There was Thomas, whose mother was one of the first women to ever study at Oxford; Mary, a chemistry student who wanted a fair shot at working alongside the men she was taking exams with. In her words, Why shouldn’t everyone be fighting for this? And then there was David, a fellow freshman who had initially been taken in by the revolutionary appeal when he and Will, who was his roommate, got to talking about the movement one night over beers. The rest was history. David reminded me of Robbie—they were both well-spoken and had each lost a brother in the war.
I left that meeting with a greater sense of what we were really doing. After all, there was a stark difference between a roomful of kids talking about revolution and a group actually committed to taking the (sometimes small) steps necessary to enact change. As I drifted off to sleep that night, fantasies of earning a diploma at the school crept into my subconscious. All I could dream about was how gratifying it would be to have my name announced at Oxford’s 1922 graduation ceremony.
Chapter 3
SCARLETT
The only thing more disconcerting than losing your head is losing your coveted appointment. I’m already up to my ears in coursework and now this. Will tells me that the school board is pushing back our presentation yet again. Don’t they possess even a thread of civility? This is the fifth time we’ve rescheduled the bloody thing.
We immediately call an emergency meeting and regroup. Ida volunteers to speak with the board one more time while Will and I draw up a new proposal submission. Then Freddie, who never says a bloody word at meetings, decides to speak up. At first I roll my eyes and mentally tune him out. But then he says something I’m not expecting.
See, Freddie is on the international student committee here at Oxford. He pulls out a file—Lord knows how he got a hold of it—and sets it on the table in front of me. I flip open the manila cover and pull out a profile sheet. Amelia Cole, 18 years old, American, etc. She looks nice enough and definitely has the right credentials, or lack thereof.
I pass the sheet around and give Freddie a quick nod of approval. Will grins when he reads it, looking at me with bright eyes. He’s thinking exactly what I am. For whatever reason, the board tends to listen to foreign students more than Brits. With this Amelia girl, we’ll be well on our way. It’s downright brilliant.
And then I meet Amelia face-to-face. There’s something different about her that I can’t put my finger on. I’m not sure if it’s good or bad—it’s just different. When I see her blubbering on the ground, there are no words. She looks so forlorn . . . completely vulnerable. It tugs on my heart a little.
So I help Amelia gather her books and rebraid her mop of chestnut hair. I don’t even mention the movement—it’s not the right time. A few students stare obnoxiously, but I sit with her until she stops crying. It just feels like the right thing to do.
Chapter 4
LIA
I woke up early after a particularly restless night of sparse dreams. As I stared out into the darkness, I realized that I was the only one awake in the Watson household. Intrigued by the thought of sneaking downstairs, I crawled out of bed and slowly turned my door handle.
The entire hallway was dark as I began to descend the spiral staircase. The sleepy silence made it difficult to walk downstairs without making noise I felt sure would wake the boys, but I finally reached the lower landing and made my way into a cozy reading nook. Unlike the sterile living room, this part of the house wasn’t completely devoid of charm and comfort. I plopped myself down on the inviting sofa and laid my head on a soft navy pillow.
Barely any time passed before I heard someone coming down the staircase I’d used just minutes earlier. I straightened up and quickly looked around the room. As I started to stand, Mrs. Watson appeared in the doorway with a tiny lantern. I fell back into my seat and tried to hide the shock from my face.
This was not the Mrs. Watson I’d come to expect. Her usually coiffed hair was frizzy and unstyled, sticking out on both sides of her head. Her face was bare—seemed stark naked without the heavy foundation and lipstick she always wore. A robe and furry slippers replaced her typical floral dress and heels. Even in the soft lantern light, I saw a world of difference in her appearance.
Neither of us spoke for a while. The moment was unexpected and awkward, something I never thought would happen. Mrs. Watson was supposed to be the perfect British housewife, never caught without a chic outfit or flawless red lips.
I was even more confused when she rubbed her tired eyes and left the room. I wondered if I should go back upstairs and pretend that I never saw her in her pajamas. But moments later, she reemerged with two mugs of warm chamomile tea. She handed me one and sat down on the sofa.
“Can’t sleep?” she finally asked.
“No,” I whispered.
“Me neither,” she agreed.
“Bad dreams?” I ventured.
She shook her head and took a long sip. “I never really dream anymore.”
“Why?” I wondered aloud.
The thought of Mrs. Watson lying perfectly still in bed was actually quite easy to picture.
“In fact,” she continued. “I don’t really sleep, either.”
I wasn’t sure why she was telling me this. Our normal routine of respectful coexistence was working out just fine.
“I’m sure you’ve heard me waking up at the crack of dawn every day . . .”
“Well, yes.” I smiled and stared into my tea mug. “You do so much during the day, I just—”
“Thought I wanted an early start?” She raised a sparse, un-penciled eyebrow.
I shrugged and took another sip of soothing chamomile.
