The Promise of Change

Chapter 8



A pleasant two-hour train ride from London, Oxford’s Town Center was home to Oxford University’s thirty-nine colleges, including Christ Church, plus fine restaurants, lovely, old boutique hotels, and a very cosmopolitan population. Matthew Arnold’s ‘city of dreaming spires’ stood much as it had for hundreds of years.

Sarah’s excitement grew as Tom Tower, the Christopher Wren-designed entrance to Christ Church, came into view.

As the taxi pulled up outside Tom’s Gate, a friendly, bowler-hat-wearing porter stepped to the curb to open Sarah’s door, offering her a warm greeting and a pleasant smile. “Good day, miss. Welcome to Christ Church. I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

With her first glimpse of Tom’s Quad, she had an almost spiritual experience. Smiling broadly at the porter she replied, “I have no doubt I will.”



The week was off to a good start. Interesting and diverse people filled Sarah’s class, including a few men.

Her Victorian Era dorm was on the fifth floor of a five-story walk-up, so there would no lack of exercise, and the weather was unusually mild and sunny.

After sumptuous dinners in Tudor Hall, the evenings were filled with activities ranging from poetry readings to croquet and sparkling wine in the Master’s Garden, or in less high-brow pursuits like sampling Guinness at one of the local pubs.

Class discussions were lively and stimulating, and the added male viewpoint was enlightening. The two Austen books under consideration during the course were Sense & Sensibility and Mansfield Park.

Sarah sat among her classmates, pen and paper in hand taking notes as their tutor, Mr. Byrne, raised the question whether Austen’s male characters lack depth; whether they are worthy of the women who win them in the end.

Sean spoke in his lyrical Irish burr, “Austen’s men are not flat, depthless characters.”

Sean Daly looked like the last person you’d expect to see in a class on Jane Austen’s heroines. The twenty-something pub-owner looked as if he would be more comfortable behind his bar building pints of Guinness than in a class at Christ Church discussing Regency novels.

But underneath his tattooed and pierced exterior, he harbored a great love for literature. His pub, Brophy’s, was on the Dublin Literary Pub Crawl.

His brows puckered in concentration, drawing his eyebrow ring down, as he continued. “Austen’s men have the maturity to recognize the profundity of the women they come to love. Edward and Edmund couldn’t appreciate Elinor and Fanny, respectively, if they lacked the same discerning character themselves.”

Everyone’s brows shot up in response to his use of the word ‘profundity.’ It was a little like watching a biker discussing Wharton.

“That’s right. It takes a good man to recognize a good woman.” Mitch, wearing a silly grin on his face, put his arm around Darla and tugged her closer to him.

Darla and Mitch, an American couple, who when asked what brought them to Christ Church, explained that about four years ago they promised each other to take an active interest in the favored passions of the other.

Last year, Darla spent a week with Mitch at an NFL football camp. According to her, she’d ended the week bruised, battered, and sore, but having loved every minute of it.

This year, Mitch joined her for a week at Oxford. He had never read much of anything, much less Jane Austen. It was going to be interesting to see if he ended the week with the same enthusiasm with which Darla ended the NFL camp.

“Or, another good man,” Guy interjected with a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. Openly gay, Guy was the kind of guy that could be a girl’s best friend. He’d never had any interest in Jane Austen, or literature for that matter, until he saw Colin Firth in Pride & Prejudice and, in his words, “fell arse over tip in love.” This confession had broken the first-day ice, and had everyone laughing.

“I don’t think it’s fair to lump Edward and Edmund in with the likes of Willoughby and Henry Crawford,” Guy continued. “Those two are as shallow and feckless as they come. I wouldn’t give either of them the time of day, and I can’t understand why Marianne and Maria did either.”

“Sarah, you’re awfully quiet. What are your thoughts on Austen’s male characters?” Mr. Byrne had a way of pulling everyone into the discussion.

