Oxford Whispers

by Marion Croslydon

  “Y-yes,” she stuttered, “I notice things more.” Like the music at last night’s party, or the noises in the street. Even the coffee she had just drunk tasted stronger, deeper, fuller. “My senses are heightened. Maybe, I don’t know, I’m making all this stuff up because I think about it too much.”

  He stood and walked around his desk. From one of the shelves covering the wall he grabbed a thick, glossy book. He dropped it on his desk to land with a woompf in front of Madison.

  “Move the book,” he ordered her.

  Madison tried to swallow, but she choked. She didn’t have to articulate her shock because her puzzled face must have conveyed the message.

  “If you can control and gather enough energy to throw fire, you should be able to move objects around with the power of your mind. Why not?”

  Why the freakin’ hell not?

  Jackson challenged her with his stare. And she was curious, intrigued by all the new possibilities.

  She stood and planted her feet wide apart, as if to anchor and strengthen her body. Slowly she waved her right hand, the palm wide open. She shut her eyes, visualized the book and her hand, and imagined a stream of energy flowing from one to the other.

  Her breathing stopped. She kept her eyes shut, blocking everything else around her. The lack of oxygen started making her dizzy. She exhaled loudly and drank more air back into her lungs.

  “It’s not working.”

  Jackson wasn’t satisfied with her answer. He replaced the book on the shelf and took out a smaller, lighter volume.

  Placing the book on the desk, he said, “Try again.”

  As much as she was grateful for Jackson’s help, she wanted to tell him that he was pushing the experiment too far. But she was the one who had come to see him, and made the confession about what she’d done. The dude hadn’t called the police or the medics. She owed him big time.

  Her eyes refocused on the book. She shook out her hands, like an athlete before a race, and rolled her shoulders. This time she took a deep, long breath. She didn’t try to think, didn’t try to focus.

  She waved her hand again, but the experience was now different. Her fingertips tingled and waves of electricity prickled across her skin.

  She arched her arm, and the book started a slow ascent, mimicking her movement. The shock at her accomplishment forced Madison to shout, “What the hell!”

  Her interruption broke off the stream of energy linking her to the book and caused the volume to crash back to the desk.

  “Amazing.” Jackson’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

  “I can’t believe I did that. I would never have thought, Mamie never mentioned …” she babbled, restraining herself from bouncing from one foot to the other. Not even her grandmother could do that.

  Jackson had now started pacing the small width of his office. After a minute of striding back and forth, he stopped in front of the French window that overlooked George Street and stared through the morning haze. He stepped back to stand in front of her.

  “You can’t keep on ignoring these powers of yours,” he murmured, an intense look on his face.

  Madison ran a jerky hand through her hair and rubbed her cheeks. “Why not? I’ve managed to live without them until now. Actually, I’ve done everything I could to be able to live without them.”

  “Yes, but the painting changed everything,” He gazed at her, again in a way that made her feel like an object at the wrong end of the microscope.

  “How so?”

  “You told me that the visions had never been so powerful or your connection so strong. The painting means something to you, not just because you can talk to the dead. Through Burton’s painting, you’re revealing yourself to yourself.” The ‘scientist’s’ thesis posed and validated, Jackson took his seat again and swirled around on the chair in triumph.

  Madison felt her posture stoop. None of what he’d said made sense to her. “I’ve never seen that painting before,” she denied. “Never heard of it. Burton lived in England more than a century ago. The characters in the painting died more than two hundred years before that. How could all this mean something to me?”

  “I don’t know, but we have to find out. What do you know so far?”

  She turned away from him and said, “I went back to the Bodleian, and there’s nothing about Robert Dallembert, apart from some snippets of his soldiering during the Civil War. Right now, I just know that the Puritan was named Peter, the maiden Sarah, and the Cavalier Robert. Robert and Sarah loved each other, but they didn’t marry, either because she died, or because Robert dumped her butt and chose someone as wealthy and titled as he was.”

  “So you don’t know much more than when we talked at the Ashmolean?”

  Madison heard reproach in his tone.

