“It helps if you put your hand here and breathe against it,” he said, casually, as though he weren’t putting his hand low on his flat stomach and drawing attention to his body.
Imagining pressure low against her belly, she inhaled right through the blockages in her throat and chest. He seemed to have sensed that, too, because his silence sounded smug.
“Surprise,” she muttered. “Gentleman explains breathing to a woman.”
He gave a shocked little laugh. “If it’s any consolation,” he said, “I learned this technique from my grandmother.”
Mentioning his family to her was a sign of great goodwill. Perhaps he didn’t think her completely bonkers. Yet.
“Your grandmother is a wise woman,” she said, mortification creeping in.
“Yes. She is a . . .” He frowned. “She helped deliver babies.” He angled his free arm, quite expertly, as if he were cradling an infant.
“A midwife,” Catriona said.
“A midwife, yes. When I was a boy, I carried her bag. So I learned.”
“She let you into the delivery room?”
He gave her a startled look. “No, no. The breathing I showed you, it helps first-time fathers, too—far away from the delivery room.”
“I see. What else does your grandmother suggest in such a situation?”
He smiled at that. “Petting a cat.”
They walked on, her breathing against the pressure of her hand, him content to just keep her company. The ground firmed under her feet. The air had flavors again, the smoky sweetness of domestic coal fires and Elias’s scent. She snuck a glance at him, but he was focused on finding a good spot for crossing the road as St. John’s came into view on the other side. He wasn’t under the umbrella, she realized; he was holding it fully over her head and kept a respectful distance. Droplets had formed on his brow, and his dark lashes were in clumps. If she invited him under the umbrella, he would refuse. She could ask to hold on to his arm, and he’d feel obliged to offer his support, bringing him close enough to share the shelter of the umbrella. But she would have to touch his arm. His biceps would brush against her shoulder. They would look like a couple, taking a stroll.
He made to cross the road, then paused, eyeing her. “You aren’t feeling faint, are you?”
“No,” she said.
She hoped he would keep his other questions unsaid. Why did you jump into traffic? Do you do this often? Are you raving mad, by any chance?
I’m not mad, she wanted to tell him, I just can’t be trapped in crowded spaces with erratic noise patterns.
On the last stretch to St. John’s entrance, their pace seemed to slow as if by an unspoken agreement. Eventually they did arrive and faced each other. Just like that, they were both under the umbrella. Her belly clenched nervously. Looking up at the underside of his jaw shouldn’t feel so exciting.
He glanced down at her with a friendly but casual expression. “I’m afraid I shall have to look after my cousin now,” he said. “He leaves for London after lunch.”
“That’s quite all right.”
Had he expected her to want lunch with him?
A tutor emerged from St. John’s and looked at them, then up to the sky, then back at them, an odd expression on his face. Obviously, the drizzle had ceased, and yet she and Mr. Khoury were still standing under the umbrella. A cold sensation dripped down her back. Lo, Lady Catriona, looking cozy with a young man with no chaperone in sight. She stepped away.
“Mrs. Blackstone has invited me to a dinner on Friday,” Elias said, his gaze following her.
May I come was what he was asking.
“You’ll have fun,” she replied. “She hosts the most enjoyable parties. Lots of games.”
Yes, you may. Who was she to deny him a dinner after he had helped her breathe.
Another smile played over his lips. “I hadn’t taken you for someone who enjoyed games.”
She thought of his chess invitation, catching fire on her grate. She blushed.
“Good day, Mr. Khoury.”
Back at her desk, the cold wouldn’t leave her bones. She flipped through the pages of Virgil’s Aeneid without comprehending the text. She was picturing a curly-haired boy on another continent, the pink soles of his feet slapping dusty yellow soil as he ran out on an errand with his midwife grandmother. He had lived an entire life story before becoming a character in hers. Would he forget this little chapter here in Oxford once he left again?
Her watch said it was half past eleven. Would he play chess today, and if yes, with whom? It could have been an excellent occasion to test her hypothesis about emotional inoculation. A deliberate infection to control future responses. Who better to practice with than him? He had seen her without a stitch of clothing; if she learned to feel unbothered with him, she could manage it with anyone. In case the experiment did go pear-shaped, no matter—he was leaving Britain before the summer was over.
In the end, she did not go because her motives were unclear—was she hoping for self-improvement, or was she hoping for something else entirely? She couldn’t have something else. She had just flung herself from a moving carriage over a cough. The noise, the entrapment, the people. And what was marriage, and the inevitable family life, other than an entrapment in a small, crowded space with erratic noise patterns? Even if all the laws of Britain changed in a woman’s favor, she would still be stuck inside her skin. People would always exhaust her eventually. So she remained at her desk, reading, acutely aware when the chapel clock struck twelve, then one.
Chapter 8
She walked to the Bodleian the next morning to begin the campaign against the writ for restitution in earnest. A blustery wind had cleared the skies, and she entered the library still holding on to her hat. The librarian had her stack of books and journals pertaining to the writ ready, and then he briefly became reluctant to release the requested Home Office reports into her female hands. The Campbell name held enough authority here to overrule his compunctions.