Chapter Two #2
He stopped, for the woman standing with Craddock caught his eye, her waves of auburn hair striking against a goldenrod dress.
Once, he would have called that shade “red,” but it was too subtle for that—too many dark strands that absorbed light rather than reflected it.
A professor had once described similar hair in a painting as “Titian,” but that was still too delicate and airy.
It was the rich, warm red-brown of cream sherry.
“I think Don spotted me,” Harold whispered.
He raised a hand in salute, and to Sidney’s dismay, the pair registered their existence.
Ginevra Bishop’s green eyes, hard as emerald chips, scraped him from head to toe like they did every time she bustled by at the library.
After that first horrible encounter, he’d kept his head down whenever he saw her there—which had seemed to be damn near every week since.
“Dash it all, I’m going over.” Harold tugged down his jacket. “Wish me luck, old boy.” Before Sidney could grab his sleeve, the young man sallied into the crowd.
Good sense said Sidney should turn on his heel, leave Harold to his fate, and flee to safety.
But Sidney had never been one to leave a mate behind.
He’d stood up to primary school bullies who stole his brother’s lunch, and he’d volunteered to rescue a comrade trapped inside a farmhouse behind enemy lines.
The thought of allowing Harold to fall victim to Craddock and Bishop’s disdain made the old wound under his ribs twinge with guilt.
Before he could second-guess himself, Sidney plunged after his foolish friend.
Without elbowing a few dons, it was impossible to reach Harold quickly enough. He was already blabbering when Sidney reached the little group, and the boredom on Craddock’s face said it was the opposite of a good impression. Bishop’s cool gaze remained unreadable.
“Well, what do you think?” Harold smiled so expectantly that pity welled up inside Sidney. Perhaps it would be better if he were as oblivious as Harold. The burden of reading people meant he cared far too much about what they thought, despite what he might pretend.
“A fine idea,” Craddock said, stifling a yawn. “I’ll submit it to the fellows at our next meeting.”
Harold beamed, and Sidney prepared to drag him away while the humiliation seemed minimal.
“It is a fine idea,” Bishop said sharply.
She cut her eyes at Craddock until he straightened.
“Your clubs are more secretive than spinster aunts. Mr. Webb’s proposal of an event for applicants would help dispel rumors of your clandestine measures for approving new members.
” She arched an eyebrow. “Unless you want to be thought snobs.”
Craddock tutted. “You wouldn’t understand, Gin. Damocles wields a lot of influence, and we’re circumspect about whom we allow into our ranks.”
“Circumspect?” Harold looked to Sidney as though lost and missed the derision in Craddock’s face.
Sidney, however, did not. He knew they ought to leave, but his rational faculties grew brittle—too brittle to leave the remark unchallenged. “He means they prefer old-money families. If the rich can’t keep their little clubs private, then what’s the point of all that wealth?”
Bishop’s posture grew rigid.
“Now see here,” Craddock protested. “That’s uncalled for. If that were the criteria for admittance, it would disqualify most students. We’re egalitarian.”
“And how does one get in? Did Harold fill out an application?”
Craddock hesitated. “Ah, well, not exactly—”
“No, because you recruit and handpick whom you want.” Sidney leaned forward, staring down Craddock’s watery glower. “Harold’s character doesn’t matter. You’re only interested in the depth of his pockets.”
“Oh.” Harold brightened. “If it’s only money, that’s not an issue.”
But Craddock’s eyes blazed with indignation, and color stained his thin cheeks. “We are not leeches. The Damocles Club is an eminently respectable and lauded part of the university.”
“That smashed up the Swithun chapel’s windows, yes?”
“Nearly a century ago,” Craddock ground out.
“Gentlemen.” Ginevra Bishop arched a reproving eyebrow and pulled her handbag into the crook of her elbow with an air of finality. “This scintillating conversation has left me parched. Donald, would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of lemonade?”
With a visible effort to tamp down his emotions, Craddock smoothed a hand over his pale hair. “Of course, dear.”
He sauntered toward the refreshment table on the far wall, where he was immediately hailed by another slick-haired man whose clothes and posture marked him as a club crony.
Sidney guessed Bishop’s lemonade was as good as forgotten already, but she promptly turned toward Harold as though she didn’t care.
“I understand your interest in the Damocles Club,” she said, “but those boys are a notorious party crowd. Someone gets sent down nearly every term, and I should hate for you to get caught up in all that.”
“The connections though,” Harold protested. “Dash it all, my father owns Universal Biscuit, and yet they make me feel like a second fiddle—”
“Does he really?” A short, blond young woman bounced into the circle. “The one that makes Lemon Wheels?”
For a moment, Harold seemed flustered that someone should have such ready knowledge of his father’s production line, but his cheeks pinked with pride. “Yes, that’s him.”
“Hello, dear,” Bishop said. “Iris, this is Harold Webb; Mr. Webb, Iris Finchley.”
“Tweety to my friends,” Finchley said, extending a hand to Harold, whose cheeks pinked further still. “Because I’m short and love yellow.” He fumbled something between a bow and a handshake, and Finchley’s smile widened.
Bishop waved to someone else in the crowd. “Sarita! Over here!”
An elegant woman with light brown skin glided to join them, nodding in greeting. But when she noticed Sidney, her eyes narrowed, and she studied him with a look that could have pressed the wrinkles from his clothes. “Are you Sidney Braithwaite?”
“Yes,” he said, trying to mask his surprise. “I don’t think we’ve met though.”
It was then he caught Bishop staring down her friend, green eyes wide with a horrified expression he remembered well from their first meeting: Gossip was how this stranger knew his name.
Their awkward little war inside the Bod had gotten under Bishop’s skin as much as it had his that term.
Only he didn’t have anyone to whom he could grumble about her.