  “I’m meeting the Vances’ genealogist after the Christmas break. He should be able to tell me more about Rupert’s ancestor,” she defended herself.

  “Why can’t you meet him earlier?”

  “He’s abroad for the whole of December.”

  Jackson shook his head, not satisfied with her answer. “Madison, you won’t resolve this mystery by playing sleuth, or by being a historian, as much as it hurts me to tell you that. The mystery of the painting lies beyond the strict realms of rationality, of science, of facts.” He paused. “It lies in magic.”

  This was exactly what Madison did not want to hear.

  When she stepped out of the Faculty of History, her mind was churning. She stared down at the cigarette butts that littered the ground and brought a shaky hand to her forehead.

  Her legs felt weak, all her energy directed inward. What had happened in Jackson’s study was more than she could take in. She hadn’t given any serious consideration to the fireball incident before. In her good old see-no-evil way, she had delayed thinking about it.

  What a lazy coward she was.

  Now, she didn’t know if she was excited or worried by what she discovered. Maybe a little bit of both.

  The honking of a car and the screeching of its tires pulled her out of her thoughts. Her eyes darted around and caught sight of a familiar silhouette. Pippa had turned at the corner of George Street and Cornmarket Street. The memory of her friend with Ollie sprung to Madison’s mind. For once, she wouldn’t delay action.

  She ran after Pippa, calling her name. After she reached Cornmarket Street, she shouted again, “Pippa, please wait.”

  The girl spun around and faced Madison, who noticed the dark circles under her eyes. The night had been long.

  “Hey, I’m glad to see you,” Madison managed to say, as she struggled to catch her breath.

  Pippa gave her a tight smile and answered, “I’m on my way to class, so I can’t chitchat right now. Sorry, darling.”

  “Okay.” Madison hesitated but decided to forge ahead, her concern for Ollie back at the forefront of her mind. “What happened last night with Ollie? I saw the two of you making out.”

  Pippa’s head jerked upward and her cheeks flushed. “You’re spying on me?” She spluttered out her words.

  Cursing herself for her lack of tact, Madison waved her hands in a peacemaking gesture. “Harriet told me you weren’t feeling well.” A little lie there. “I wanted to check if you needed help.” The truth.

  Pippa flicked her gaze upward. “As you saw, nothing to worry about. Okay, now I have to rush.”

  Madison grabbed her friend’s hand and when Pippa tried to turn away, she squeezed it. “Please, Pippa, wait. Are you serious about him?”

  Pippa’s expression turned into a pinch. Her eyes narrowed. “It’s none of your business.”

  True. Strictly speaking, they were both consenting adults and their sexual inclinations weren’t any of her concern. But Madison cared. While she liked Pippa, Ollie had become dear to her. He was such a good soul.

  “He doesn’t have much experience. So maybe he’s already serious about you. And if you’re not …”

  Pippa sneered, “Really, Madison, do you t
hink you’re the right person to be talking to me about this? I saw you flirting with Rupert. You were all over him, even if he’s already taken.”

  “I didn’t—”

  The girl cut her off. “Oh yes you did, and you weren’t very good at it apparently.” Oouch. “The guy spent the rest of the night with his girlfriend. And they weren’t talking, if you know what I mean.”

  Pippa walked away, her posture perfect, shoulders back, chin held high. What had become of the bubbly Irish girl who had welcomed her in Oxford with open arms? Who had lent her her best clothes?

  A van passed Madison, its exhaust spoiling the air she breathed. The smell was so strong she could taste it in her mouth. Or maybe it was just the acrid savor of her friend’s parting comment.

  Chapter 18

  THE HOME RUPERT had grown up in had disappeared after another round of renovation projects, orchestrated by Camilla, his father’s girlfriend. And with the familiar, sometimes-rickety furniture now gone, his mum had died for the second time.

  Even tonight’s lounge music contrasted with the rhythmic Latino beats she’d played at full volume, all day long. He used to complain about it. Now he would listen to that music twenty-four/seven if it meant having her back.

