The Promise of Change

Chapter 10



After checking into her room in the Old Parsonage, Sarah noticed she had a message on her cell phone. Anxious to see if it was Alex, she checked the minute the bellman left.

She groaned a bit in frustration. The first message was from Becca, not that she wasn’t happy to hear from her, but it wasn’t the message she’d hoped for. The next was from Alex.

“Good morning, Sarah, this is Alex. Unfortunately, I had a change of plans.” Instant disappointment. “I had to return to London to take care of some business. But, if you are available for dinner, I will be back in time. How does seven at the Old Parsonage sound? Ring me on my mobile and let me know, although you may have to leave a message. I hope to see you tonight.”

She slumped down on the bed. Okay, well, at least he hadn’t cancelled completely like she’d initially thought, although the potential was still there if his business took longer than expected. She would wait a bit and then call him. Why make him think she’s sitting around anxiously awaiting his call?

She unpacked and settled into her room for the week. It was a lovely room, bright and sunny, furnished in an eclectic mix of modern and antique furniture, upholstered in soothing tans and whites with punches of grape-colored accents. Two wing-back chairs sat in front of a small fireplace that likely wouldn’t find much use this time of year.

That task completed, she plopped down on the bed again, crossing her legs, and texted Becca and Ann that things were going well, classes were over, and that she looked forward to the remaining week to tour Oxford and its environs. She didn’t mention Alex. No need to stir anything up. She sent them love and kisses and a promise to update them soon.

Well, she sighed, what to do with myself now? Although she’d planned from the very beginning to vacation alone, after making plans to spend the day with Alex, she found herself at loose ends with the loss of his company. And since she recklessly tossed out her itinerary, she’d have to make it up as she went along.

She went to the desk and, opening her journal, concluded her musings on her Oxford experience. So far, she’d managed to keep her promise to herself to write every day.

Task completed and promise kept, the sunny day called her outdoors. A walk along Oxford’s busy streets would provide an excellent afternoon diversion.



She dressed carefully that evening, choosing a pair of black slacks and a silk blouse in rich emerald green. Pulling the front of her hair back, she let the rest fall loose. Even with all the care she took with her appearance, she didn’t want to look as if she’d tried too hard.

After anxiously checking her appearance in a hall mirror, she descended the stairs into the lobby, thinking she was a bit early, but Alex stood by the desk chatting amiably with the clerk. He certainly defied all previous notions on the behavior of British aristocracy.

Alex saw her out of the corner of his eye, and turned in her direction.

She blushed under his appreciative gaze. His smile broadened as he walked over to greet her.

“Hello, Sarah. You look lovely.”

Hearing her name in that charming British lilt made her melt inside. What is it about that accent? His hair was tousled the way she remembered it from their first encounter, with a dark brown lock falling across his forehead. He wore charcoal gray slacks, a white shirt open at the neck, and a blue blazer, looking like he’d just stepped out of an ad for Ralph Lauren.

“Hi, Alex,” She breathed, sounding like a lovesick schoolgirl. Get a grip, she admonished herself.

“Shall we?” He took her elbow and escorted her toward the inn’s walled garden. The scent of her perfume rivaled that of the flowers growing there.

The hostess greeted them enthusiastically, although Sarah thought the enthusiasm was directed more at Alex than at her. Adrian used to get the same adoration from women, but his response to it was quite different. Where Alex was humble and a bit bemused by it, Adrian almost expected it.

Giving herself a mental shake, she wondered why she’d compared him to Adrian. Comparisons were always unfair to all parties involved.

The hostess was clearly a little star struck. With just the briefest glance in Sarah’s direction, she said, “Lord Rutherford, I just loved you in Mansfield Park.” She hesitated and then asked, “Could I have your autograph?”

He willingly obliged her. After she left with her prize, he turned back to Sarah. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” she said, opening her menu. “Does that happen often?” She lifted a brow in question.

“A little more often with the release of each film. I am surprised, and pleased that young women are watching and enjoying film adaptations of great works of literature. It’s an encouraging sign.”

She smiled. He apparently had no idea that they were watching and enjoying him, not necessarily the great works of literature. How many young women, her nieces included, never gave a second thought to Jane Austen until seeing Colin Firth as Darcy?

The waiter came over and took their drink orders, and their conversation stopped while they perused the menu.

“What did you do today?” he asked after making his choice and setting aside his menu.

“I wandered the streets of Oxford like the tourist I am. First, I visited the Ashmolean Museum then, Carfax Tower. After that, I walked up High Street to Queen’s Lane and took photographs of the gardens and the New College gargoyles, and of course, the Bridge of Sighs, and from there I walked to the Bodleian Library, finally stopping for tea at the Randolph before returning to the hotel.”

