The Promise of Change (7 page)

Alex was pleasantly surprised to find such erudite conversation in his favorite pub. The large student-population notwithstanding, the conversation of even the most educated in Oxford often turned to more base topics when alcohol was involved.

Who was this beautiful American, and what was she doing in an Oxford pub discussing literature as if she were an academic? She was a far cry from the bookish tutors with whom he was familiar.

Her hair fell in mink-colored waves around her shoulders, and he imagined they were just as soft and silky. He longed to brush the heavy locks back so he could catch a glimpse of that lovely neck. Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds that changed with her emotions. First fiery when she’d turned to deliver a set-down at his now-fortuitous collision then, warm as the conversation turned to literature.

No. He was sure he’d never felt this attraction for any of his female tutors.

“Well, my first role was as Jude Fawley in Thomas Hardy’s
Jude the Obscure,
”—he grinned and shrugged when he said ‘obscure’—“followed by Angel Clare in
Tess of the d’Ubervilles,
also by Hardy. But my most recent role was in a remake of
Mansfield Park
, in which I played Edmund Bertram.”

She raised a neatly trimmed brow. “I gather you enjoy period pieces.”

“Certainly. It gives me an opportunity to explore history and culture in a way my imagination never could. I get to live it, if only for a short time. I enjoy the experience of being transported to a world that no longer exists.”

“Everything okay Sarah?” The burly, tattooed man next to her asked. Her boyfriend perhaps? He didn’t seem at all her type.

“I’m fine Sean, thank you.”

She turned back to face him. No. Their body language wasn’t that of a romantic couple, and his interest appeared to be on the young woman sitting to her right.

Taking a sip of his beer, he continued the discussion, hoping to satisfy his curiosity. “So, obscurity is in the eye of the beholder, to butcher an old cliché. What is it you do that Jude Fawley is, well, not so obscure?”

“I’m a lawyer, er, well, currently I’m an out-of-work lawyer.”

He raised his eyebrows, not expecting that response, neither the fact that she was a lawyer and not some literary scholar, nor the fact that she was unemployed. The light in her eyes momentarily dimmed when she mentioned her employment status.

“But I majored in literature in college, and love to read books with stodgy plots,” she said, eyes bright again.

“What brings you to Oxford?”

“I’m here studying at Christ Church. These are some of my classmates.” She waved her hand, indicating her friends gathered at the bar.

Ah yes, of course. Spending much of his time in London, he forgot about the summer educational programs offered by the various colleges.

“Sarah, we’re leaving. You coming, then?” the burly guy asked as Sarah’s classmates paid for their drinks and vacated their spots at the bar. He gave Alex the once-over that seemed to indicate he wasn’t leaving without Sarah.

“Sure.” As much as she enjoyed talking with Alex, it was rather late.

As she reached for her wallet, Alex touched her wrist stopping her, “I’ve got it. I owe you a drink after making you wear your other one.”

“That’s not necessary, but thank you.” She looked up into his laughing eyes. “I enjoyed our conversation.” She was reluctant to leave, but it was probably for the best.

He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t let her just walk away. “Would you like to go to dinner tomorrow evening?”

She certainly hadn’t expected that. “Thanks, but I have plans. Besides, I have a rule . . . I don’t date strangers.” The brilliant smile tempered any offense her words might have caused.

She threw one last look over her shoulder before exiting the pub.

Didn’t date strangers. He grinned as he fished money out of his pocket. He could solve that.

As promised, Lady Clara’s car waited at the Canterbury Gate the following afternoon.

The chauffeur introduced himself as Charles, and after settling in the back seat, Sarah couldn’t resist talking with him. She wasn’t sure if that was appropriate, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable with her attempts at conversation.

She asked him what he knew of the history of the area and how long he’d been with Lady Clara.

“My family has been with Lady Clara’s family for seven generations, miss,” he said.

Sarah was genuinely taken aback. “Wow!” her inarticulate response. She quickly did some math in her head, and guessed that would be about two hundred years of service to Lady Clara’s family.

He smiled at her reaction. “All of the men in my family have served either as coach drivers in the days of horse drawn carriage or chauffeurs in the days of motor cars,” he responded with pride. “The women in the family have served as chamber maids, ladies maids, and more recently as cooks. Now with women taking on more men’s work, some of the women even work as gardeners.”

“Then your family has seen a great deal of change throughout the last two centuries.”

