The Oxford Inheritance (2 page)

THE PORTRAITS TOOK AN HOUR, INTERRUPTED BY THE PLAYFUL
roughhousing of a group of boys and sharp gusts of wind that sent papers skittering through the courtyard. Finally, they were finished, but before Cassie could collect her bags and go collapse, she was steered away from the gatehouse.

“You're due at the Master's Tea now,” said a brisk-looking student as he consulted his clipboard.

“I've been traveling all day,” Cassie explained, her exhaustion hitting hard. “I'll take a shower first, and go later.”

He stared, surprised. “It's in the schedule. You only get a short slot. Attendance is mandatory.”

Cassie opened her mouth to protest, then bit it back. She was supposed to be as eager as the rest of her group, already clustered ahead on the paved pathway. “Tea it is, then,” she agreed.

“His lodgings are across campus. Neil will take your tour.” He nodded to another helpful-looking student outfitted in the crimson Raleigh scarf.

Lodgings.
It was just one of the foreign words that Cassie was learning. An American in England, there was already a language barrier, but in the few hours since she'd arrived, it had become clear that Oxford University was a world of its own. A federated system of colleges scattered across the city, it was a place with singular rules, culture, and even language. From eavesdropping on her new classmates, Cassie had already learned that Rutledge and the staff were known as porters; the gatehouse, the porters' lodge. But there was a cacophony of words that
were still a mystery to her, even as the students around her dropped the phrases so casually: junior common room, the buttery, pidges and tutes, Michaelmas and Trinity terms.

Cassie fell in behind her tour group, following the paved pathways that crisscrossed the lush quad.

“It wasn't just Sir Walter Raleigh who founded the college.” Neil led them along, speaking loudly. “A circle of influential academics and thinkers of the era all contributed to Raleigh College's place at the forefront of Elizabethan public life. The famous astronomer Thomas Hariot, playwright Christopher Marlowe—they all gathered here to debate new ideas and share their visionary work.”

Cassie knew the history. Raleigh wasn't the oldest of the Oxford schools, nor the richest, but it had an exclusive pedigree all the same. Founded by Sir Walter Raleigh in the late 1500s with the proceeds of his Spanish Armada plunder, the college sat on the outskirts of the city, a small kingdom of sandstone battlements and rolling lawns that stretched all the way to the moss-laden banks of the river Cherwell. The glossy prospectus she'd read boasted of the great halls and neat grassy quads, a hushed, wood-beamed library; richly appointed residence halls and open cloisters; and carved sandstone walls that kept the bustle and traffic of the city at bay. But here in person, it was enough to take her breath away, the history and beauty of the estate undeniable in its rich splendor.

“You have to remember,” their enthusiastic tour guide continued, “that in a time when the church still had an iron grip on academic inquiry, the founding of the college was seen by some to be a revolutionary act. Many charged the group with plotting treasonous acts.”

“Like that secret society?” One of the girls in the group spoke up.

There was laughter. Cassie looked around, wondering what the joke was. The tour guide noticed her confusion.

“Sir Walter Raleigh and his compatriots were the source of much speculation. Even Shakespeare jokingly referred to them as the School
of Night, due to the dark robes they supposedly wore during their meetings.”

“Please,” one of the boys beside her muttered. “If people are talking about your secret society, you're hardly secret anymore.”

“Does this mean you won't be pledging Bullingdon?” his friend asked, smirking.

“Now, let's not be too hasty . . .” He laughed.

Cassie hung back, absorbing the battlements and buildings she felt she already knew by heart. They wound their way across campus, finally arriving at the master's residence: a stately building in more of the original sandstone, surrounded by rolling lawns and rose arbors, its Elizabethan architecture untouched by the ages. Inside, the space was equally as imposing: a grand staircase rose up from the corner of the foyer, walls were papered in thick hunter green paper, and there were deep carpets and antique side tables.

“And here we are,” Neil announced. “Good luck, and remember, don't be nervous. We're all family here at Raleigh.”

