Chapter Two
Sarah Lockwood was not holding her breath.
Oh, wait. She was.
Trying to let it out slowly, she glanced at the elderly man seated on the other side of the desk.
“Hmmm…” said the Provost of Wessex College.
Sarah tried to smile. It was one of her mother’s constant complaints, that she did not smile more. Sarah had explained, more than once, that at times she just did not feel like smiling.
Like, for example, when she had been dragged to one of her mother’s parties. Or a card game she had no wish to play. Or, heaven forbid, a ball…
Her stomach stirred most uncomfortably. Sarah folded her hands in her lap as though that could somehow alter the nerves roaring through her.
She had been foolish to think she could just come here and ask to see him. He was, after all, one of the most prestigious people currently at Wessex College. He did not see anyone, as far as she had heard.
And besides, there was the unavoidable fact that she was…
“A woman,” said the provost delicately, laying her letter on his desk. “My word.”
A prickle of defiance crept out of Sarah’s heart and almost made its way to her mouth, but it withered on the way.
No, she could not say anything. What was there to say? It was an inescapable truth: she was a woman, and there were not women at Oxford. That was just how it was.
She nodded.
Oh, please don’t let her cheeks—
But it was too late. All that had been said was that she was a woman, yet already her cheeks burned. They are undoubtedly stained red now, Sarah thought furiously, despite all efforts to the contrary.
The provost nodded. “And you want to see him because…”
His voice trailed away, as though it was questionable that she should wish to do so.
Sarah could not help it. Her jaw dropped. Was it not obvious? Was he not the most preeminent in his field? How could anyone not wish to see him?
True, she had probably poured a little too much praise in her letter. Her gaze was drawn to it…all six pages.
“Because he is the best,” she managed to say, hating how her voice quavered. “There would be no one better to speak with to gain advice.”
The provost was still nodding. Sarah found herself hypnotized by it. How did he manage to look so sagely at her, as though he received such a request on a daily basis?
She hoped her open-mouthed surprise had not been noticed. “And with term almost over, I thought it would be the perfect time to see him. As he would not be distracted, you know. With the students.”
Her cheeks burned again, but there was nothing she could do. Even a mention of the gentlemen who crowded Oxford during term time, their shouts and glee echoing through the streets for weeks on end, was enough to cause crimson to splash across her cheeks.
Thank goodness graduation would not be long. Then she would not have to walk through the corridors of Wessex College and be gawped at by all and sundry.
At least, Sarah corrected herself, if I am permitted back.
“You are not acquainted with Mariah Wynn, are you?”
Sarah blinked. Mariah Wynn? The name was familiar, though she could not think of anyone in her acquaintance with such a name.
Her mother’s circle, on the other hand…well. That was more likely.
“I do not think so, sir,” she said aloud. “Does she live here in Oxford?”
The provost shook his head. “No longer, sadly. Just a matter of my own personal curiosity.”
He interlocked his fingers and put his elbows on his desk, placing his head on his hands. His examination of her was silent, focused, and made Sarah wish to goodness she had not agreed to such a meeting.
But then the chance to meet him, her heart whispered, excitement leaping in her chest. Oh, surely this was worth it, if only to see him, to hear him speak—to gain his help!
Sarah swallowed, and despite her nature, forced herself to speak. “I would be so grateful, sir, if you would give me permission to see him. Write to him, inform him I am coming. It would be—”
“Yes, yes, a wonderful idea in fact,” said the provost blithely. “Yes, I had decided within myself to make the arrangements before you arrived.”
Sarah stared. “I beg your pardon?”
The older man grinned. “I just wanted to meet you, you see. Miss Sarah Lockwood. Even within the college, there have been rumors of you.”
If she had thought her blushes before bad, they were nothing to the scalding heat rising in her chest now.
Wondering if it was possible to launch herself out of the room and never return, Sarah tried to steady her breathing and pretend it was a compliment the man had just paid her.
Rumors of her? Her mother would never let her hear the end of it!
“R-Rumors?”
The provost nodded. “It is said your poem has been growing quite substantially. An epic, I hear.”
Sarah tried to smile, she really did. Whatever expression she was making, however, was surely more of a grimace.
That was the trouble with Oxford. Gossip was what it ran on, and the place was small enough that everyone heard everything.