Sarah gave her response some thought, before responding. “Although Edward and Willoughby are guilty of the same sin—courting a woman when they are already attached—in the end, Edward redeems himself, albeit because his vapid little fiancée runs off with his brother.”

“But once he is free of his prior obligation, he is still willing to live on a small annual sum in order to marry Elinor, his true love. Willoughby, on the other hand, chooses wealth over the woman he professes so adamantly to love.”

“Well, ladies and gentleman, on that note, it is time for lunch.” Mr. Byrne gathered his books and notes as he spoke. “Before I forget, we leave Thursday at eight-thirty a.m. sharp. The coach will be waiting at the Tom’s Gate, so please be on time.”

Thursday was the class excursion to Chawton House and Winchester. The ladies in the class considered it their pilgrimage to Austen. The men in the class considered it an opportunity to visit the pubs in Winchester.

“Oh, Sarah, may I delay your lunch a moment?” Lady Clara Fraser, Dowager Countess of Rutherford, rounded out the class. According to Mr. Byrne, Lady Clara was considered the matriarch of Oxford.

She’d taken classes every week of Oxford’s five-week program for the last three years. Her effervescent personality and genuine warmth won the immediate affection of everyone in the class, but for some reason, she’d singled Sarah out as her ‘particular friend.’ This pleased Sarah greatly, since she felt an instant connection to her.

Sarah smiled into the sparkling eyes of a woman who reminded her a little of Queen Elizabeth II, matronly, but regal, sure of who she was and her place in the world.

“Do you have plans tomorrow afternoon?”

“No. Some of the others are taking a tour of the Oxford breweries at the request of the men, but I wasn’t planning to join them.”

“I would like to have you to tea at Rutherford Hall, if you’re so inclined.”

“I would love to. Thank you for your kind invitation.”

“Lovely. My car will pick you up at two-thirty at the Canterbury Gate.”

“Thank you.” Sarah already knew better than to argue with Lady Clara about the transportation arrangements. Once Lady Clara made up her mind, not even the Queen herself could change it. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Lady Clara watched Sarah hurry to catch up with her group, before turning to walk towards the aforementioned gate where her car would be waiting for her. Lady Clara smiled to herself. Yes, she thought, she would do very well.



The smells of hops and barley, cigarette smoke, and fish and chips filled the low-ceilinged, wood-beam and plaster room. The sixteenth century pub overflowed with both Oxford locals and international visitors.

The ladies sat on bar stools, while the men hovered, sampling pints of stout and cracking good-natured jokes. Sarah sipped from a pint of ale and listened to the boisterous conversation of her newfound friends.

Kim Haynes, a fellow American, sat next to Sarah. Her small frame, delicate coloring, and pixie features seemed out of place with what they’d come to call her Texas-sized personality.

Kim graduated from high school and was taking a year off before going to college at Yale University. Sarah smiled as Kim flirted outrageously with the handsome young man behind the bar. Those Ivy League boys were in for a surprise when they encountered this steel magnolia.

Sean wore a slight frown as he watched the exchange. It looked to Sarah like a crush had developed there, at least on his side.

Marie Gaudet sat on the other side of Kim. Her lovely French accent stood out among the various English dialects spoken by the other pub patrons. She was a lovely young woman from the South of France whose midnight black hair, ultra short fringe bangs, and patrician features reminded Sarah of a young Audrey Hepburn. Her flamboyant Bohemian dress was in direct contrast to Lady Clara’s somewhat matronly style.

Guy sipped his beer, making a face, while Sean and Mitch laughed, obviously at his expense. Sean and Mitch treated Guy like, well, one of the guys, regardless of his sexual orientation. It pleased Sarah to see the camaraderie among them.

She overheard snippets of their conversation. Despite their reminders that Colin was a married heterosexual, Guy hadn’t given up hope.

“If the handsome, rich Mr. Darcy can fall for a woman purportedly beneath his station then, Colin Firth can fall for a lovesick gay guy from the East End,” he said, taking another sip of his beer, shuddering this time as it went down.

