by Nancy Warren
“For Agnes’s sake, I’ll make the effort. I’ll be there at nine.”
“Thank you.”
After I hung up, I stood staring at the phone. That was weird. But then everything since I’d arrived back in Oxford had seemed weird.
Including the next thing on my list: Do a Google search on Rafe Crosyer.
Chapter 4
I took my laptop next door to Elderflower Tea Shop. The Watt sisters might look like they belonged in a Brontë novel, but they had something the Brontës never had: high speed Wi-Fi.
Next to Cardinal Woolsey’s, Elderflower Tea Shop was my favorite of the Harrington Street shops. Where most of the shop windows were flat, theirs bowed. As the tea shop was twice the size of most of the shops, there were two bulging bow windows that looked like very surprised eyes. The tables in the window enclosures were the best.
Inside, the décor was like something out of Alice in Wonderland. All the tables had lace cloths, though there were round glass tops over them to keep the laundry down. The ceiling was beamed, the wallpaper chintz, and antique dressers and cabinets held assorted tea pots and cups, many of them antique.
When I arrived, both sisters were in the shop. They weren’t twins, but they’d worked together and lived together so long that they closely resembled each other. They wore their hair the same, wore chintz aprons over sensible clothes, and both faces bore the same wrinkled kindness.
Florence saw me, wiped her floury hands on her apron and came toward me with both hands held out. They were as soft and warm as fresh baking as she clutched my own hands. “I am so very sorry for your loss. Agnes was the most wonderful woman, and a good friend. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
“Thank you, Miss Watt. Neither can I.”
“What a shock for you. We wanted to tell you, but no one knew where you or your parents were. We left a message on your parents’ home phone. It was the best we could do.” She raised her hands as though to say, ‘and that was a waste of long distance money.’ “Let me get you some tea.”
One of the things I loved about Gran and her friends was that they offered tea as though it could cure everything from grief to lovesickness to stress. It might not be a cure, but I knew I’d feel better for the tea and the kindness that went with it.
Florence led me to a table in a quiet corner. Both window tables were taken. One by tourists consulting a guide book as they drank their tea, the other by a table of international students all studiously speaking in English. I connected to the Wi-Fi and checked my email. Of course, there wasn’t anything from my mother yet, it was too soon, but I did have an email from my friend Jennifer full of gossip from home.
Jenn always emailed as though she was having an actual conversation. “Guess what???” she had typed, then left a blank space, presumably so I could either make a few wild guesses or say, “I give up,” and read on.
“Toad is single again!!!!” Jenn also loved the exclamation mark the way some people love Margaritas or chocolate. “Word is Monica dumped him!!! Can you believe it???!!”
Another space for me to fill in my answer. Heck, yeah, I could believe it. Any woman with a couple of functioning brain cells could see through Todd the Toad.
Which let me out. I’d stayed with him for two years.
But I was free now. Free. Jennifer suggested we go on a single girls’ road trip!!!! To New York!!!! when I got home. I wondered when that would be now that I had a knitting shop on my hands.
Florence Watt brought my tea herself, and I ordered a cheese and pickle sandwich as an early dinner. She didn’t stop to visit, because they were busy, which suited me fine. I was glad to be around people but also happy to be left alone while I checked out my late-night visitor. He’d said he lived locally. I wondered if Florence and Mary knew him. I’d have to ask them when they got a second.
Even though I had his website address, I did a search of his name first. He came up right away on the Bodleian Library site. I recognized him in the photograph. He was giving a lecture on book restoration. According to the introduction to his talk, he was an expert in restoration and a dealer in rare books and manuscripts.
His website told me very little that I hadn’t already found. He didn’t have a storefront, but he was your go-to-guy if you wanted that Dickens first edition you found behind the fireplace valued, or if you wanted to find a particular item, or have an ancient book or manuscript restored.
There were a few scholarly articles linked on the website, with some technical information on restoration, a couple of stories of how he’d been able to track down a rare book for a client, and one about how he’d donated a rare medieval illuminated manuscript to the Bodleian’s collection. He also lectured from time to time at King’s College.
Impressive credentials. What was missing on his website and, indeed, from all his biographical material, was any hint of, well, his biography. No birthdate, no mention of wife or children. Not that I cared how old he was, if he was married or had kids, it just seemed strange not to have any personal information.
Even if he was an expert on ancient books who lectured at fancy colleges, I’d make sure all the lights were on in the shop this evening, and try and keep the conversation short.
I was relieved to find that Florence and Mary knew Rafe Crosyer, and they confirmed that he was Gran’s friend.
Back at the shop, I went back to work tidying and organizing while I continued the inventory. It was tiring, ticklish work and I felt hot and frazzled when Rafe Crosyer knocked on the door.
He, on the other hand, looked as rested as though he’d spent the day sleeping peacefully and had just woken. This made me cranky.
Rafe looked at me searchingly through those piercing blue eyes of his. “I’m so sorry about your grandmother. I only heard today that she’s gone. She was a good friend to me. And what a tragedy for you. You look tired.”
I’d fought tears many times since I’d found out Gran was dead, but he sounded so sincere I felt my eyes misting. “It was a shock,” I admitted. Then, in a low voice, because it was all I could manage. “I’ll miss her.”
“So will I.”
“By the way, if you have a key to the shop, I’d appreciate it if you’d give it to me. Now that Gran’s gone, I need to get all the keys in. Her lawyer suggested it.” Her lawyer had suggested no such thing but I liked the idea of making the hapless Mr. Tate responsible for me asking the intimidating Rafe Crosyer for his key.
He only raised his eyebrows. “I don’t have a key. I told you. Last night when I arrived, the door was unlocked.”