  Harriet and Camilla, ten-year-apart identical twins, filled the conversation with their empty words. His father and Camilla sat across from Rupert and Harriet on the cushioned furniture of the Vances’ London townhouse.

  Still, Rupert preferred the sound of their chitchat to any of his father’s attacks. God knew Rupert had tried to redeem himself in Hugo’s eyes, even choosing his girlfriend to make his father happier with him. But Rupert was kidding himself. His father had always loathed him, and Laura Vance’s death had only intensified that feeling.

  Keen not to interrupt the women, Rupert stood and stepped on the wooden floorboards toward the working fireplace. The flames made him feel welcome. Welcome inside his own family’s home.

  Hugo’s silence was a bad omen. Leaning against the plush sofa, his father crossed one foot over the opposite knee, his powerful body scarcely contained within his suit. His relaxed posture threatened Rupert more than any shouting.

  The storm broke.

  “Let’s cut to the chase. You embarrassed me.”

  An awkward silence settled within the eighteenth-century paneled room. Both women lowered their heads, anxious to avoid Hugo’s anger.

  Rupert had prepared himself for the confrontation since leaving Coach Bartlett’s military compound on the Iffley Road. Bringing his glass to his lips, he swallowed a mouthful of the sparkling water. The bubbles didn’t make up for his usual alcohol anesthetic, now off limits.

  “That party was a mistake, Father. I’ve done very well at the latest race. That’s what you should look at, not this incident.”

  “Rick Bartlett called me.” Hugo emphasized his point by beating his chest with a finger, and repeated, “Me. The two of you have been discussing our relationship.”

  “That’s not true.” Rupert hadn’t managed to say more than a few consecutive words to the coach.

  “I don’t care about what you think. I have to babysit you now. You’re turning twenty-two.” The elder Vance’s eyes stared and held Rupert’s gaze without a single blink.

  He gripped his glass and refrained from throwing it toward his father’s face. Hugo kept humiliating him over and over.

  “Believe me, I would have preferred being kicked off the team than to have to report to you every week for the next three months.” Rupert held himself rigid, pent-up furor flushing underneath his skin. “You can’t stand the sight of me anyway.”

  His father leaped out of his seat, but Camilla stopped his movement midway. She wrapped his waist within her thin arms and brought him back to the white sofa, caressing his hair, patting his shoulders. To Rupert’s surprise, her cooing paid off. Hugo relaxed and laid his palms over his thighs.

  “Darling, let’s not spoil the evening. I’m sure Rupert understands how upset you are, but we should enjoy our good news tonight.”

  Harriet had remained silent throughout the whole argument, but jumped on the chance to deflate the bomb. For once, Rupert was grateful to her. “Please share the good news with us.”

  Hugo shuffled, changed sitting position and cleared his throat. Rupert saw concern in the sidelong glance his father sent him. Something really bad was coming.

  “I’ve proposed to Camilla, and she has accepted.”

  Rupert let go of his glass and it crashed onto the polished wood. He kept his hand open as if still holding it. Fascinated by the splinters spread at his feet, he focused on their glitter rather than the pain multiplying across his chest. Looking up, he found three sets of eyes fixed on him, questioning, probing.

  “Mom died four years ago. Have you forgotten her?”

  Camilla put her hand to her mouth and started crying. She was alive, enjoying life to the full, redecorating houses. His mother lay six feet under. Rupert didn’t care if his reaction was childish. The news was too damned painful.

  “You have no sense. Look at what you’ve done.” Hugo handed a handkerchief to the blond at his side and she dabbed her nose. “In any case, you’re in no position to talk about your mother. We both know it.”

  Rupert had two options: breaking down here and now and making a fool of himself, or getting physical. He launched himself toward the sofa and raised his arm to punch. Camilla’s scream froze him.

  “Stop. The two of you. Stop.”

  He looked down at her. Tears rolled over her cheeks. She wasn’t faking it.

  “Rupert, I’m pregnant,” she murmured.

  And just like that, his mother died for the third time.