“You can sleep down here if you want. I was just about to go back to bed—”
“Oh, no dear. I have to get ready and put on my face before Mr. Watson wakes up. God, if he saw me like this . . .” She turned away.
I suddenly felt bad for her. The way she hid beneath an armor of product and formula, a shield of expensive material and printed roses.
“I think you look fine,” I said.
She finger-combed her hair before turning back around. “You’re sweet for saying so.” She forced a smile.
I struggled to find a decent response.
“So . . . how did you and Mr. Watson meet?” I hoped that a change of subject would help.
The long pause that followed my question had me worried, but then her eyes lit up. “I was a shop girl in London. Bruce worked at a department store across the street. He came in every now and then to visit with our manager, Charles.” Mrs. Watson set her mug on the floor.
“So Bruce started talking to me one day during my break. I was a shy girl, but he made me laugh and smile all the time. He’d bring wildflowers and walk me home after work. He was the sweetest young man I’d ever met.”
I tried not to reveal my growing disbelief.
“We would dress up and go out dancing with our friends . . .”
Mrs. Watson began tracing the outline of her lips, almost like she was applying invisible rouge. Her face fell as the memory faded. “He doesn’t always warm up to other people these days. I’m sure you’ve noticed . . .” She trailed off.
“I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” I said. “I’ve seen the lists written for me; the chores and—”
“Oh, don’t bother with those. Bruce needs his little hierarchy of order.”
“It’s just—”
“You’re wondering why I finish them myself?”
I nodded.
“Gives me something to do.” She sighed. “Bruce doesn’t want me working. You know how men are . . .”
She stared at the blank wall in front of us.
“What about the maids?”
“No maids,” she said quickly. “I let them all go. Frankly, we don’t need the help.”
My confused expression made her laugh.
“It’s just easier if I take care of it myself. I don’t want any more incidents.”
I raised an eyebro
w at her.
“Well.” She hesitated. “Mr. Watson came home one day to find his polo trophy sitting on the mantelpiece, covered in dust. One of the maids had missed it by mistake and—”
She threw a bony hand into the air, as if to swat away the rest of the sentence. I stared at her as she fidgeted nervously on the sofa.
“He drinks after work, you see . . .”
I nodded slightly.
“The alcohol . . . it doesn’t agree with him anymore,” she said, staring into her lap. “Scotch and whiskey sort of turn him into a different person—”
Her voice broke, and I suddenly understood Mr. Watson’s offensiveness.
“It’s a bizarre life,” she ruminated. “You grow up careless and free, thinking that the world is a beautiful place.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Not for everyone.” She shook her head.
I wondered what Camilla Watson’s ideal world would look like.
“I was a dreamy girl like you, once upon a time.”
Her words stiffened the hairs on my arm. “Mrs. Watson, I—”
“I know my husband can be . . . harsh,” she whispered. “But he was—is a good man.”
“I’m sure he is,” I agreed weakly.
“It isn’t his fault,” she said, as if trying desperately to convince herself more than me. Then she clasped her hands together and sat up straight. “I know you don’t particularly like him, dear.”
“Not really my place to judge either of you,” I said honestly.
“Believe me,” she said firmly. “I used to think that things could be different . . .”
I was uncomfortable and fully lost for words.
“But the truth is, they all turn out the same. Between work, family, bloody life . . . everyone needs a vice these days.” Her voice was no longer melancholy but bitter.
“What’s your vice?” I asked quietly.
She stared again at the blank wall in front of us.
“We let soldiers stay here during the war, you know.”
“I didn’t realize that,” I replied.
“Most of them were young men—around your age I guess.”
A subtle sparkle returned to her eyes.
“There was an older soldier too,” she continued. “Jim.”
I couldn’t help assuming that Jim was her vice.
“And what happened?” I asked gently.
A sudden creak above startled us both.
“You should probably go back to bed, dear. Sorry to keep you up.”
Her cheerless voice echoed in my head as I stood up to take our tea mugs to the sink.
“Lia?” Her eyes looked distant, like she was reliving another memory.
“Yes?”
“I love my boys.”
“I know you do, Mrs. Watson.”
“Please . . . please don’t tell anyone about our chat?”
I nodded slowly.
“Now go back upstairs and dream about something good.” She smiled faintly.
I paused at the stairway, feeling sad. She seemed so lonely, so conflicted about where life had taken her. As I ascended the marble steps, I wondered if those were the thoughts that plagued Camilla Watson’s mind at night.
AS days passed, I thought less and less about my odd encounter with Mrs. Watson. My focus shifted to classes and the abundance of material assigned each day. I left the withdrawn student of my past behind, making an effort to take interest in the knowledge at my fingertips.
One morning, I shuffled into my economics course and took a seat in the second row. The room quickly filled up as my watch hit the ten o’clock mark. This wasn’t my favorite topic, but I’d done all of the required reading and wanted to prove myself in class.
Toward the end of his lengthy lecture, Professor Charles began asking questions. I perked up and set down my knobby pencil.
