Chapter 5
The next morning at work, I was two cups of faculty coffee down and trying to make sense of the pages of scrawled notes I’d taken after reading Mercy’s memoir. I agreed with her: Sebastian’s shirtless behaviour was unconventional for a rector (and rather entertaining). But he also seemed like a genuinely caring person from what she’d described. Because of him, she’d opened up about her physical experience of contracting the disease and hinted at its emotional impact, which was invaluable information for Jeremy’s book. Besides that, the fact that Sebastian had been inoculated in Constantinople was an interesting turn-up.
I knew from my research that before the development of the smallpox vaccine in the late 1700s, the only option for protection from the disease was inoculation. This involved either inhaling highly infectious smallpox scabs or having them put into a small incision in your arm to contract variola minor—a mild form of the disease that wasn’t violent enough to kill you. However, if you were unlucky, it turned into the full-blown version, variola major, which could be deadly. Inoculation was common in Europe, Asia, and Africa but considered dangerous in Britain. So Sebastian willingly undergoing this process in a foreign country marked him as a bit of a risk-taker.
But it was also thanks to him that Mercy was able to read and write, and it looked like her desire to write a book had been fulfilled, though I didn’t yet know how it had eventuated or why. She’d obviously deemed her stint as a maid adventurous enough to write about in later years. But what else had gone on in the rectory that had compelled her to put quill to paper?
My lunch with Eleanor was at Queen’s Lane Coffee House, a fifteen-minute walk from the faculty. Dating back to 1654, it cited itself as the longest-established coffee house in Europe. So for us history girlies, it appealed more than the closer, but run-of-the-mill Caffè Nero. They also did reasonably priced yummy paninis.
Despite my rumbling stomach, I wasn’t looking forward to our lunch as I had a feeling I was going to get the hard word about Jeremy. Eleanor was forthright and didn’t pull any punches. When she decided you needed to hear the plain truth, the result was searing—like a branding iron on your bum.
When we were settled in our seats (with paninis on the way), I headed her off at the pass by asking about the research she was doing into Victorian slang and its social significance. If I could get her talking about that, I might escape the spotlight.
‘It’s fascinating. Some of the words and phrases they used back then crack me up. I sit there chuckling away in my corner of the office like a gigglemug.’
‘Gigglemug?’ I queried.
‘Someone who’s always smiling or laughing.’
‘Ah. What are some other ones?’
‘“Enthuzimuzzy”. Making fun of someone who’s excited about something. Or there’s “arf’arf’an’arf”. That means “embarrassingly drunk”. And I quite like “doing the bear”. I might start using that myself.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’
‘Depends where your dirty mind’s going, young lady. It means “hugging” for your information.’
‘Oh, that makes sense. Probably where bear hug comes from.’
We chatted a bit more, but my luck ran out when our paninis arrived. I’d just bitten into my mozzarella, grilled veg, and sundried tomato when Eleanor looked at me. ‘So it seems that you’re raked fore and aft.’
‘What?’ I mumbled through my mouthful.
‘Desperately in love.’
I ducked my head from her enquiring gaze. ‘How do you know?’
‘Becca told me.’ I knew it! ‘Anna, I’m going to say something brutally honest. Do you think you can handle it?’
I chewed, nodded, and braced myself.
‘I know Jeremy’s ripe for a prigging, and I’d be lying if I said my madge doesn’t twang when he walks past. But you need to get over him and start dating someone else for your own sanity.’
My lips twitched. Eleanor had obviously been taking in some of the more lewd Victorian slang.
‘I don’t want anyone else,’ I said stubbornly. Who could compare?
‘You’re missing out waiting around for him. You could be feeling the sting of pleasure with someone who does want a relationship with you.’
‘Sting of pleasure?’
‘Now that does mean what you think it means.’ Eleanor waggled her eyebrows, and I laughed.
‘I’ve tried going out on the odd date, but it doesn’t make any difference. I don’t want to leave my job. So I’m stuck in this ... thing, whether I like it or not.’
Eleanor sighed. ‘Look, my cousin, Thomas, is a historical guide. You guys would get on well. He does the Saturday tour at the castle.’ She picked her phone off the table and tapped. Next minute, a number appeared in my notifications.
‘Oh no. Really, I can’t, Nor. Not your cousin.’
‘Just have a drink with him. He’s single, interesting to talk to, and, no thanks to my aunt’s husband, actually attractive.’
I looked at the number and was tempted to delete it, but Eleanor was watching me, steely-eyed.
‘OK, I’ll think about it,’ I conceded.
‘Good girl. But please, if you do join giblets with Thomas, I don’t want to hear about it.’
‘Indeed.’
She didn’t have to worry. I had no intention of joining giblets with her cousin in any way, shape, or form.
