14. Chapter 14
Beau
Nollaig Chridheil (nollak khree-al)
Translation: Merry Christmas
Usage: To greet someone who celebrates Christmas
Hard to believe I survived another round of exams, that it’s the last day of the term, or how much things have changed since we handed in our action plan to Professor Drummond.
Across the lecture hall, Torin sits at the end of the row adjacent to mine, a notebook open in front of him, that shy half-smile tugging at his mouth whenever our eyes meet. I catch myself smiling back before looking down at my own notes.
We see more of each other now, meeting at the gym a couple of workouts a week and occasionally visiting historic sites with our classmates.
Torin can still be guarded at times. I see it in the way his shoulders tighten or how he changes the subject when things get too personal, but I chip away at his armor every chance I get.
Whenever he opens up to me, I find myself wanting him a little more, which makes things complicated.
Like when we almost kissed at a St. Andrew’s Day celebration.
We were a couple of drinks in, standing too close together while everyone else crowded around the bar.
He leaned in, I leaned in. Then Blair appeared asking if we wanted to take a shot with him.
Probably would’ve been a bad idea to make out in front of our classmates anyway, but Torin was distant for a week after that, so I’m pretty sure his feelings toward me are not romantic.
Things seem better today, though, if his shy smile is any indicator.
Maeve is chattering away beside me, telling Isla something about the holiday event she put together for the department, but I’m only half listening as I continue to steal glances at Torin.
I swear he’s getting cuter. Maybe it’s the gym, or maybe it’s just that he’s no longer sniping at me.
“Good afternoon!” Professor Drummond calls as he enters the room, tossing his bag down and launching right into class. “Let’s discuss how the Reformation led to tensions with other nations, specifically those that remained staunchly Catholic. Who has thoughts?”
Torin starts the conversation as usual, giving an overview of the countries where tensions were present and provides some high-level reasons for a few of them. He’s thorough, as usual, but he also seems to be leaving room for others to contribute, which is new.
“Thank you, Mr. Ramsay,” Professor Drummond says. He turns to the board and writes a few notes before continuing. “Now let’s talk specifically about how those tensions then played out more broadly across Britain. Mr. Fontenot, would you care to weigh in?”
I’m prepared for this one, so I respond with newfound confidence.
“Of course, Professor. There were numerous accounts of xenophobic hostilities at the hands of Protestants who didn’t believe that immigrants from countries like France could ever give up their Catholicism.
This even impacted royalty like Charles II, whose wife was Portuguese Catholic.
Many believed him to have secretly converted to Catholicism as part of the Treaty of Dover with France in 1670.
To make matters worse, his brother, the future James II and VII, converted to Catholicism in 1672, then married a Catholic Italian princess.
The rumors continued to impact his reign throughout, meaning he often had tough decisions to make as he attempted to keep the peace across his various subjects while not appearing to favor Catholics. ”
A second-year jumps in. “Sure, there were rumors about Charles’s Catholic sympathies, but I think you’re overstating their prevalence and impact on the monarchy at that time.
Charles II dealt much more with the issues between the two main Protestant factions than between Protestantism and Catholicism.
It wasn’t until James II and VII was on the throne that the Crown was truly targeted, ultimately leading to him being deposed in the Glorious Revolution of 1688. ”
Torin clears his throat, a sound I know all too well. My stomach drops. Despite how far we’ve come, he’s still more equipped in the classroom than I am. So my eyes go wide when he says, “No, Beau is right.”
My head swivels to look at him, and Maeve’s pen clatters to the floor. She’s digging under our table to retrieve it as Torin goes on.
“It’s true that the fight between Presbyterianism and the other emerging denominations was ongoing and at times, deadly, especially in Scotland.
Still, the fear and intolerance of Catholicism was alive and well during the time of Charles II.
Also, the xenophobic attacks Beau mentioned weren’t only levied against clergy and peasantry.
Nobles and their retinue experienced them, too.
There’s a humorous account of Nell Gwynn, one of Charles’s mistresses, whose carriage was attacked by a stone-throwing mob in Oxford, who believed she was one of his French mistresses.