“Hmm, you’ve had a very busy day, and it sounds like you made the most of it.”

“I try to get my money’s worth from my vacations,” she said with a self-conscious shrug.

The waiter brought a basket of bread to the table. Suddenly, she was famished. She’d skipped lunch, and although she did stop for tea, the teacakes hadn’t lasted long. Trying not to pounce on the bread basket like a fox on a hare, she delicately selected a soft roll.

Remembering part of Alex’s conversation with Mick, she asked, “Did I understand correctly that you were undertaking the role of Fitzwilliam Darcy in your latest film? Is it based on Pamela Aidan’s trilogy?”

“Yes, you are correct on both counts, which is a convenient segue into my apology for abandoning you today. I had to return to London for a final costume fitting before filming begins. Will you please accept my apology for this abominable treatment, and allow me to make it up to you?”

“I don’t know . . . I suppose if I must, but I warn you, it will take a great deal to make up for your un-chivalrous behavior,” she bantered with feigned disapproval. Don’t look now, but she was flirting outrageously with a member of the British Peerage.

“Well, I shall endeavor to behave in a more gentleman-like manner.”

They both laughed at his clever use of Jane Austen.

“I take it that you have read Aidan’s trilogy?” he asked, returning to their previous conversation.

“Yes. I really enjoyed reading it. Reading Aidan is like reading Austen. She captures Austen’s style with impeccable accuracy.”

“I agree. I was impressed with the books from the moment I read them, and writing the middle book, Duty and Desire, as a gothic novel was a stroke of genius on her part. That’s why I decided to produce it.”

“You’re producing it? That’s impressive.”

“Or daft,” he said with a frown. “I haven’t figured out which yet.”

“So . . . Darcy . . . one of literature’s most beloved characters,” she said with raised eyebrows.

“Yes . . . no pressure there, especially following Colin Firth’s definitive Darcy,” he replied with self-deprecating humor. “But there is nothing more I love than a challenge,”—his look seemed to imply he wasn’t just talking about the role of Darcy—“and next to Rochester, Darcy, is the character I would most like to tackle.”

Taking hold of a rare opportunity to discuss literature, she jumped in with both feet. Adrian had never been interested, and made no pretentions about it, and while Ann and Becca patiently sat through her mini-dissertations on this novel or that character, it was only out of love for her.

Finding someone with a passion for literature that apparently matched her own was like hearing someone who spoke English in the midst of a crowd of Chinese. Finally someone spoke her language.

“I can certainly understand the desire to play a character with such depth and complexity as Darcy, but I’m not certain about Mr. Rochester.”

“Darcy is not without his flaws. He is brooding, introspective, and moody. And, of course, his major flaw, his pride, exposed so eloquently by Elizabeth, and of course in the title of the book, makes him the subject of disdain among those in Meryton. But, he does redeem himself, most nobly in the end, and the reader falls in love with him much the same as Elizabeth.”

She looked up to see if he was paying attention, or if her ramblings had begun to bore him. He appeared interested anyway.

He enjoyed the way her brow furrowed when she paused to think, and the passion and insight she applied to her topic. The combination of her sharp intelligence and her subtle diffidence delighted him. He longed to push past her reserve and ignite the passion she concealed just below the surface.

“Mr. Rochester, on the other hand, well, I’m not sure I can find anything in him to admire. While he is rather complex, he has, to my mind, no redeeming qualities. His deceitful attempt to enter into a bigamous marriage with Jane is outrageous, especially when he professes to love her so.”

He grinned at her conclusion.

“I’m sorry.” She blushed. “I get on a tangent sometimes.”

“No. I quite enjoyed your tangent, and will respond with one of my own.” These days, blushing women were as rare as the Queen’s smile. It intrigued him.

Taking a sip of his wine, he continued. “It is precisely Rochester’s complexity that makes his portrayal a worthy endeavor. He is the archetypal Byronic hero. Flawed, to be sure, but then aren’t we all? His flaws tend to the darker side of literary heroes, but that only serves to add depth to his character. He is moody, arrogant, and self-destructive, and his social and sexual dominance both repel and attract the reader.”

“No, I would very much enjoy delving into the intricacies of his personality.” His eyes were alight with excitement over the thought.

“Hmm,” she said, her chin in her hand, “you’ve devoted a great deal to the study of his character. I wonder, are your daily observations of human behavior that thorough?”

He held her eyes for a few seconds and then looked down as the waiter returned with their salads.

“Yes.” He looked up, his brown-black eyes capturing hers. “And now it is time to begin my study of you.”

The heat rose to her cheeks. That one statement felt like a caress. Until then, she’d never felt that depth of interest from another human being. It was a little disconcerting, as if he intended to reach the darkest depths of her soul.