“Well, I would not call it an epic,” Sarah said weakly.
The provost barked a laugh. “No. No, I suppose you would not.”
Silence fell between them as Sarah attempted to unpack the meaning of the man’s words. Did he mean she was bold to declare it an epic, her a mere woman? Or did he mean it could not be declared an epic until it was finished? Or perhaps—
“Yes, I think it a fine idea that you see him,” said the provost with a sigh. “Goodness knows he could do with a distraction. Leave it with me, Miss Lockwood. I shall write directly, and if you return tomorrow at about midday, I will ensure he will see you.”
Unexpected relief mingled with joy rushed through Sarah’s bones as she sagged in the chair. “Oh, sir, you cannot know how grateful I am!”
He beamed genially. “So I see. Well, when you arrive tomorrow, go past the porter—I shall instruct him to permit you entrance. Walk into the building on the left, as though you are coming to see me again, but take the second staircase instead of the first, take a left, the second right, and then a left. His is the fourth door on the left.”
Left, right, stairs, doors…
Sarah did her best to take in the directions, wishing to goodness she had thought to bring out her pocketbook from the reticule clutched in her hands—but it was too late.
The provost had risen. “Good day, Miss Lockwood. Thank you for your visit.”
She almost stumbled as she quickly rose herself. “Yes—yes, thank you, sir…”
It had been almost impossible to sleep that night. Sarah had tossed and turned, trying desperately to think of the perfect way to introduce herself.
“My name is Sarah Lockwood, and I have admired you…”
“I am Miss Lockwood; I believe the provost has written to you about me? I require your help…”
“I’ve never before done something this wild, but I had to meet you…”
Sarah punched the pillow in the dark of the night. They all sounded so foolish, so pathetic! As if a man like him would be impressed by whatever patter she could come up with in a single night! Why, it would take weeks to create an introduction to honor him!
And so it was with tired eyes that Sarah nodded at the porter of Wessex College the next morning.
He scowled, as she had known he would. “Miss.”
The man had done his best to prevent her from entering yesterday, even with the provost’s letter in her hand inviting her to meet with him.
Stepping lightly along the pathway, Sarah kept her eyes averted from the numerous gentlemen rushing about the place, shouting and laughing. Examinations were almost over, she knew—anyone who had grown in Oxford knew the term times—and that meant excitement and energy was almost overflowing.
In a few weeks, they would be gone, she reassured herself as she stepped into the building on the left of the porter’s gate. And then Oxford would be hers again.
“Walk into the building on the left, as though you are coming to see me again, but take the second staircase instead of the first…”
With the provost’s instructions ringing in her ears, Sarah was able to recall it was the second staircase along the corridor that she was supposed to take, not the first. When she reached the top, heart hammering faster with every step closer to her destination, she went left.
And then was it right? No, no, the second right…or was it the third?
Sarah hesitated at a turn, trying to recall precisely the provost’s directions. How lost was it possible to get, after all?
She glanced up one corridor, then along a second, before deciding on the third. Yes, it was surely the third right. She recalled that perfectly.
A gentleman carrying what appeared to be a doctor’s case passed her. “Miss.”
Sarah exchanged a quick nod with the man and tried to concentrate. Yes, the third right, that was what he had said. Definitely.
So when she stood outside the door—his door—Sarah waited for a moment and tried to get her breath back.
It had not been a long walk. Not literally. But the gumption it took to get this far…
Writing to the provost. Meeting with him. Coming back again today.
Sarah’s shyness had always prevented her from meeting people she could truly confide in, leaving her with few friends and even fewer people she could share her poetry with. But now she was about to share it with perhaps the greatest poet who had ever lived.
Professor Bombardieri.
Sarah swallowed. He was just on the other side of that door.
The greatest poet, arguably, who had ever lived.
Oh, his interpretation of Homer was just exquisite.
When she had finally saved enough of her allowance to purchase a leather-bound copy of his poetry, Sarah had wept all evening reading the elegance of the verse.
And now she was about to meet him.
It was almost too much to bear. She was in half a mind to leave without knocking.
Sarah thrust back her shoulders and tried to remind herself this was what she had wanted! She had wished to come here, gone to great efforts to overcome her reticence.
She was not going to fall at this hurdle.