She opened the carriage window and shouted to the crowd: ‘Pray, good people, be civil. I am the Protestant whore.’”
Laughter ripples through the room, and even Professor Drummond chuckles. Torin looks over at me and smiles. I give a small nod of gratitude, my chest relaxing, my belly warming.
Maeve brushes her elbow against mine, the movement subtle enough that anyone watching might think she’d simply shifted in her seat.
She keeps her eyes on the professor, though the corner of her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile.
The moment was not lost on her. Judging by the sideways looks drifting our way from a few classmates, I doubt it was lost on anyone.
Professor Drummond seems pleased as he continues to move the discussion.
He strolls slowly across the front of the room, hands clasped behind his back, guiding us through the final threads of the topic.
Every now and then he pauses to challenge someone’s interpretation or gently redirect a point that’s wandered too far from the source material.
At the end of the hour the professor thanks us for our contributions, then says, “Just one final item before we conclude our studies together: I hope to see all of you at the end-of-term gathering that Maeve put together. We’ll meet in the department boardroom at four o’clock for a spot of revelry before you all rush off on holiday.
That gives you a couple of hours to put on something festive.
” He gives the desk a light tap with his palm. “Class dismissed.”
Maeve pipes up, “Be there, or be square!” her voice bright with theatrical enthusiasm. Then she pauses like she’s reconsidering her marketing strategy. “Actually, just be there.”
Laughter echoes through the room again as chairs scrape, bags unzip, and people pack up books and laptops, the usual end-of-class shuffle.
As I slide my notebook into my bag I look over and see Torin watching me.
When our eyes meet, he glances away, suddenly becoming very interested in the papers in front of him, gathering them into an orderly stack with far more care than necessary.
He blushes, and my heart gives a small traitorous flutter.
Maybe I was wrong about his reaction to our almost-kiss.
Maybe he’s just as interested in me as I am in him.
There’s only one way to find out.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk over to him. “Are you going to be at Maeve’s mixer?”
He looks up, seeming surprised and—maybe this is wishful thinking—pleased. “Aye,” he says, too loud, then brings his voice down. “I’ll be there. I just need to change.”
I lean casually against the edge of a nearby desk, letting a grin tug at the corner of my mouth. “No need to change, Torin. I like you just the way you are.”
“I mean my clothes. I—I need to change my clothes,” he says, but his correction isn’t pedantic like in the past. He seems flustered, fingers fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves, reminding me of the first time we met.
“Right, of course,” I say, pushing myself upright and holding back a smile. “I guess I’ll do the same and see you there?”
“See you there,” he repeats, his face flushing.
When I arrive at the department’s holiday mixer, most of the faculty are already gathered and seem like they’ve been at it for a while.
They’re louder than I generally hear them, and laughter bursts out from different corners as clusters of professors linger around tables covered with platters of biscuits and cheese.
They’re still dressed in their business attire, blazers, wool skirts, crisp button-downs, so I feel a little foolish in my—artfully—tacky Rudolph Christmas sweater, complete with flashing red bulb for a nose that’s blinking merrily away.
Luckily, Maeve sees me from the other side of the room and yells, “Beau!” as she waves one arm high over her head. I stride over and kiss her cheek.
“Nice jumper!” She must have been enjoying herself for a while, too, because there’s a blush in her cheeks.
“Thanks. I like yours, too.” Hers is forest green with white snowflakes and the words Nollaig Shona in bold print, which I assume is Irish for “Merry Christmas”.
“Thank you, my dear,” she says and turns to the punch bowl. “Now, you have to try this, but be careful. It’s dangerous.”
I peer into the bronzed bowl as she dips the ladle inside. The punch is a rich, jewel-toned crimson with cinnamon sticks, orange slices, and frozen cranberries bobbing on the surface. She makes sure my cup has a bit of everything and hands it to me before holding up her own for a toast.
“To surviving your first term,” she says and clinks her plastic cup against mine.
“To surviving,” I say back, feeling the truth of the sentiment, and we drink.
“Mm, Maeve. This is incredible. What did you put in here?” I always hear folks say that things “taste like Christmas,” but this really does.
It’s cranberry and citrus and every Christmas spice I can think of. I take another swig.