“Oh yes, miss. Some good, some bad. But change is the one constant in life. I believe it was the Greek Philosopher Heraclitus who said, ‘
Nothing endures but change.
’”

Hmm, she thought, a philosophy-quoting chauffeur. Sarah turned to look out the window. The ride to Lady Clara’s ancestral home took only half an hour. They arrived at the gates and drove for another quarter mile to the main entrance of the imposing structure. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but those expectations couldn’t possibly live up to the reality.

Although the home would not be considered grand when compared to Blenheim or Althorp, it was quite large by most standards. The residence was constructed of a mellow golden brick fashioned in the form of the letter ‘H’ with a center portion and two wings. Large mullioned windows lined the front of the house at regular intervals, giving the house a very orderly appearance.

Sarah was astonished that a woman of Lady Clara’s apparent means and status took such a liking to her.

The chauffeur escorted her to the massive wood-paneled foyer, and from there, another gentleman escorted her to an elegantly furnished sitting room where Lady Clara waited.

The Countess stepped forward, taking Sarah’s hands and kissing her cheek. “Welcome to Rutherford Hall, my dear. I am so happy you agreed to have tea with me this afternoon.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Lady Clara. I wouldn’t miss the privilege. You are so thoughtful to think of me.”

“Oh, pish-tosh. You do me the honor of keeping an old lady company. And please, call me Clara.”

“Thank you. I’ll try.” Sarah looked around the room, all rich golds, warm reds, and deep blues. The lapis fireplace served as the focal point of the large room, but several small furniture groupings lent an intimacy to the space.

“Before tea, would you like a tour of the main rooms?”

“That would be lovely.”

The ancestral home’s proportions were generous, but the country style architecture and warm, inviting rooms made it comfortable. As Lady Clara presented her home, she talked of her family, her life, and her marriage. She pointed out this artifact or that antique, and Sarah couldn’t help thinking how awe-inspiring it must be to walk in the footsteps of generations of ancestors.

Lady Clara Fraser was born Lady Clara Sutherland. “My family’s estate has a long and storied history. Once quite prosperous in the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, the estate fell on hard times during the early part of the twentieth century, not uncommon in Great Britain.”

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, Sarah measured her steps so as to not out-pace her hostess. “Without the support of its tenant farmers, estates had little revenue. Many were sold off and divided up into smaller parcels, while others were turned into inns by their owners.”

“My father, Lord Rutherford, the seventh Earl of Rutherford, tried desperately to hold onto the family estate by any means possible, including opening it up to tourists.”

They walked along the large gallery looking at portraits of Lady Clara’s ancestors, before stopping in front of a painting of a beautiful young woman. Pale blue eyes set in a face of English rose skin and framed by golden blond hair stared back at Sarah with a subtle, but impish smile.

“Is that you?” Sarah asked, admiring the portrait.

“That was me at the age of twenty, not long before I met my Jonathan. He was a brash young upstart from Leeds, and I fell head over heels in love with him.”

They walked farther down the gallery until they stood in front of a portrait of Lady Clara and Jonathan.

“He was very handsome,” Sarah said, admiring his well-balanced features, hazel eyes, and sandy blond hair. “I can understand why you fell so hard.”

“My father did not approve of the match initially. My family is one of England’s respected and titled families. Jonathan was from a family of unknown origins, and although we were bordering on impoverishment, my father believed I was marrying beneath my station. My goodness . . . sounds rather like an Austen novel, doesn’t it?”

She turned indicating the door opposite the one through which they’d entered. “Shall we go down to tea?”

Walking along, Sarah paused in front of the portrait of another couple. She could see the resemblance of the man to Lady Clara’s late husband. However, the woman bore no resemblance to either Lady Clara or her husband, so she assumed the couple pictured was husband and wife, rather than brother and sister. There was something about her, something around eyes the color of dark chocolate, which reminded her of someone.

“That is my late son and his wife.” Lady Clara’s expression turned sad. “I lost my son twenty-four years ago in a plane crash in Africa.”

“I’m so very sorry.” Sarah hesitated. Then putting her hand on Lady Clara’s arm, she said, “Losing a child must be a grief like no other.”

“I can attest to that.” She reached up and laid her hand over Sarah’s. “However, my grandsons bring me comfort.” Lady Clara indicated the last two portraits along the wall. One was a slightly stockier version of Lady Clara’s son. The other was Alex Fraser.

Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. He stood, one hand in his pocket, the other hand resting on the back of a chair, with golden oak-paneled walls serving as the backdrop. The dark blue suit deepened his brown eyes to almost black. His hair was shorter and more formally arranged, leaving very little evidence of the tousled waves that had elicited her mortifying thoughts.

There was no question it was a slightly younger version of the man she’d met last night. The engraved brass plate beneath the portrait confirmed it: Alexander Tristan Sutherland Fraser, Ninth Earl of Rutherford.

“My dear, are you quite well? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Lady Clara’s look of concern forced Sarah to regain her composure. “I’m fine. Perhaps I’m just hungry.”

“Of course, my dear.” Lady Clara directed Sarah through the doorway. “How impolite of me to keep you wandering these drafty halls, when we have tea waiting for us.”

They left the gallery and returned to the sitting room where the teacart was set up.

“Did your father finally give you his blessing?” Sarah asked, resuming the story in an effort to take her mind of the disingenuous Alex Fraser.

Actor my ass, she thought. At least he hadn’t lied about his name. What on earth was an Earl doing in an Oxford pub? She gave a mental snort. Wasn’t it obvious? Trying to pick up women. The old accidental bump routine. She should have recognized it for what it was.

She returned her attention to Lady Clara. It wasn’t her fault her grandson was a jerk.

“My father relented when I threatened to elope if he withheld his consent. It pained me to put this ultimatum before my father and risk the alienation of my only parent, my mother having died when I was but fifteen. But I loved Jonathan to distraction and knew he could make me happy.”

“As luck would have it, my Jonathan had a sharp mind and became enormously successful in Leeds’ flourishing banking and finance industry.”

But Mick had asked him about his movies. Well, maybe he lied to Mick as well. Or maybe Mick was part of the game. After all, it’s hard to lie about being in a movie, or three, when a fellow countryman like Mick could check it out for himself.

“Do you take cream in your tea?”

Lady Clara’s question interrupted her internal discourse. She needed to pay attention. In spite of her current preoccupation, she was genuinely interested in Lady Clara’s story.

“Yes, thank you.” Sarah took the proffered cup of tea and helped herself to a couple of the finger sandwiches and a teacake.

“Sadly, my father died a year later, six months after my marriage. When the estate passed to me, Jonathan provided an infusion of cash needed to refurbish Rutherford Hall and reassert its place among Oxfordshire’s small, but illustrious estates. Between my drive to restore my family’s legacy and Jonathan’s acute business acumen, Rutherford Hall once again became a thriving, self-supporting estate.”

“You must be proud and pleased to see what you and Jonathan accomplished.”

“I am.” She looked melancholy. “Jonathan and I had a wonderful forty-five year marriage. He died of a heart attack three years ago, just a few days after our anniversary.”

“I am so sorry,” Sarah said, quietly. “I remember when my mother died, my father seemed so lost. We were very worried about him for a while.”

“Oh, I gave into my grief, cocooning myself in the private apartments we shared, refusing visitors and condolers for over a month. But when I emerged, I was determined to live the rest of my life with the same joy and eagerness I always had. Jonathan wouldn’t want me to just exist. He would want me to live.”

“Would you ever consider remarrying?”

“Oh yes, my dear . . . if the right man ever came along. I don’t know that I could ever love anyone as I did Jonathan, but I wouldn’t deny myself that possibility, even if I am a bit long in the tooth.”

She was thoughtful a moment. “Not a day goes by that I don’t expect Jonathan to walk into my study, kiss my cheek, and invite me for a stroll around the gardens. But I am quite happy with my situation. I am never lonely and always with some purpose or other.”

“Enough about me. I have rambled on incessantly. Tell me about you my dear. Is there a special person in your life?”

It was a mild afternoon, so they’d moved to a terrace overlooking the rolling green hills of Oxfordshire.

“Actually, I’m divorced . . . eight months ago.” Sarah smiled wanly. Divorced. A word that seemed synonymous with failure.

Lady Clara colored. “I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to bring on unhappy thoughts.”

“It’s okay.”

“So, the trip to Oxford . . . ”

“Initially it was the result of an intervention of sorts by my best friend, Ann, and my sister, Becca.”

“How so?”

“Tired of my moping, they showed up at my door one day and told me to snap out of it and start living. That’s when they gave me the information on the Oxford program, with a warning that they would not accept any excuses for not going, including cost.” Sarah shook her head at the memory. “They’d even spoken to my boss and cleared my vacation time with him.”