“Tell me about yourself . . . I’ve learned that you’re a lawyer.” At her frown, he added, “Okay, an unemployed lawyer, and that you have a literature degree. Do have family back in the States?”

After taking a sip of her wine, she replied, “Well, I have a sister, Rebecca, or Becca as her friends and family call her. She is four years older and doesn’t look a thing like me.”

“Really?” he interjected. “How so?”

“She’s blond with light brown eyes, and her hair is straight as a board. She’s a bit taller than I am, and more athletically built. She’s a surfer chick.” She smiled indulgently. Even at forty-two, she still looked like she was eighteen.

“And the two of you are very close.”

“Yes, does it show?” she asked, her brows arched in surprise. Perceptive. She mentally added that to his other superlative qualities, along with intelligent, handsome, funny, charming, polished, well-read . . . and did she say handsome?

“I can see it on your face when you talk about her. I’m a devoted observer of human behavior, remember?” He tilted his head. “Do you have any other family?”

“I have twin nieces, who are as beautiful as their mother, and who are currently home from college for the summer, my brother-in-law, Mark, who’s a great guy, and my father, whom we affectionately call the Admiral–he’s retired Navy. My mother passed away last year.”

“I’m very sorry,” he interjected with sincerity.

“Thank you. Being in the world without your mother is a very lonely feeling. You feel somewhat adrift without her to anchor you to your family, your history . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m rambling on about that.” She looked down, embarrassed.

“No, you’re not rambling.” He leaned across the table. “I’m very interested. I know how difficult it was when I lost my father.”

The waiter came to take their salad plates away.

“Lady Clara told me about that—a plane crash. That must have been horrible for your family.”

“It was, but it seems so long ago now.”

“Do you have other family?” she inquired, hoping to change the subject to a more cheerful topic.

“I have a brother, Robert, younger by three years, who lives in London. He’s a Barrister, believe it or not, so you two have a little something in common.”

“It’s nice that you have a brother. I’ve always wanted a brother.”

“If you say so.” The edge in his voice brooked no further discussion on that topic.

“And your mother?” she said, probing further.

“My mother, Emma, is still with us.” He explained that Emma kept a bag packed with essentials so she could leave at a day or two’s notice. She’d traveled all over the world at deeply discounted rates, not that she couldn’t afford it otherwise, because she was on the list of a variety of travel companies. When travelers had to cancel, they’d call her to see if she’d like to go. Apparently she rarely refused.

“She’s been on African safaris, floating down the Yangtze River in China, hiking the Milford track in New Zealand, dog sledding in the Arctic, cruising in the Mediterranean, and who knows where else. It is often hard to keep up with her. If it weren’t for her mobile, we might go weeks or even months without talking.” He shook his head and smiled.

“Sounds like she’s having a lot of fun.”

“Oh, no question.” He didn’t seem put-out by his mother’s vagabond ways. “I’m glad she’s enjoying herself.”

They turned their attention momentarily to the entrées the waiter placed in front of them.

“She was never really comfortable in her role as countess, and if it weren’t for my brother and me, when my father died, she would have moved back to Leeds. However, she knew my brother, but especially me, needed to grow up in our ancestral home. As soon as we were adults, she moved to a small flat in Leeds.”

The life of a countess was so far beyond Sarah’s comprehension that she might as well imagine living her life as a Martian. The only thing she knew about it was garnered from her reading of Regency romance novels.

“So your mother was a commoner?” As soon as the words were out, she wished she could rewind the tape. “I’m sorry. That was probably rude.”

“No, don’t be silly. It seems to run in my family,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure you didn’t get out of hearing my grandmother’s narrative of her love story.” Sarah noted it wasn’t said with any hint of disrespect.

“How did your parents meet?”

“Are you sure you want me to bore you with the details?”

“Yes, I’m very interested,” she said, echoing his previous sentiment.

“My maternal grandparents had a men’s clothing store in Leeds, where my mother grew up. The shop was quite humble, catering to the modest clothing needs of the men who worked in the various factories. When my mother started working in the shop as a young woman, she tried somewhat unsuccessfully to get my grandfather to upgrade the clothing lines to cater to the city’s up-and-coming financial sector.” He paused to take a bite of his fish.

“My mother finally took over the business when my grandfather became ill, and she took the opportunity to renovate the interior and the storefront and began carrying higher end clothing lines for business men,” he continued. “She took a financial risk in doing so, but it paid off. The shop established a clientele of bankers and other high rollers in the financial industry.”

“Men from all over England learned of the quality of goods and services, and flocked to the shop. That’s how my father met her. He frequented Leeds on business, buying his clothes almost exclusively from my grandfather’s shop.”

“Well, that explains it,” she said, tilting her head.

