The Promise of Change (6 page)

A pleasant two-hour train ride from London, Oxford’s Town Center was home to Oxford University’s thirty-nine colleges, including Christ Church, plus fine restaurants, lovely, old boutique hotels, and a very cosmopolitan population. Matthew Arnold’s ‘city of dreaming spires’ stood much as it had for hundreds of years.

Sarah’s excitement grew as Tom Tower, the Christopher Wren-designed entrance to Christ Church, came into view.

As the taxi pulled up outside Tom’s Gate, a friendly, bowler-hat-wearing porter stepped to the curb to open Sarah’s door, offering her a warm greeting and a pleasant smile. “Good day, miss. Welcome to Christ Church. I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

With her first glimpse of Tom’s Quad, she had an almost spiritual experience. Smiling broadly at the porter she replied, “I have no doubt I will.”

The week was off to a good start. Interesting and diverse people filled Sarah’s class, including a few men.

Her Victorian Era dorm was on the fifth floor of a five-story walk-up, so there would no lack of exercise, and the weather was unusually mild and sunny.

After sumptuous dinners in Tudor Hall, the evenings were filled with activities ranging from poetry readings to croquet and sparkling wine in the Master’s Garden, or in less high-brow pursuits like sampling Guinness at one of the local pubs.

Class discussions were lively and stimulating, and the added male viewpoint was enlightening. The two Austen books under consideration during the course were
Sense & Sensibility
and
Mansfield Park
.

Sarah sat among her classmates, pen and paper in hand taking notes as their tutor, Mr. Byrne, raised the question whether Austen’s male characters lack depth; whether they are worthy of the women who win them in the end.

Sean spoke in his lyrical Irish burr, “Austen’s men are not flat, depthless characters.”

Sean Daly looked like the last person you’d expect to see in a class on Jane Austen’s heroines. The twenty-something pub-owner looked as if he would be more comfortable behind his bar building pints of Guinness than in a class at Christ Church discussing Regency novels.

But underneath his tattooed and pierced exterior, he harbored a great love for literature. His pub, Brophy’s, was on the Dublin Literary Pub Crawl.

His brows puckered in concentration, drawing his eyebrow ring down, as he continued. “Austen’s men have the maturity to recognize the profundity of the women they come to love. Edward and Edmund couldn’t appreciate Elinor and Fanny, respectively, if they lacked the same discerning character themselves.”

Everyone’s brows shot up in response to his use of the word ‘profundity.’ It was a little like watching a biker discussing Wharton.

“That’s right. It takes a good man to recognize a good woman.” Mitch, wearing a silly grin on his face, put his arm around Darla and tugged her closer to him.

Darla and Mitch, an American couple, who when asked what brought them to Christ Church, explained that about four years ago they promised each other to take an active interest in the favored passions of the other.

Last year, Darla spent a week with Mitch at an NFL football camp. According to her, she’d ended the week bruised, battered, and sore, but having loved every minute of it.

This year, Mitch joined her for a week at Oxford. He had never read much of anything, much less Jane Austen. It was going to be interesting to see if he ended the week with the same enthusiasm with which Darla ended the NFL camp.

“Or, another good man,” Guy interjected with a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. Openly gay, Guy was the kind of guy that could be a girl’s best friend. He’d never had any interest in Jane Austen, or literature for that matter, until he saw Colin Firth in
Pride & Prejudice
and, in his words, “fell arse over tip in love.” This confession had broken the first-day ice, and had everyone laughing.

“I don’t think it’s fair to lump Edward and Edmund in with the likes of Willoughby and Henry Crawford,” Guy continued. “Those two are as shallow and feckless as they come. I wouldn’t give either of them the time of day, and I can’t understand why Marianne and Maria did either.”

“Sarah, you’re awfully quiet. What are your thoughts on Austen’s male characters?” Mr. Byrne had a way of pulling everyone into the discussion.