  PETER HAD FOLLOWED Sarah from her first step out of Christ Church College. He had occupied his hidden corner on the opposite side of St. Aldate’s. Thick snowflakes fell at a slow pace over Oxford, building obstacles between the two of them. Even at a distance, he was always on the lookout for a stolen moment shared with her, when she thought she was alone. Once the holiday freed the students from their academic duties, she would fly away, away from him.

  He panicked and walked faster. The prospect of their separation boosted his pace, prodding him to narrow the gap. He wanted to share a life with her, an eternal life. But until then, this was all he could arrange. Peter had to bide his time.

  She entered one of the common shops on Cornmarket Street. With a practiced, innocent demeanor, he spied on her perusing artfully presented items of clothing. If she spotted him, he would pretend to be shopping for the upcoming holiday.

  When she headed back toward the exit, he stood next to the display of scarves she had rummaged through. Almost worshipfully, he caressed them, their silky feel a sweet reminder of her skin. He shook himself out of his daydream to find she had already walked away.

  Back on Cornmarket, he tensed while he scanned the festive crowd, looking for her waif-like frame. A nativity scene played out in front of him. He walked past it and caught a glimpse of her figure, hurrying toward St. Michael at the Northgate, the ancient church and graveyard.

  He now knew Sarah’s destination. She would pass the Martyrs’ Memorial on her right, then walk down Beaumont Street, and Walton Street. There, in Jericho, she was in foreign territory, outside the Oxford city walls. In the bohemian labyrinth of narrow streets and Victorian town cottages, she paced toward the nobleman’s house, away from him.

  A ludicrous Father Christmas handed out lollies and balloons to hysterical children. Sarah slowed down, smiling at children singing Christmas carols, collecting money from house to house. How inspired Oliver Cromwell had been to ban those cheerful hymns. Christmas should be a solemn day, not a sparkling masquerade. He touched the corner of his mouth to control the tick twitching his facial muscles. They had arrived at the most affluent part of Jericho, where larger houses dominated backstreets of workers’ homes.

  He had come here only a few days earlier, spying on a decadent party Dallembert had
organized. He had seen how the nobleman had waited for Sarah’s arrival. The relief, the joy in the eyes of that young pup when he had noticed her presence, had been unbearable for Peter to witness. Their attraction had been palpable, and a surge of raw violence had threatened to overwhelm Peter’s pretense. He had nearly lost control.

  Sarah knocked at the door of the imposing house, pushed her hair away from her face, and adjusted her coat. This was supposed to be a professional visit, for them to work on their latest assignment. Peter knew it was much more than that. Dallembert stood in the entrance, staring down at her. What was crossing his mind? No matter the thoughts and tremors, the nobleman would soon take Sarah away from Peter.

  And Peter wouldn’t tolerate that.

  Chapter 19

  OUTSIDE, A BULKY blanket of snow covered Tom Quad, freezing the night in its splendor.

  Madison had tidied her studio, and her suitcase stood by the door like a Christmas stocking hung on the mantle awaiting Santa’s treats. It would have to be patient, though. Her transatlantic flight wouldn’t take off until the next day.

  Pippa had already deserted Oxford, thrilled by the prospect of celebrations, family to hug and holiday tidbits to graze on until after the New Year. Madison would miss her, but not the tension between them.

  As for Earl Boy, she had wished him the best of holidays and Godspeed after their last “work” meeting at his place. No doubt Harriet the Hun would keep him warm during those long winter nights in the old, cold, stone castle.

  In need of a distraction for the evening, Madison stared through her bedroom window. The dark night offered no response. She slammed shut her laptop, and along with it the nerd inside her.

  The image of a cozy, stuffy room crept into her mind, and mere minutes later, wrapped in her duffel coat and a large scarf, she left her room.

  Knocking at Ollie’s door, she didn’t get any answer. She pushed open the door. A quick glance inside was enough to see her friend lying on his bed, in a deep slumber.

  Madison closed the door behind her. A smile on her face, she walked down the stairs, stepped outside toward Great Tom, and wished goodnight to the night porter as she went.