“Sounds like two people who love you very much.”

“Yes, I’m lucky to have them, although there are times . . .” Sarah smiled through her exasperation.

“I’m very glad they convinced you to come to England, otherwise we never would have met, and that would have been unfortunate indeed.”

She fell silent a moment, but Sarah could feel her eyes on her.

“Sometimes it takes a regrettable event to shake us out of our complacency, and good things often follow.”

When they said good-bye, Lady Clara hugged Sarah to her and held her there momentarily. “I think it was George Sand who said, ‘There is only one happiness in this life, to love and be loved.’ Don’t despair, my dear, it will happen.”

Pleading a headache, Sarah sought the privacy of her room after dinner.

Packing the last few items of clothing, she wondered why her encounter with Alex troubled her so. After all, they’d only just met. He didn’t owe her anything. Not even the truth. He was just another guy trying to impress a woman he’d met in a bar.

Just another guy. Right. He was an Earl for God’s sake. An Earl slumming it in a pub. One that was obviously a favorite haunt of his.

Forget him, she scolded herself. She was certain he’d forgotten her the minute she’d walked away. Moved on to his next target. What did it matter anyway? She was never going to see him again.

I am sad today. This, my last day of classes, has come all too soon. I wish I’d signed on for two weeks of classes. Next year. This has truly been an experience of a lifetime. I must remember to thank Becca and Ann for encouraging, and sometimes pushing, me outside my boundaries.

Seated at her desk in her dorm before class, Sarah recorded the thoughts in her journal, wanting to jot them down while they were still vivid in her mind.

I can’t explain what it is like walking the grounds of this venerable institution. I admit to feeling a wicked sense of superiority as I walk across Tom Quad in the early morning, where the tourists press their faces against the iron gates to catch a glimpse inside of Christ Church, or later in the day as I blithely walk through the hordes of tourists past the signs that read “Private. No admittance.”

Entering Tom’s Gate is like stepping back in time, or like Alice stepping through the looking glass, isolated from present day reality, where you can choose to ignore the real world, if only for a short time.

When I climb the stairs to Tudor Hall, where the college has served meals to Christ Church residents since 1529, I feel the indentations worn into the stone steps by the centuries of footsteps from the scholars who’d tread the same path.

Tonight is the final reception and dinner. In the morning I’ll leave these magical walls for a week alone in Oxford. It will seem all the lonelier for having spent this week in such engaging company.

But for today, I will enjoy the atmosphere of Christ Church: the sense of stillness I find in the Master’s Garden, the hush of the Picture Gallery, and the peace and tranquility within the walls of this college, not passing through Tom’s Gate into the noise and chaos of the city until I leave tomorrow morning.

Closing her journal, Sarah picked up her copies of
Sense & Sensibility
and
Mansfield Park
and headed to class, ready to make the most of her final day.

The temperature rose into the upper seventies, a heat wave by England’s standards. She’d even had to remove her otherwise obligatory cardigan while she and her classmates picnicked in the Master’s Garden.

She should be relieved it hadn’t been too warm this week since none of the dorms were air-conditioned.

Glancing at her watch, she realized she’d dawdled in the Picture Gallery too long, and hadn’t left herself much time to change for the reception. After a week of wearing conservative trousers and cardigans, she’d selected a lovely, feminine black and white floral silk sundress, with a lemon yellow pashmina, and black strappy sandals. She left her hair loose around her shoulders.

Satisfied with her appearance, she spritzed on a little
Voile De Jasmin,
grabbed her bag, and hurried over to the Cathedral Garden.

From the volume of voices drifting through the door to the Garden, everyone had already arrived for the reception. She stepped through the doorway, looking for her group. Almost every head turned in her direction, eyes wide, some with frank approval, some with disapproval.

Compared to everyone else in the Garden, she looked as if she were going to a garden party rather than a gathering at Christ Church. She couldn’t have stood out more if she’d been wearing a hat befitting Her Majesty and the races at Ascot.

Clearly she should have asked around about the attire for this evening. Most of the tutors wore dark conservative suits, including the women.

Unbeknownst to her, one particular set of eyes looked on with great approval. Alex watched as she stood, rooted to the spot, a becoming blush coloring her cheeks. His memory had failed him. She wasn’t beautiful; she was breathtaking.