“Explains what?” he asked, eyebrows drawn in confusion.

“Why you have an innate sense of style and excellent taste in clothes,” she said, laughing.

He actually blushed. “Thank you.”

She wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen a grown man blush. It endeared her, and made her feel a little empowered.

“Does your mother still have the shop?” she asked.

“No. She finally sold it to a clothing conglomerate for a small fortune after my brother and I came along.”

The remainder of dinner passed pleasantly with additional shared stories of families, childhoods, and life in general. She loved watching him eat, using knife and fork in tandem, European-style.

Over dessert and tea, he asked, “Do you have a wish list of sights and activities for this week?”

“Well, this is not the first time I’ve been to Oxfordshire, but on my previous trip I only passed through the city briefly and did not see much of the countryside other than from a car window.”

“Did you come with your family?”

“Um, no, my ex-husband,” she answered, swallowing hard.

“Oh . . . I see.” He wore a slight frown.

Great. Why did I say that, she admonished. Why wasn’t I more circumspect?

“Well, there’s a great deal to see and do.” His face brightened and his smile returned. “I’m sure a smart girl like yourself has done her homework . . . what’s on your list?”

“Oh, I guess the usual sites: Blenheim Palace, Woodstock, the Costwolds, Chipping Campden, Castle Combe . . . and I think you’ve got some rather old stones south of here that are a big tourist attraction.”

Playing along with her banter, he responded, “Ah yes, I believe those rather old stones are called Stonehenge, or something like that. I’m sure we can find them. If not, we’ll ask the locals.”

He grinned playfully, making her heart do a little tap dance in her chest.

“Let me give some thought to the best route in order to take in all the things on your wish list, and perhaps some things that aren’t on the list but should be.” He tilted his head, “I could pick you up out front at say, nine?”

“That sounds perfect.” She couldn’t hide her enthusiasm.

When the bill came, she reached for it to put it on her room bill, and he politely but firmly grabbed her wrist and took the bill from her hand. His firm hand left a warm, but invisible impression on her skin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his tone reproachful. “Your Yankee dollars are no good here. It’s my treat.”

“Alex,” she said with a sigh, “you don’t have to buy my dinner. Believe it or not, I do have meals budgeted into my vacation.”

“I’m sure that you do, but I cannot allow you to pay. It’s a guy thing, something about the Y-chromosome.”

“Well, genetic or not, I cannot allow you to pay for everything this week, and if that’s your plan, we should get that straightened out here and now. If you’re acting as my tour guide, shouldn’t there be some remuneration for those services?”

“Oh, we can discuss remuneration for my services later,” he teased, looking up from the bill he held in his hand.

She sat back in surprise. Was he suggesting that she repay him by jumping into bed with him? Even from the little she knew of him, that seemed out of character. Was she wrong about that? “I beg your pardon?” she asked in dismay.

He looked up again and read the expression on her face. He actually blanched. “Sarah, I didn’t mean . . . well, what I meant was, you buying lunch or something along those lines. I can see how that sounded. Please accept my apology. My attempt at a joke was in poor taste.”

Sarah didn’t doubt his sincerity. This was more in line with what she’d learned of his character thus far. “Apology accepted. Perhaps I wasn’t far off about those deep-seated trust issues,” she sighed, shrugging her shoulders.

“No, just cautious, as any woman traveling alone should be. Which begs the question: why did you agree to have a strange man chauffer you around all week? Aren’t you breaking your rule about dating strangers? And didn’t your mother teach you not to accept rides from strangers?” he asked with a devastating grin.

She had to look away a moment to get a grasp on her thoughts. “Is this a date?”

“Of course. What else would it be?”

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “Well, I guess after dinner tonight, we are no longer strangers. Besides, you came with the Lady Clara stamp of approval,” she explained, quite pleased with her rational response.

“Yes, I’ve succeeded in pulling the wool over my grandmother’s eyes,” he said, wringing his hands like a diabolical villain. “I am an actor, you know,” he said, turning his attention back to the bill.

She noted he was left-handed, like Adrian. Stop! Again with the comparisons.

“I doubt anyone could pull the wool over Lady Clara’s eyes,” she said, dubious, as he walked around to pull out her chair for her.

“No. Even the great Houdini couldn’t deceive that dear lady.”

It was much later than she thought. Since the light this time of year lingered well past nine-thirty p.m., it was easy to lose track of time. Of course, she’d also been so absorbed in their conversation that she didn’t realize how late it was. Oh, who was she kidding? She’d been absorbed in Alex.

He walked her to the lobby. At the foot of the stairs leading to the guest rooms, he reached out, and, taking her wrist, leaned down to give her a very sweet kiss on her cheek as he whispered, “Goodnight, Sarah Edwards. Pleasant dreams.”