages. The sunny, mild autumn weather is perfect for bicycling. However, nights are bitterly cold.

Catherine also borrows a bicycle, and we take bike tours together. We constantly stop to take pictures so that we can impress our loved ones back home with the beauty of the landscape. Neither of us has Internet where we live, so we often visit the local library, where we can use the Wi-Fi and upload our photos onto Facebook.

When I log on to Facebook, I discover a friend request:
Jens Heller would like to be your friend
.
Who? I don’t know him. My first inclination is to click “Reject,” but I inspect the profile photo more closely. Oh, now I know who it is. It’s my savior from the night at the casino, sweet Jens, who invited me to the Italian restaurant. I hesitate a moment, then click “Accept.” He was so nice to me; it would be rude to reject his request.

Now that I have access to his Facebook page, I poke around a bit. There are some cuddly childhood photos, along with pictures of the adult Jens at his sister’s wedding. He is wearing a dark suit and looks quite dashing, as he had as a chauffeur. There’s a photo of Jens with a small dog sitting on his lap, and one where the dog is bigger. Then I watch a video of the dog doing elaborate tricks, some of them quite impressive. Training this dog must have been quite an undertaking. There are a few pictures from the Mediterranean Sea, at some sort of hot springs resort. Jens doesn’t look bad in his bathing suit.

I look for a Facebook profile for Ethan, but I turn up an error message that says,
Sorry, we couldn’t find any results for this search
. It figures. I didn’t expect anything else from my mysterious, handsome heartthrob.

There are some advantages to living in a closed-off, stuffy house like Walnut Cottage. I’m practically forced to get out of the house and find something to do. I register for a French course; I’ve always regretted not having studied the language in school. Catherine and I join the local tennis club, too, although neither one of us knows how to play. We sign up for lessons, and as soon as we have a couple of hours under our belts, we get the keys to the village tennis court and play until our wrists ache and our arms are heavy.

One day at lunch, Anne asks us, “How would you two like to meet me and a few other colleagues at the pub? We go to the Bell quite often—it’s on the main road. We’d love to have you there.”

Anything is better than watching
Crossroads
through a thick blanket of tobacco smoke. Catherine’s sentiments must mirror mine exactly. She immediately asks, “When will you be there next?”

“How about tonight at eight o’clock?”

“Great, we’ll be there,” I say.

That evening, we push open the pub’s door and find the place is already packed. Catherine and I stand at the door, looking around the room for quite some time until we finally find our colleagues seated in a rear corner. As we approach the group, Anne shouts a cheerful greeting. At her behest, everyone moves closer together to make room for us. We sit on a bench by the window. Catherine is on my left, and Ethan is pressed firmly against my right side.

I’m madly in love with him, but his direct proximity feels a little too intense at this delicate stage of infatuation. Ethan’s body feels solid and muscular. He smells like good aftershave. His presence has such a strong physical impact on me that the entire right half of my body glows, as if I have a massive sunburn. To make matters worse, Ethan and I are so tightly crushed together that he has to put his arm around the back of my bench so he doesn’t fall out of his seat altogether. I try to relax, but my body trembles all over. If he’s really as much of a ladies’ man as people say, he must notice. I’m torn. Half of me wants to jump up and flee the pub, the other wants to stay here forever.

“What do you want to drink?” Anne asks us. “Since I’m the one who lured you out, the first round is on me.”

Catherine opts for her beloved crème de menthe, but I vacillate. I could drink a beer, but English beer is so different from German. I still haven’t gotten used to it.

“I’d like a malt whiskey—neat,” I finally say.

I swear I feel Ethan’s body shudder next to me. But why?

Anne looks at me in amusement. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, very,” I say.

She goes to the bar to get our drinks.

Ethan shakes his head. “Do you even know what a malt whiskey is?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s made with malted barley roasted over a peat fire. That’s why it tastes so wonderfully round and smoky.”

“Hmm,” Ethan says. “I’m surprised you have experience in the matter, considering your tender, young age.”

Annoyed, I sit up as straight as I possibly can and unsuccessfully try to scoot away from him. “How young do you think I am?” I ask.

“Nineteen,” he says.

“Ha!” I reply. “I’m twenty-three.”

“Even if you were thirty, malt whiskey would be the wrong drink for you. Only old men drink it here in England,” Ethan says.

“That’s ridiculous,” I say hotly. “Why should old men be the only ones to treat themselves to a good whiskey?”

“Because it’s unusual for sweet, young things to drink whiskey,” Ethan replies.

Here we go again. Unusual. It’s no surprise I’m at the end of my rope. I look askance at him. My goodness, he’s so handsome! He has very long lashes for a man. His hair is relatively long, and his enviable curls wreathe his face. He often pushes his hair away from his forehead. I would love to run my hands through those curls just to see how they feel.

Anne comes back with a tray and sets our drinks in front of us.

“Cheers,” she says. “It’s so great that you’re both here, too!”

We raise our glasses, and I sip my whiskey. Mmm. It tastes just like the whiskey I had during my semester in Lancaster. I’m not a big drinker; I’ll nurse this one glass the whole evening. But I do know how to appreciate a fine drink. I close my eyes and try to imagine myself in a low, thatched cottage in the Highlands. The malted, smoky taste makes me think of the wide-open, mountainous countryside with sheep grazing on a distant green hill. But as soon as the sharp alcohol hits my stomach, I realize I should have chosen an ale. I become very warm, then my cheeks get ruddy. This always happens when I indulge in a stiff drink.

I suddenly realize that Ethan’s arm, which was on the back of the bench, is now casually resting on my shoulder, as if it belongs there.

I’m getting so warm that I feel as though I’m going to spontaneously combust. I look around the table. My colleagues are laughing and chatting comfortably. No one seems to notice my turmoil. Good thing. What about Ethan? He engages in conversation occasionally but is conspicuously silent most of the time. His arm remains on my shoulders, and I don’t shake it off. It feels so good where it is. My heart’s beating so hard I’m positive Ethan can feel it.

When Ethan says something, his deep voice buzzes in my ear. His breath smells a little like beer, but it’s not at all unpleasant. The whiskey makes me talkative. I chat about my semester abroad in Turkey. I experienced so many fascinating things there the stories just bubble out of me. The others find my descriptions and anecdotes amusing, and I realize I’ve become the center of attention. And the whole time, like the hum of a rotating gyroscope, the closeness of my dream man envelops me. I feel every twitch of his muscular arm. Every once in a while, I feel his arm press ever so slightly on my shoulder.

A little voice in the back of my head asks,
Is his arm there because it has no other place to go, or is it a caress? Is Ethan trying to give me some sort of sign? If so, does it mean he has feelings for me
? Then I think of Linda’s warnings. Maybe I should gently but firmly duck out from under his arm and move away a bit. But I can’t bring myself to do that. Every fiber of my being is screaming for me to stay right where I am.

Eventually, Ethan shifts his weight and removes his arm. I hold my breath and wait, hoping to feel it again. Sure enough, he places it back around my shoulders. This time, it’s even heavier and warmer.

He whispers something very softly in my ear, so that only I can hear it, “You’re ridiculously beautiful, you know that?”