Sarah gave her response some thought, before responding. “Although Edward and Willoughby are guilty of the same sin—courting a woman when they are already attached—in the end, Edward redeems himself, albeit because his vapid little fiancée runs off with his brother.”

“But once he is free of his prior obligation, he is still willing to live on a small annual sum in order to marry Elinor, his true love. Willoughby, on the other hand, chooses wealth over the woman he professes so adamantly to love.”

“Well, ladies and gentleman, on that note, it is time for lunch.” Mr. Byrne gathered his books and notes as he spoke. “Before I forget, we leave Thursday at eight-thirty a.m. sharp. The coach will be waiting at the Tom’s Gate, so please be on time.”

Thursday was the class excursion to Chawton House and Winchester. The ladies in the class considered it their pilgrimage to Austen. The men in the class considered it an opportunity to visit the pubs in Winchester.

“Oh, Sarah, may I delay your lunch a moment?” Lady Clara Fraser, Dowager Countess of Rutherford, rounded out the class. According to Mr. Byrne, Lady Clara was considered the matriarch of Oxford.

She’d taken classes every week of Oxford’s five-week program for the last three years. Her effervescent personality and genuine warmth won the immediate affection of everyone in the class, but for some reason, she’d singled Sarah out as her ‘particular friend.’ This pleased Sarah greatly, since she felt an instant connection to her.

Sarah smiled into the sparkling eyes of a woman who reminded her a little of Queen Elizabeth II, matronly, but regal, sure of who she was and her place in the world.

“Do you have plans tomorrow afternoon?”

“No. Some of the others are taking a tour of the Oxford breweries at the request of the men, but I wasn’t planning to join them.”

“I would like to have you to tea at Rutherford Hall, if you’re so inclined.”

“I would love to. Thank you for your kind invitation.”

“Lovely. My car will pick you up at two-thirty at the Canterbury Gate.”

“Thank you.” Sarah already knew better than to argue with Lady Clara about the transportation arrangements. Once Lady Clara made up her mind, not even the Queen herself could change it. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Lady Clara watched Sarah hurry to catch up with her group, before turning to walk towards the aforementioned gate where her car would be waiting for her. Lady Clara smiled to herself. Yes, she thought, she would do very well.

The smells of hops and barley, cigarette smoke, and fish and chips filled the low-ceilinged, wood-beam and plaster room. The sixteenth century pub overflowed with both Oxford locals and international visitors.

The ladies sat on bar stools, while the men hovered, sampling pints of stout and cracking good-natured jokes. Sarah sipped from a pint of ale and listened to the boisterous conversation of her newfound friends.

Kim Haynes, a fellow American, sat next to Sarah. Her small frame, delicate coloring, and pixie features seemed out of place with what they’d come to call her Texas-sized personality.

Kim graduated from high school and was taking a year off before going to college at Yale University. Sarah smiled as Kim flirted outrageously with the handsome young man behind the bar. Those Ivy League boys were in for a surprise when they encountered this steel magnolia.

Sean wore a slight frown as he watched the exchange. It looked to Sarah like a crush had developed there, at least on his side.

Marie Gaudet sat on the other side of Kim. Her lovely French accent stood out among the various English dialects spoken by the other pub patrons. She was a lovely young woman from the South of France whose midnight black hair, ultra short fringe bangs, and patrician features reminded Sarah of a young Audrey Hepburn. Her flamboyant Bohemian dress was in direct contrast to Lady Clara’s somewhat matronly style.

Guy sipped his beer, making a face, while Sean and Mitch laughed, obviously at his expense. Sean and Mitch treated Guy like, well, one of the guys, regardless of his sexual orientation. It pleased Sarah to see the camaraderie among them.

She overheard snippets of their conversation. Despite their reminders that Colin was a married heterosexual, Guy hadn’t given up hope.

“If the handsome, rich Mr. Darcy can fall for a woman purportedly beneath his station then, Colin Firth can fall for a lovesick gay guy from the East End,” he said, taking another sip of his beer, shuddering this time as it went down.