Family.
The word lingered with Cassie as she stepped into the formal sitting room, where two dozen anxious undergraduates already milled around, chatting nervously as they clutched plates of cheese and crackers and tried not to spill wine on the brocade-upholstered couches. It was a mixer, of sorts, with professors and staff. The first chance for them to get to know the new students—and for her classmates to make a good impression.

The others made a beeline for the nearest professor. Cassie headed for the buffet table instead. She filled her plate with relief, her stomach growling after a long day with nothing but dry airline food and vending machine snacks. She found a seat on an empty couch and dug in.

“Chavez was from Argentina, right?” A young man sank heavily on the couch beside her. He was plump and sweating, dark patches already showing beneath the arms of his shirt.

“Venezuela,” she replied.

He blinked. “I just spent ten minutes talking to Professor Kenmore about his nationalization of Argentinean industries.” The horror of his mistake dawned. The boy paled. “Oh God.” He lurched up again and fled toward the hall, knocking into another scholar as he passed. The woman stumbled, spilling her tea on the cream carpet in a dark stain.

The chatter paused for a moment, every single student giving silent thanks that they hadn't been the one to make such a clumsy mistake.

Cassie took in the tense postures and anxiously darting eyes, feeling a strange kinship with all these nervous strangers. She may have been older, and had already experienced a life they couldn't imagine, but today they shared the same need to blend in, to prove they belonged here. Their reasons may have been different, but the stakes were high for each and every one of them. Their futures were on the line.

Cassie finished her food and reluctantly began to mingle. She had stopped to examine a row of stern-faced portraits on the wall when a gravelly voice behind her announced, “Kit Marlowe.”

Cassie turned to find the master of the college himself beside her. He was dressed in an old-fashioned navy pin-striped suit, with a shiny balding head and a face made stern by the heavy lines of age. “He was one of Raleigh's dearest friends, of course,” he continued. “We have a first edition set of his plays in the library archive. You're welcome to look, but sadly, we had to preserve them against decay, so you won't be able to browse the pages as he intended.” He held out his hand. “We've yet to be introduced. Sir Edmund Castle.”

“Cassandra Blackwell.”

The master's handshake was firm, his expression friendly. “I take from the accent you're one of our transfer students.”

“Yes, I am. Junior year abroad,” Cassie explained. “From Smith.”

“Excellent college.” Sir Edmund pumped her hand again. “Welcome, welcome. How are you finding it so far?”

“It's . . . kind of overwhelming,” she replied, then added quickly. “The college has such beautiful grounds, and so much history.”

“Finest in Oxford,” he agreed. “But I may be a little biased. You know I was a student here myself, eons ago. And taught here, too.”

Cassie nodded. She'd been fixated on Raleigh for years now, and there wasn't much she didn't have filed away in her notebooks and research file. Sir Edmund had distinguished himself as a mathematician and published several books before leaving academia for the rewards of the private sector. He'd made his fortune in hedge funds, then been knighted for services to the country's economy and finally had returned to Raleigh to serve out a genteel retirement padding the college endowment and playing host to visiting dignitaries. “I read your book on game theory,” she told him, in an effort to make conversation. “I found your thesis fascinating.”

“Did you now?” Sir Edmund looked at her afresh. “Are you a mathematician?”

“No,” she answered quickly. “I was just reading for my own interest. I came across your work while I was researching the college.”

“Very thorough.” He assessed her with interest. “So what drew you to our fair shores, Miss Blackwell? It's a long way to come, and the slots for foreign students are mighty competitive.”

Cassie took a breath. This was the question she'd prepared for and had been asked several times over during the application process and alumni interview back in Boston. “It's always been a dream of mine,” Cassie said. “My parents traveled a little in England when they were young, so I grew up listening to stories about the city, and all the colleges. I think they had an Oxford calendar pinned above my bed before I learned how to read,” she added, with a casual laugh.

Sir Edmund chuckled. “Well, they must be very proud of you.”

“Oh, they are.” Cassie smiled fondly, as if at a memory. “They're already planning their visit.”

Sir Edmund looked away, catching sight of someone. He raised his voice. “Tremain! Come meet another of the Americans. Cassie, this is
Matthew Tremain. He's in charge of all you study-abroad folks, pastoral care, and the like.”