“What does the law of diminishing returns indicate?”
I sat in silence for a moment before lifting my hand into the air. I knew the answer.
The professor looked at me hesitantly before his eyes darted in the opposite direction.
“Anyone?” he begged.
I strained my arm and raised my hand higher.
“Anyone at all?”
I looked around a sea of suits and blank faces. No one else was volunteering, so why wouldn’t he call on me?
“Ahem.” I cleared my throat in hopes that the professor would notice.
After two infuriating minutes of silence, the professor dismissed the class.
“I suggest that you all study before our next meeting,” he said, his eyes blinking behind a pair of wiry spectacles.
Unsatisfied, I gathered my books and marched to the front of the room. After everyone had left, I confronted Professor Charles.
“I know the answer,” I said.
He didn’t even look up from his reading.
“Didn’t you notice my hand?”
The professor slowly met my intense stare.
“Miss . . .”
“Cole,” I clarified.
“Yes,” he said sarcastically. “My class is for students of the university. Proper students.”
Stunned, I searched for a decent response. “I’m here taking classes—”
“Look, Miss. I really don’t have time for your questions right now.”
“But I don’t have any questions. I—I’m trying to tell you that I knew the answer.”
He put up a pasty hand and waved me away distractedly, returning his focus to his reading. I walked away bemused, wondering why he had been so dismissive. As the classroom door shut behind me, I told myself it was because I was an American. It wasn’t until later that I let myself realize that nationality had nothing to do with it. I had been ignored solely because I was a woman.
DESPITE my best efforts to ignore that incident, it remained at the forefront of my mind. A week passed as I moved through a monotonous cycle of classes, homework, and flyer-making. I resented the tedious work that was sending me into boredom once again, though Scarlett assured me that things would change after midterm exams ended.
“That’s when we’re presenting our case to the school board!” she told me excitedly over a late dinner one evening. “As long as they okay our preliminary proposal, we’ve got a shot.”
We had taken to eating during odd hours so we could discuss our plans in peace. The west dining hall was always deserted late at night.
Now that I knew more about Oxford’s history and previous policies, I felt comfortable speaking up. “Scarlett, I don’t mean to sound cynical, but haven’t several proposals already been submitted in the past?”
She pushed around her mushy green peas and soggy potatoes before looking up at me. She was just opening her mouth to answer when we were interrupted.
“Well well well, what have we here?”
A burly upperclassman—a rugby player—was making his way toward our tiny table with a friend.
“Looks like two pretty girls eating dinner where they don’t belong,” the other boy said.
The taunting tone of his voice sent shivers down my neck. Female students usually ate in the east dining hall. Suddenly they were sitting on either side of us. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to figure out what to say.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” asked the breathy voice next to me.
“Amelia,” I answered quietly.
“A-me-lia.” He winked as he imitated my accent. “I like American girls. Whaddaya say we take you both out for a drink?”
“We were just going,” Scarlett said quickly. She reached for her brown book bag, and a stack of pink flyers fell out of the side pocket.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath before reaching to pick them up.
“Not so fast,” the burly one commanded. He grabbed Scarlett’s arm, which instantly made me ten times more uncomfortable.
I looked around for help, but there were no other bodies in sight.
“We’ve g
ot ourselves a couple of bitch protesters, don’t we, mate? The women’s movement . . .” He read off the flyer before crunching it up in his meaty hand. “This is a load of rubbish.”
“If you’ll just let go of my arm, we’ll be on our way,” Scarlett said.
“I think we need to teach these two a lesson,” his friend insisted. “Can’t have any stupid girls running around our school, can we?” A toothless grin spread across his pudgy face.
As the rugby player yanked Scarlett’s hair, something in me snapped. I realized that I had two choices: run or fight. I chose the latter. Before I knew it, I was hurling dishes, silver-ware, and heavy textbooks in their direction . . . anything to make them leave. Their expressions went from amused to scared in seconds.
“Mate, that one’s crazy!” the fat one said. “Let’s get the hell outta here!”
And then they were gone. I was laughing with relief as I turned toward Scarlett, but she stared down at her lap, long blonde locks covering her face.
“Scarlett?”
Her response was barely audible.
Without hesitation, I gently moved her hair so I could see her face. “Are you okay?”
“No,” she whispered after a long pause. “No, I’m not.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“That was nothing,” she said under her breath. “But it took me back to a very dark place.”
“Please tell me,” I encouraged her.
The next five minutes changed my view of Scarlett Daniels forever. She told me something I never expected to hear.
“There was a girl I knew back home. Lucy.” Scarlett’s eyes smiled when she said her name. “The two of us were inseparable—we grew up together. And during our final year of boarding school . . .” She broke off, still staring into her lap.
“Yes?” I asked softly.
“It became something more.”
It took a moment for me to understand what she saying, but eventually I did.
“It wasn’t quite love, but I was very fond of her. When you’ve known someone your whole life . . .”
“I understand,” I said, placing my hand on hers.
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