***
It seemed to be the day for unwanted advice and messages. When I got back from lunch, there was an email waiting for me from my mother. It was short, sweet, and to the point: an invite to stay at her flat in London Saturday week. Nothing out of the ordinary. But I knew there was a stinger: my sister and ex-boyfriend would be there.
This was the second time she’d pulled this stunt. She never said specifically that they would be, but there was an underlying current to the message that I could pick up on. I sensed the intent of it.
I’d nearly been caught out by the last invitation because I was stressed and thought a catch-up with my mother would be a nice way to unwind. Her three-bedroom flat in Bayswater was an Art Deco escape from reality, and I loved staying there, and sometimes she shouted me afternoon tea at the Park Lounge by Kensington Gardens on Sunday. But due to the terrible weather that weekend and train delays, it was impossible for me to get to London, so I’d had to cancel.
I’d seen her the week after, and she’d said nonchalantly that Beth and Ben had been round for dinner that night and were disappointed not to see me (ugh, their names made me grind my teeth just thinking about them). I said pointedly that they were hardly at the top of my favourite people list and told her to please not invite them round when I was there. She shook her head and replied, ‘Life’s too short to bear a grudge, Anna. You have to try to forgive Beth for your own sake.’
I said I was doing just fine without forgiving her. Then things got tense, and I left.
Barring another storm or lying to my mother that I was busy, I was going to have to face my sister and my ex. But there was no way I wanted to turn up alone and single and spend an awkward evening fielding pitying looks. I glanced at the Jeremy hotline, wishing I had the confidence and courage to pick up the phone and ask him to come with me. If he were by my side, I’d be able to face it. Perhaps if I couched it as a work favour. But I shrank at the thought. I was too afraid he’d think it was weird or reject me outright. It wasn’t as if we were really friends outside of the faculty. And to ask him to travel all the way to London with me was unthinkable. I could fantasise about him whisking me off in his open-top MINI Cooper like one of those women he dated, but I couldn’t imagine it happening for real. But who else could I ask?
For the umpteenth time since she’d sent it to me, I looked at Eleanor’s cousin’s number. She hadn’t even told me his last name. I’d added his number to my contacts and labelled it ‘Thomas the Tank Engine’.
He didn’t sound inspiring.
Becca came into the office, cradling a cup of coffee. ‘Just saw your man Jeremy,’ she said, sitting down at her desk.
I glanced quickly towards the door to make sure she’d shut it behind her. ‘Don’t say that!’ I hissed. ‘He’s not my man.’
She pulled a face. ‘Sorry, I was only teasing.’
‘Well, don’t,’ I said. Then as curiosity got the better of me, I asked, ‘Where did you see him?’
Becca grinned. ‘In the kitchen, nicking some biscuits. He asked how you were getting on with the candidates for my job. Apparently, there’s someone great who he has his eye on.’
I simmered. Bloody Irish Lucy! ‘He could’ve asked me himself.’
She shrugged. ‘I guess he didn’t want to bother you.’
‘Right.’
‘So how are you getting on?’
‘Oh, OK, I guess. I’ve narrowed it down to three.’
‘Let’s see them then.’
Dutifully, I brought up the candidates I’d chosen to shortlist: two studious mousy-haired girls and one thin pale-looking guy—all with distinctions for their master’s degrees.
‘Which one does Jeremy have his eye on?’
Silently, I brought up Irish Lucy’s profile. Becca skimmed her CV along with the CVs of the other three I’d chosen.
‘He’s right—she is the best one.’
I mashed my lips together. ‘I don’t want her.’
Becca side-eyed me. ‘Are you worried she’s going to steal him from under your nose?’
I opened my mouth and shut it again like a goldfish. How could I refute it when it was true? But I had a history of men being stolen from under my nose, and I wasn’t willing to risk it again.
‘It’s not like she’s going to be in his office. I never even go in there. You’re the one he wants to talk to about his book,’ Becca stated reasonably.
‘True,’ I admitted.
‘And if she’s as good an assistant as her CV makes her out to be, then you’ll be able to focus more on your own research.’
I sighed resignedly. As usual, she was right. ‘Fine.’ I deleted one of the mousy-haired girls and added Irish Lucy.
‘You should probably let Jeremy know so he can set up the interviews,’ she remarked sagely.
Grrr. I sent an email to Jeremy telling him my chosen candidates before I could change my mind. If he hired her, she could blooming well do all the boring admin.
A few moments later, I got a reply:
Thanks for that Anna, I’ll get onto setting up the interviews. Let’s have lunch on Friday and discuss the Wellcome Library books.
The familiar thrill went through me at the thought of spending a whole hour with him exclusively. I supposed I’d better make a start on the other seven books in the box, though I doubted any of them would be as interesting as Mercy’s memoir.