Catriona walked back to St. John’s College barely perceiving her surroundings. Her weeks were now overfull. Of course, liberated womanhood would benefit her academic ambitions, too. In a cruel paradox, the whole process of getting women liberation left very few hours for said ambitions. For the last five years, she had split her time between co-publishing with Wester Ross, hoping to build a reputation on his coattails, and the Cause. She had corresponded, picketed, fund-raised, and written essays in support of women’s rights. She had studied the voting records and convictions of men of influence to better persuade them, and she had traveled between Oxford, Manchester, and London more times than she could count. But there were suffragists who traveled to the United States to foster the Cause, and those who had decided to forgo marriage and motherhood or broken with their parents just so that they could campaign without distraction. Her sacrifice was paltry in comparison. But when was enough actually enough? Twelve years ago, the Manchester chapter had achieved the current Married Women’s Property Act after a decade of relentless politicking. It had reined in some of the most oppressive stipulations of coverture, but as Lucie said, it was still crumbs, and any attempts to improve the act further had since failed. So, here they were, over twenty years’ worth of effort later, still fighting. A lifetime was dust in the wind when pitted against the centuries-old machine of laws and mores that kept women chained in place. Sometimes, tending to her personal interests instead of someone else’s counted as an act of sabotage against the machine, too. Or so she told herself.
In the porter’s lodge at St. John’s, white-haired porter Clive was staffing the desk and his smile indicated he was pleased to see her. They had a little chat, about the weather—an abnormal amount of rain this month; how quiet it was during term break; they’ll be back soon enough—the same routine they had trotted out for the last decade whenever they encountered each other in the lodge. Finally, Catriona asked whether there was any mail for Wester Ross or her.
Clive looked under the counter. “No, ma’am. Doesn’t look as though there’s anything in your pigeonholes, either.”
She surveyed the wall with floor-to-ceiling mail compartments. The Campbell pigeonholes were indeed empty. Casually, her attention drifted across the names at the bottom of the compartments to the row with the letter D. D as in Peregrin Devereux. Her gaze caught on the name and her skin tightened. Chances that they would cross paths here were high. Peregrin was assisting Professor Jenkins, a friend of Wester Ross and fellow don, with a digging endeavor in Greece. He would eventually attend a dinner in Hall or amble into the porter’s lodge, his top hat at a careless angle on his sun-bleached hair, the spark in his hazel eyes . . . He would address her . . . When he did, what would she say? Hullo, old boy? Without warning, a lump blocked her throat. Oh dear. Slowly, she backed out of the porter’s lodge, avoiding Clive’s curious eyes. An emotional flare-up, like a reoccurring rash, nothing more . . .
She walked out onto the Front Quad and air hit her clammy face. Her breathing came in shallow gusts now, her gaze bounced off the enclosing walls of the quad with a strange sense of disorientation. Peregrin might be on the premises right at this moment. Perhaps he was behind one of the upper-floor windows, looking down onto the quad. She was exposed like an awkward deer on a clearing . . . Heat swept down her back. Her impulse was to cut right across the circular lawn to reach her lodgings. The flagstone path around was much longer, endless. Her pace picked up. She dashed into the Canterbury cloisters, on tiptoes like a thief on the run. Heart drumming, she slipped into the Campbell flat and slammed the door behind her. The wooden surface of the door was cool against her cheek. She focused on that cool spot while her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. MacKenzie, alerted by the sound of the door, entered the vestibule from the study with an unfinished piece of knitting in hand. The Scotswoman did a double take, and then her face smoothed back into a neutral expression. “I fetched a tea tray from the kitchens,” she said. “It’s in the study, on yer desk.”
Obviously, MacKenzie was thinking to herself how every Wester Ross Campbell generation had an odd one, and how it was a pity when it happened to be a girl. I know, MacKenzie. I just can’t help it sometimes.
She removed her hat and checked her sweaty reflection in the small mirror next to the door. Ugh. She licked her teeth, loathing the dry feeling in her mouth. In half an hour, she had to look like a normal person and take Elias Khoury to the Ashmolean Museum. A great dissatisfaction weighed down her body. She was Lucie’s best lieutenant when it came to writing a legal letter. She excelled at debating an MP face-to-face. But, look at her now, a name on a letter box had left her flailing like a motherless fawn. She was quite tired of being the odd one.
Chapter 6
The knocks on his door were loud and erratic and came twenty minutes earlier than the agreed time. Definitely not the Lady Catriona. Muscles tense, Elias strode from his bedchamber toward the racket, then paused and listened intently for a moment.
A muffled voice: “Yalla, Eli.”
He opened the door in disbelief. He was face-to-face with Nassim.
“He he he, look who’s here,” his cousin cried, dropping his valise with a thud and flinging his arms open wide. He pushed into the room, and the men embraced.
Elias bussed Nassim’s cheeks. “My dear. You madman. What are you doing here?”
He hadn’t expected his cousin for another week, but here he was, with overlong hair and the wide smile that turned his hazel eyes into squinty half-moons. Elias hadn’t seen him in a year. He squeezed his cousin a little tighter.
Nassim clasped the back of his head with one hand and looked him up and down. “You are in good health?”
“I’m—”
“How is Tayta?”
“She’s very well, and—”
“And Layal, and—”
“Thriving. They miss you. You shouldn’t have come here just to see me.”
Nassim tsked. “You wrote plans have changed. You are leaving Scotland after what, one day, two days . . . no explanation, nothing. Perhaps it was a cipher for trouble, how would I know? I had to come and see. I do have to meet for business in London tomorrow—instead of seeing you on my way back, I see you on my way there, it’s no trouble. What about you, how are you; you look terrible.”
“Yiii, leave me be.”
“I swear. Like a naked mole—where’s your beard?”
He patted Elias’s clean-shaven jawline. Elias pulled away. A beard would immediately announce him as a stranger here; removing it was an intentional decision because he wanted this artifact deal done quickly. Nassim looked fashionable; he wore a royal blue Italian linen suit with a burgundy silk cravat, and his beard was still intact, gleaming and expertly trimmed.
Elias flicked Nassim’s golden cravat pin. “And what are you, a catalog model?”
The sound of a throat clearing drew his attention back to the corridor.
A white-haired college porter still stood waiting, stiff and overlooked like a forgotten umbrella. He had a handcart loaded with a wooden crate by his side, and he wore a well-mannered Englishman’s expression of annoyed. Elias thanked him profusely and hoisted the box into his arms. He closed the door behind him with his heel.
Nassim was prowling the length of the room and randomly touching different surfaces. “So are you,” he prodded, “in trouble?” He looked delighted about the prospect. He was too energetic for having left his post at Manchester Port before dawn. “Ah, put it there, put it there.” He waved at the fireplace.
Elias set the crate down with a thump.
Nassim came over to loosen the crimps on the lid. “We have a new import-export at the docks,” he said. “I doubted they have food here. Voilà, they don’t—I stopped at two bakeries on my way here from the railway station, and they don’t have any bread.”
“Grand,” Elias said as familiar jars appeared. Red bell peppers in olive oil; more apricots. A bottle with mulberry juice. At least four pounds of pistachios.
“I’m not sure how you’ll eat any of it without proper bread,” Nassim said while he built a food pyramid on the mantelshelf.
“I’ll manage,” Elias replied.
“But how.”
“I could use this old Roman invention they keep in the college kitchen.”
Nassim paused and frowned. “An invention?”
“They call it—a fork.”