Their little group had become tight-knit in a short period of time. They ate all their meals together, and yesterday toured the other Oxford colleges, between the compulsory stops to the city’s oldest and most renowned pubs. On Friday, weather permitting, they planned to have a picnic in the Master’s Garden, their own private goodbye.

Sean squeezed between Sarah and Kim, trying to commandeer Kim’s attention, but she continued her banter with the bartender. Hoping to distract Sean, Sarah asked, “Your love of literature notwithstanding, what made you pick up Jane Austen?”

“I’ve read all the great male writers, James Joyce, Henry James, Trollope, so I thought it was time to see what the Jane Austen craze was all about. All the women I know go all dreamy when they talk of her novels.” He wore a roguish expression as he continued. “I’m after thinking I could learn a thing or two.”

Sarah laughed. “Are you sure it wasn’t just an excuse to meet women?”

“Ah, Sarah, you’ve got me pegged,” he replied before a question from Kim captured his attention.

Just then someone bumped into Sarah causing her to spill the beer she held to her lips. A sharp rebuke on her lips, she turned and looked into the warmest coffee-brown eyes she’d ever seen. The words froze on her tongue.

“I beg your pardon.” He spoke in a refined British accent, a dimple forming at the corner of his mouth. When Sarah didn’t move to clean up the spill, he picked up a napkin and taking her hand, began the task himself.

“Please, allow me. Although I’m afraid your hand will be rather sticky until you wash up with soap and water.”

His hands were warm on hers as he gently wiped her wrist and hand.

“I suppose if I’m holding your hand, I should at least introduce myself. I’m Alex Fraser.”

She noticed his eyes crinkled around the corners when he smiled. Sarah still couldn’t find the function of speech.

“Hey, Mick, hand me a clean damp cloth.” He spoke to the bartender who’d been the focus of Kim’s attention, and Sean’s ire.

“And you are . . .” he asked, his brow lifted.

“Oh, I’m Sarah, Sarah Edwards.”

“Thanks, Mick,” he said, as he took the damp cloth and cleaned the remaining beer residue from her hand. “Well, Sarah, the least I can do is buy you another drink.” Before Sarah could protest, Alex turned back to Mick. “Mick, bring Sarah here another of what she was drinking.”

“Sure, mate.” As Mick worked the tap, he asked Alex, “How’ve you been? Any new movies in the works?”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, as she took the glass from Mick. She frowned. Was he an actor? A bit embarrassed, she wondered if she should recognize him.

He smiled at Mick as he spoke. His charming British lilt carried the cadence of the British upper class, not unlike that of Prince William or Prince Harry, in a voice smooth as satin against silk.

Dimples framed an engaging smile. Casually tousled, his dark wavy hair evoked thoughts of discarded clothes, rumpled bed sheets, and whispered promises. Sarah realized the bed she pictured in her juicy little imagination was hers. She looked down as he glanced at her, mortified at the direction of her thoughts.

She risked another glance, and found his attention directed at Mick once again, giving her an opportunity to further examine his features. A clean shaven face stretched taut over a strong, square jaw enhanced all the aforementioned male beauty.

Her attention returned to the conversation when Alex said something about filming a BBC adaptation of one of the many so-called Darcy novels, which re-imagines
Pride and Prejudice, f
rom the perspective of Mr. Darcy.

“I’m sorry I don’t recognize you. You’re an actor?”

“Yes, and no apologies, please.”

His polished manners were out of place in the decidedly unpolished atmosphere of the pub, and seemed more fitting for a waistcoat and trousers, rather than the blue jeans and navy T-shirt he wore.

“My work hasn’t made it across the pond as yet. But to answer your question, I have been in three BBC adaptations of somewhat obscure literary works. Rather stodgy plots by today’s standards.”

“What is obscure to some may not be obscure to others. Are we talking really obscure works like
Abelard and Heloise,
or just mildly obscure works like
Middlemarch?
” She’d recovered her footing now that they talked literature.