Emma was among the first to arrive at the university’s lecture theatre that evening to hear Professor Cyrus Feldman lecture on the topic, Having won the War, has Britain lost the peace?
She slipped into a place at the end of a row of raked seats about halfway back. Long before the appointed hour the room was so packed that latecomers had to sit on the gangway steps, with one or two even perched on windowsills.
The audience burst into applause the moment the double Pulitzer Prize-winner entered the auditorium, accompanied by the university’s vice chancellor. Once everyone had resumed their places, Sir Philip Morris introduced his guest, giving a potted history of Feldman’s distinguished career, from his student days at Princeton, to being appointed the youngest professor at Stanford, to the second Pulitzer Prize he’d been awarded the previous year. This was followed by another prolonged round of applause. Professor Feldman rose from his place and made his way to the podium.
The first thing that struck Emma about Cyrus Feldman, even before he began to speak, was how handsome the man was, something Grace had omitted to mention when she’d called. He must have been a shade over six foot, with a head of thick grey hair, and his suntanned face reminded everyone which university he taught at. His athletic build belied his age, and suggested he must spend almost as many hours in the gym as in the library.
The second he began to speak, Emma was captivated by Feldman’s raw energy, and within moments he had everyone in the auditorium sitting on the edge of their seats. Students began furiously writing down his every word, and Emma regretted not bringing a notepad and pen along with her.
Speaking without notes, the professor nimbly switched from subject to subject: the role of Wall Street after the war, the dollar as the new world currency, oil becoming the commodity that would dominate the second half of the century and possibly beyond, the future role of the International Monetary Fund, and whether America would remain fixed to the gold standard.
When his lecture came to an end, Emma’s only regret was that he’d scarcely touched on transport, with just a passing mention of how the aeroplane would change the new world order, both for business and tourism. But like a seasoned pro, he reminded his audience that he’d written a book on the subject. Emma wouldn’t be waiting for Christmas to get hold of a copy. It made her think about Harry, and hope his book tour was going as well in America.
Once she’d purchased a copy of The New World Order, she joined a long queue of those waiting to have their copies signed. She had nearly completed the first chapter by the time she reached the front of the line, and was wondering if he might be willing to spare a few moments to expand his views on the future of the British shipping industry.
She placed the book on the table in front of him, and he gave her a friendly smile.
‘Who shall I make it out to?’
She decided to take a chance. ‘Emma Barrington.’
He took a closer look at her. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance be related to the late Sir Walter Barrington?’
‘He was my grandfather,’ she said proudly.
‘I heard him lecture many years ago on the role of the shipping industry should America enter the First World War. I was a student at the time, and he taught me more in one hour than my tutors had managed in a whole semester.’
‘He taught me a lot too,’ said Emma, returning his smile.
‘There was so much I wanted to ask him,’ added Feldman, ‘but he had to catch the train back to Washington that night, so I never saw him again.’
‘And there’s so much I want to ask you,’ said Emma. ‘In fact, “need” would be more accurate.’
Feldman glanced at the waiting queue. ‘I guess this shouldn’t take me more than another half hour, and as I’m not catching the train back to Washington tonight, perhaps we could have a private chat before I leave, Miss Barrington?’