I stood at the entranceway of the dining hall and waited, trembling. Doorways in this fortress were small and unmarked, almost hidden except for those who knew what they were. I entered slowly, blinking in the dim light. Dark paneled and cavernous, the room seemed built for men of knowledge, for fine literature and discourse of philosophy. Great oil paintings hung from the walls, portraits of men in robes with striped stoles around their necks, unsmiling and serious men. The tables were long and rectangular, set for lunch with white napkins tented at each place setting and sparkling crystal glassware awaiting the sherry. Dark brass chandeliers hung low, casting circles of light. At the end of the room a long table was set up on a foot-high platform, and there sat the dons in their black robes. The high table. Stained glass windows watched over the room, and a carved stone fireplace dominated the left wall.
I wanted this room to be mine.
I adjusted my dark-blue plate hat and smiled as widely as I knew how, but my thoughts were preoccupied with one thing: I needed to find a ladies’ room. It had been a lovely but long walk from Victoria’s guesthouse, and I shouldn’t have had the last two cuppas before I left.
Jack spotted me before I did him.
“Good afternoon, Joy.” He approached me with a smile that settled on me with warmth, as if we met for lunch every day. He wore the same tie as he had yesterday, and his black robe hung unbuttoned over his gray suit, his spectacles poking above the pocket of his jacket as if to spy what was happening.
“Thank you so much for having me here.”
It was my accent that made the men turn from their plates to stare. Another man drew near. “Well, good afternoon. You must be Mrs. Gresham. How very much I’ve enjoyed your letters.” The man was shorter than Jack, but I knew who he was immediately, his sincere smile and earnest eyes the giveaway.
“And you must be Warnie.” I smiled. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to meet you.”
Warnie’s face was much rounder than Jack’s, and his chin seemed to fade into his neck, but his smile lit his features. He wore a similarly drab suit but without the robe. His tie was askew, as was his smile, and he was charming in his rumpled way.
“We’re pleased you’ve come to visit,” he said from under the hood of a bushy moustache.
And with that greeting, Jack guided us out of the main room and through the arched hallways to a private dining area where lunch was set for us. We settled into the warm stone room, the dark wood and towering bookshelves nearly making me forget the press of my bladder. The deep plush furniture seemed made for men to sit and light their pipes and read to their hearts’ content. What did it say of me that I felt more comfortable there than in any ladies’ sitting parlor?
Jack turned to greet another man, and I turned to Warnie. “Is there anywhere in this man’s enclave that a woman might relieve herself?” I asked, slightly desperate by then.
Thank goodness Jack and his acquaintance didn’t hear. As it was, Warnie blushed and averted his eyes. Women must not talk about the bathroom in this country.
He pointed me in the right direction and off I went. My low heels clicked against the cobblestones. Instead of feeling embarrassed, I experienced a flash of envy: I wanted to be a part of a place like this—a tutor, an academic, a writer of great import. I wanted so much. But I’d start with lunch.
In the wavy and dusty mirror over the sink in the lavatory, I stared into my own wide eyes, surrounded by horn-rimmed glasses. What did Jack and Warnie see? I swiped on red lipstick and smoothed my hair. Not bad at all.
I returned to have sherry poured into cut-glass goblets, and I drank mine too quickly, feeling the soft buzz that came with it. Far-off bells rang and then more, echoing upon one another’s cymbal-sounding peals.
“It seems that bells never stop ringing around here,” I said. “From your high pinnacled towers.” I feigned covering my ears.
“Yes, our bells in the various colleges are off a few minutes here and there,” Jack said and waved his hand toward the window. “Not as congruent as we’d like.”
I allowed my attention to wander as I glanced around, pausing at the words etched on the Magdalen crest. “Floreat Magdalena,” I murmured. “‘Let flourish . . .’”
“You read Latin?” Jack asked me.
“Excuse me?”
He pointed to the crest.
“Oh. Yes. Latin, German, and French. I’ve taught myself Greek, but I’m a bit rusty. The Latin and Greek tend to flip over into each other sometimes.” I paused, embarrassed, afraid that I sounded like a braggart. “My college roommate, Belle, spoke Russian, but I never could quite get the hang of it. But you know more languages than I do, Jack. Latin, Greek, French, and Italian. Probably some others as well.”