Their little group had become tight-knit in a short period of time. They ate all their meals together, and yesterday toured the other Oxford colleges, between the compulsory stops to the city’s oldest and most renowned pubs. On Friday, weather permitting, they planned to have a picnic in the Master’s Garden, their own private goodbye.

Sean squeezed between Sarah and Kim, trying to commandeer Kim’s attention, but she continued her banter with the bartender. Hoping to distract Sean, Sarah asked, “Your love of literature notwithstanding, what made you pick up Jane Austen?”

“I’ve read all the great male writers, James Joyce, Henry James, Trollope, so I thought it was time to see what the Jane Austen craze was all about. All the women I know go all dreamy when they talk of her novels.” He wore a roguish expression as he continued. “I’m after thinking I could learn a thing or two.”

Sarah laughed. “Are you sure it wasn’t just an excuse to meet women?”

“Ah, Sarah, you’ve got me pegged,” he replied before a question from Kim captured his attention.

Just then someone bumped into Sarah causing her to spill the beer she held to her lips. A sharp rebuke on her lips, she turned and looked into the warmest coffee-brown eyes she’d ever seen. The words froze on her tongue.

“I beg your pardon.” He spoke in a refined British accent, a dimple forming at the corner of his mouth. When Sarah didn’t move to clean up the spill, he picked up a napkin and taking her hand, began the task himself.

“Please, allow me. Although I’m afraid your hand will be rather sticky until you wash up with soap and water.”

His hands were warm on hers as he gently wiped her wrist and hand.

“I suppose if I’m holding your hand, I should at least introduce myself. I’m Alex Fraser.”

She noticed his eyes crinkled around the corners when he smiled. Sarah still couldn’t find the function of speech.

“Hey, Mick, hand me a clean damp cloth.” He spoke to the bartender who’d been the focus of Kim’s attention, and Sean’s ire.

“And you are . . .” he asked, his brow lifted.

“Oh, I’m Sarah, Sarah Edwards.”

“Thanks, Mick,” he said, as he took the damp cloth and cleaned the remaining beer residue from her hand. “Well, Sarah, the least I can do is buy you another drink.” Before Sarah could protest, Alex turned back to Mick. “Mick, bring Sarah here another of what she was drinking.”

“Sure, mate.” As Mick worked the tap, he asked Alex, “How’ve you been? Any new movies in the works?”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, as she took the glass from Mick. She frowned. Was he an actor? A bit embarrassed, she wondered if she should recognize him.

He smiled at Mick as he spoke. His charming British lilt carried the cadence of the British upper class, not unlike that of Prince William or Prince Harry, in a voice smooth as satin against silk.

Dimples framed an engaging smile. Casually tousled, his dark wavy hair evoked thoughts of discarded clothes, rumpled bed sheets, and whispered promises. Sarah realized the bed she pictured in her juicy little imagination was hers. She looked down as he glanced at her, mortified at the direction of her thoughts.

She risked another glance, and found his attention directed at Mick once again, giving her an opportunity to further examine his features. A clean shaven face stretched taut over a strong, square jaw enhanced all the aforementioned male beauty.

Her attention returned to the conversation when Alex said something about filming a BBC adaptation of one of the many so-called Darcy novels, which re-imagines Pride and Prejudice, from the perspective of Mr. Darcy.

“I’m sorry I don’t recognize you. You’re an actor?”

“Yes, and no apologies, please.”

His polished manners were out of place in the decidedly unpolished atmosphere of the pub, and seemed more fitting for a waistcoat and trousers, rather than the blue jeans and navy T-shirt he wore.

“My work hasn’t made it across the pond as yet. But to answer your question, I have been in three BBC adaptations of somewhat obscure literary works. Rather stodgy plots by today’s standards.”

“What is obscure to some may not be obscure to others. Are we talking really obscure works like Abelard and Heloise, or just mildly obscure works like Middlemarch?” She’d recovered her footing now that they talked literature.



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 Hera*us 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.