He was pleased now that he’d accompanied his grandmother to the reception. He’d planned to offer his services as her escort for the evening, and was surprised when she beat him to the punch and asked him instead.

“Lord Rutherford,”—Mr. Phillips, the Program Director, interrupted Alex’s observation of the clearly disconcerted Sarah—“May I introduce you to Mr. George Summers, who’s visiting us from New Zealand. Mr. Sommers is the Minister of Education.”

Alex reluctantly turned his attention to the two gentlemen, but kept an eye on Sarah.

His interest in the conversation waned again as he watched his grandmother approach Sarah. Perfect. He smiled at his own good fortune.

As if sensing her discomfiture, Lady Clara had rushed to Sarah’s side, effusive in her praise of her appearance. “My dear, you look absolutely stunning—a breath of fresh air in this otherwise stuffy gathering.” She turned her considerable frown upon those with disapproving looks. “Stodgy old codgers,” she mumbled.

“Thank you,” Sarah murmured. “I certainly stand out.” A waiter walked by with a tray of champagne and she grabbed a flute off the tray and took a gulp.

As the gawkers returned to their own conversations, Sarah spoke to Lady Clara a few minutes. Just as she thought she’d recovered her aplomb, she spotted Alex speaking to Mr. Phillips and another gentleman. What on earth was he doing here?

He watched her, an amused expression on his face as he raised his champagne flute in a silent toast.

She turned away, chin lifted, pointedly dismissing him. Joining the remainder of her group who were discussing their immediate future plans, she tried to ignore his presence. Not very successfully.

While some of her classmates were returning to jobs and families in their respective countries, others were continuing their travels. Kim was going to Italy to meet up with a boyfriend, much to Sean’s dismay, while Marie was meeting friends in London for one more week before returning to France.

The gavel banged promptly at seven, announcing dinner. Sarah made a swift departure, hoping to avoid Alex. He must have come with his grandmother, but why?

Thankfully, the class would be seated together this evening, so he wouldn’t be seated with Lady Clara. Determined to enjoy the evening’s pomp and circumstance, she put him out of her mind. Almost.

Tudor Hall was regally dressed for the elaborate four-course dinner. The dark-paneled walls, adorned with portraits of such illustrious Christ Church alumni as W.H. Auden, William Penn, Charles Dodgson-a.k.a. Lewis Carroll-and John Wesley, glowed in the late summer light streaming through the stained glass windows.

Alex watched from his place at High Table as Sarah took her seat among her classmates. He noticed as his grandmother and Sarah put their heads together conspiratorially, wondering what they were talking about, and selfishly hoping it was him.

His grandmother had evidently taken a liking to Sarah. Having her to tea, sending her car for her, saving her from the effects of her grand entrance. She’d clearly been mortified, but what did she expect? She’d swept into the garden like a sweet summer breeze. Of course every red, or blue, -blooded male was going to take note.

Following the last course Mr. Phillips garnered everyone’s attention and thanked them for participating in the programs and welcomed them to return for future programs.

Students received their certificates without much fanfare, unless one counted the frequent camera flashes as people took pictures with their cherished certificates. Now they could all claim attendance at the revered Christ Church. Concluding the evening’s presentation, Mr. Phillips wished everyone safe travels, and the dinner conversation resumed.

After dinner, many of the students adjourned to the Buttery, the college’s private bar just outside the Hall, for a final night of revelry.

Sarah found herself chatting again with Lady Clara. She enjoyed her company so much, and would miss her when she returned home. Over the past week, she’d gotten to know her well, and she’d taken on an almost motherly, or grandmotherly, role to Sarah.

Sarah noticed her tutor, Mr. Byrne, speaking with Alex. Was there anyone Alex didn’t know? His warm smile reached his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. His dark gray suit and deep blue tie enhanced his regal bearing, making him look every inch the Earl.

Lady Clara noticed her slight preoccupation, and following her gaze, said, “Oh, I see you’ve spotted my grandson. He is a handsome lad, although I suppose I am biased. Would you like to be introduced?” she asked, a sly smile on her face.

“Oh. No.” Sarah said, a little too emphatically. “That’s okay.” Too late . . . he walked toward her. It seemed that every head in the room turned to watch him, and consequently, Sarah. For the second time this evening, she wished a hole would open up and swallow her.

As he sauntered in her direction, she couldn’t help but admire the way he moved, with the easy grace of an athlete. His well-tailored clothes fit his powerful frame as if made for him. And most likely they were.