Tales of Timeless Romance

Chapter Fourteen

P eter avoided the library after that. He took his meals in his room, and went for long walks through the city, leaving by way of the kitchen so as not to meet anyone in the halls. He told himself that it was better this way; the less they saw of each other, the easier their parting would be. Or perhaps he was simply a coward who couldn’t face the prospect of disappointing her again.

Outside, London was caught in the last gasp of winter. Men and women jostled past, hurrying under the ever-present threat of rain, and the air was full of the scent of wet horses and woodsmoke. No matter how many miles he walked, nor how deeply he burrowed into his coat, Peter could not seem to get warm. He missed the library with its slightly musty air, worn rugs, and Heloise’s company. The fact that he might never spend another day there was like a knife slipped between his ribs. He didn’t feel the pain yet, but knew it was coming. In the meantime, he tried to put it out of his mind, and walked until he fell into bed each evening, too exhausted to think.

One afternoon, Peter passed through the kitchen and met Sarah, who was carrying a load of wet sheets in a hamper. He lifted the basket wordlessly from her arms, then followed as she led him out to the back garden. The rosebushes were bare, but the neatly clipped hedges shone green and gold in the weak sunlight. Peter slung the heavy, damp sheets onto the line while Sarah secured them with clothespins. She didn’t feel the need to engage him in conversation, for which he was deeply grateful.

They sat in the kitchen afterward, at the little table under the window, and had tea. Peter wrapped his hands around the cup, his numb fingers slowly thawing as the heat seeped through the porcelain. The kitchen smelled like flour and pie crust, scents he had not particularly enjoyed as a child, but which now felt impossibly poignant.

“I met her parents once, you know.” Sarah stirred her tea and nudged a slice of gooseberry pie toward Peter. “Her mother lent books out to neighbors. My brother had an obsession with King Arthur, but I didn’t have the money for that sort of thing. So, we walked over one day.”

Sarah put her chin in her hand, the light from the window washing over her soft, lined face. “When we arrived, their little girl was putting on a play. She couldn’t have been more than five. I believe the theme was whether cake should be had at breakfast. Her mother had sewn her some robes and rigged up a curtain on a clothesline. We sat on kitchen chairs and watched the performance.”

Peter smiled, though his throat felt tight. Sarah gave him an appraising look.

“That’s what she lost,” Sarah said. “I don’t blame her one bit for holing up in that library. The trouble is, she’s so clever, you forget to worry about her. You forget that she’s hardly lived at all.”

Peter forced a mouthful of pie past the ache in his chest. “How did you come to work here?”

“I saw the notice for a housekeeper and recognized the name. She said she was looking for someone to manage things who wouldn’t let her uncle browbeat them. I reckoned that was me.” Sarah brushed a small pile of crumbs into her palm. Peter stood and helped her tidy away the tea things.

“Oh, I nearly forgot.” Sarah reached into the pocket of her dress and brought out a letter. “This came in the morning post.”

Peter took the cream-colored envelope bearing his college’s crimson seal. He stared at it while Sarah moved about the kitchen, the clink of dishes and swish of the dishcloth distant in his hearing. He stood dumbly for another moment, then started toward the hall.

“My son still has the book,” Sarah called out over her shoulder, elbows in the sink. “ Le Morte D’Arthur. He married, moved to Cornwall, and reads it to his own boy now. They let him keep it.”

Back in his bedchamber, Peter sat at his writing desk and opened the letter.

Mr. Abelard,

We are in receipt of Tractatus de Intellectibus. Your work has been reviewed favorably by the Academic Council. Kindly visit our chambers tomorrow at two o’clock in the afternoon so that we might discuss your future in the School of Philosophy.

Regards,

Office of the Provost

Peter looked out the window. Down in the garden, a sparrow was bathing itself in the fountain, water droplets glittering like diamonds as the little bird flicked and twitched its feathers. Peter stood, wavered, and collapsed onto the bed with one arm flung over his head. The letter sat on the desk by the window, a promise of everything he had ever wanted.

When evening came, Peter was unable to sleep. Around midnight he gave up trying, slipped on his robe, and went quietly to the stairs. The house was sunk in a fuzzy, felt-like darkness. He hadn’t thought to light a candle, so he groped his way toward the kitchen, hoping he might find a heel of bread or some ham on the baseboard.

As he passed the library, he saw light beneath the door, as incongruous in the pitch-black hallway as gold gleaming in the mouth of a cave. Peter turned the knob and peered inside. A single lamp flickered on the writing table, spreading its amber glow over the papers and pens. The circle of light was large enough to reveal a single slipper dangling by the window. Peter went into the room and found Heloise asleep on the reading bench. She was fully dressed, curled up on her side amongst the cushions, one arm wrapped around a green velvet throw pillow. There was a book beside her head, and another that had fallen to the floor, pages askew.

Peter knelt beside her. Her lips were parted, her breathing slow and even. Her sleeping face was smooth and still, tranquil when not reflecting the quicksilver flicker of her thoughts. He laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She grumbled and pressed her face into the pillow.

“Heloise.” He stroked her temple, fingers drifting along the fine hairs there. “You fell asleep in the library, love. Let me help you to your room.”

“Like it here,” she muttered. She gave a drowsy sigh, one shoulder hitched up like a child. Perhaps she often slept in the library. It was no business of his where she spent the night. Peter rose to his feet and studied her. He tried to memorize her features; the curve of her cheek, the set of her chin, the subtle, downward turn of her mouth. He stood beside her, the guttering lamp painting them both in alternating light and shadow. Then he shrugged off his robe and draped it over her. He tugged it up to her chin, put out the lamp, and left the library, closing the door behind him.