They were joined by another man, this one in his forties, perhaps, and with none of Sir Edmund's polished style. He had a cautious, absentminded look about him, with two-day stubble and unkempt chestnut hair; his crumpled pin-striped shirt trailed from worn corduroy trousers.

“Pleased to meet you.” Cassie reached to shake his hand, and, after a moment jostling his teacup and plate of biscuits, the professor managed to reciprocate.

“Blackwell, Blackwell . . .” Tremain's gaze darted over her, curious. “Oh, yes. Smith. PPE,” he added, using the Oxford term for politics, philosophy, and economics, Cassie's chosen field of study. “You'll be taking philosophy with me this semester. I left a note in your pidge.”

“Pidge?” she asked, hearing the strange word again.

“Pigeonhole,” Sir Edmund clarified for her. “I forget how it all sounds to a foreigner. The wooden cubbies, in the porters' lodge. We use them for mail.”

“Oh, right.” Cassie added the term to her library of curious Oxford phrases.

“The professor here is a Raleigh institution,” Sir Edmund explained. “He was a student of mine, back in the day. How long ago is it now . . . ?”

“Almost twenty-five years,” Tremain supplied, and Cassie could swear she heard a note of resignation in his voice.

“Good student, too,” Sir Edmund continued, “except he'd always leave things until the last minute. When was that time you pushed an essay under my door just ten minutes before your tute?” He warned Cassie, “You won't get away with that kind of thing.”

Tremain's eyes met Cassie's for a moment with a faintly impatient expression. It was clear that these anecdotes had been told many times before. Nonetheless, Sir Edmund continued reminiscing. “Where does the time go?” He let out a dramatic sigh. “Feels like only last week I was
marking essays and telling you all off for making too much noise in the bar. We'll all be in the grave before long. What do you say, Tremain; they should dig out a corner of the meadow for us, ensure we never have to leave.”

“Quite,” Tremain replied.

“Were things very different here, when you were a student?” Cassie asked.

“Well, there was no Internet, for one thing,” he said, scathing. “At least, not like there is now. If you wanted to plagiarize something, you had to copy it out of the book yourself, not just cut and paste from Wikipedia.”

“No, I mean the student experience,” Cassie pressed. “The culture.”

Tremain smiled, a thin, almost rueful look. “Nothing ever really changes in Oxford. Especially here.” He turned to Sir Edmund abruptly. “We should circulate. Miss Blackwell, perhaps we can set up that chat, go over some of the academic details?”

Sir Edmund shook her hand again. “A pleasure. I hope your time here is very productive. And be sure to take a look at the Marlowe manuscripts, but no touching!”

They moved off, Tremain quickly putting distance between them and striding to the other side of the salon while Sir Edmund landed on a new group of students and began shaking hands. Cassie lingered a moment longer, then, restless, slipped out of the room.

To her right was the main entrance foyer, echoing with stilted laughter, so she turned left instead and wandered deeper into the house, her footsteps light on the polished wooden floor. Away from the party, the hallway was still. She explored the rest of the rooms in turn, finding a cloakroom with an old porcelain sink, and a formal dining room—a table set for sixteen, with gleaming candlesticks and heavy leather place mats. It was like wandering a museum, but this was somebody's home: a place to live and work, surrounded by all these brocade-trimmed ghosts of time gone by. At the end of the hallway, she opened a heavy oak door
on a dim room presided over by a large mahogany desk and ceiling-high bookcases. This must be Sir Edmund's study.

Cassie wavered a moment on the threshold. This was surely out of bounds, and somebody would soon miss her absence from the main group, but curiosity won; she stepped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar to hear anyone approach in the hall.

It was a large room, paneled with wooden inserts on the walls, and set with somber oil paintings in heavy, gilt-edged frames. Cassie drifted to the desk. It was laid with papers and a row of matching fountain pens, the wood covered with a dark leather blotter. Old habits took over, and she rifled briefly through the papers, but they were basic administrative correspondence: memos on a pay dispute with the groundsmen, a survey on the structural integrity of the cloisters. Her fingertips traced the grained wood and thick papers; she smelled sandalwood, and something darker and acrid: the faint scent of tobacco smoke, lingering in the air.