I wasn’t going to argue with him. What was the point? Instead I decided to get the locks changed.
He glanced around the shop, his eyes resting on the door that led upstairs, but if it was a hint to invite him upstairs, I chose to ignore it. There was only one visitor’s chair in the shop itself. I wasn’t going to take him to the back room where Gran ran her knitting classes, so we stood there looking at each other.
He said, “I wish I’d been here. I’d have liked to attend the service. If it’s not too painful for you, can you tell me what happened?”
Of course it was painful, but I was also glad to talk to someone who’d known my grandmother. “I wish I knew. When I arrived yesterday, there was a notice on the door saying the shop was closed until further notice. It was Miss Watt in the tea shop who told me Gran had passed away. She’d been gone three weeks.” I swallowed down the lump in my throat. “I never got the news. I came straight from a dig site in Egypt, where my parents are working. My mother still doesn’t know.” I shook my head. “It was such a shock.”
“To me, too. She seemed perfectly healthy the last time I saw her.” He ended the sentence with an upward lilt to his voice, making the statement a question.
“I thought she was healthy, too. It seems she died in her sleep. I missed her funeral as well.” I blinked my eyes rapidly and turned my head away, determined this man would not see me cry.
He shifted, n
o doubt uncomfortable at the thought a woman might cry in front of him. “We can’t talk here. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”
I was about to say no, but then I thought how much I’d like to get away from the shop at night. It felt creepy, especially since I’d found the broken glasses, the bloodstains, and the wool all messed up.
If he really was a friend of Gran’s, I wanted to trust him.
I’d spent too long in my own head today. It would be nice to mingle with people. We’d be able to reminisce about Gran. Get some kind of closure. As though he’d read my mind, he said, “We both missed her funeral. We’ll call it a wake.”
“All right.”
He waited while I took care to close up the shop, double-checking that the door was securely locked. It was just after seven and dusk as we crossed Cornmarket and headed up Ship Street to Turl. He asked politely how I’d enjoyed my time in Egypt as we headed for some of the oldest colleges in Oxford. Turning left on Turl, we passed Exeter College, then hit Broad Street where Trinity and Balliol managed to remain stately and detached behind gates and walls while cars, delivery vans and tourists from around the world thronged the street in front.
I loved this part of Oxford. I liked that these working colleges allowed visitors to walk their beautiful gardens and view the ancient monuments and hear about their history while smart, pimply-faced kids attended classes in the same buildings where Sir Walter Raleigh, Oscar Wilde and Helen Fielding had gone before them.
I told him about the heat of Egypt and a bit about my parents’ work. He asked intelligent questions and seemed to know more about Egyptian archeology than I did.
We passed the round Sheldonian theater, designed by Christopher Wren in the 1600s and so bombarded with car exhaust and pollution that it’s original golden stone is like an old sepia photograph. The Bodleian’s beside it and I remembered that my companion had given talks there. “Did you go to Oxford?” I asked him.
“No. Cambridge. But it was a long time ago,” and then he asked me about Boston, changing the subject before I could find out more.
When we walked under Oxford’s Bridge of Sighs and into a narrow, twisting, alley, I knew we were headed for The Turf, a pub that’s been serving beer in Oxford since the Middle Ages. The pub was bright, noisy and busy, with students, tourists and regular locals all mixed up together. I followed him in and he walked straight past the first bar and the crowd around it, into a quieter room. We found a small table tucked in an alcove against a wall, perfect for private conversation. “What can I get you?” he asked.
“What would Gran have had?” I asked him. It was a test. If he knew her well, he’d know her favorite drink. He didn’t hesitate, “Harvey’s Bristol Cream.”
I nodded. He’d passed the test. “That’s what I’ll have.”
When he returned he held two glasses of rich, amber sherry and passed me one. “To Agnes,” he said. I’d expected more, a short speech, perhaps, about my grandmother, but, after a pause as though unsure what he should say, Rafe Crosyer merely lifted his glass and sipped. I followed suit. Harvey’s Bristol Cream is a very sweet sherry. Even as the intense sweetness filled my mouth, I noticed Rafe start slightly and an expression of distaste flitted across his handsome face.
“You don’t like sweet sherry?” I had to ask. In my experience, only old ladies drank it.
“I prefer something stronger,” he admitted. “But I wanted to honor your grandmother.”
“I can’t believe she’s gone.” Everywhere I looked, I felt as though I’d see her if I looked hard enough. She’d always been here, someone to talk to when my parents were too busy, the beloved grandmother who’d tried and tried to teach me to knit.
I sipped more sherry. “I thought I saw Gran, when I first got here. She was walking along the street, and I was so excited to see her I went running after her, but she turned down a side street and when I got there, she was gone.”
He looked at me with sympathy. “Grief hits in surprising ways. Denying the loved one is gone is the first stage.”
“But I wasn’t grieving then. I didn’t even know she was dead.”
When he shifted, his legs brushed mine under the table. “On some level, perhaps you did.”
Maybe he meant it as a platitude, but his words made me twitchy. “You mean, I’m psychic? Or that was her ghost come to visit?” I didn’t like either possibility.
He leaned in and quoted, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
That’s the thing about Oxford. You go for a drink in a pub with some guy and next thing he’s quoting Hamlet.
I’d been brought up by a pair of down-to-earth scientists who frowned on anything that smacked of the supernatural. “My philosophy is dust to dust and ashes to ashes.”
He seemed as though he was going to say something, and then changed his mind. “What are your plans now?”
I hadn’t intended to discuss Gran’s will, not with him or anyone, before I’d even spoken to my parents, but he had a way of looking at me that was so understanding that I found myself telling him that Gran wanted me to keep the shop and run it.
He nodded, looking sympathetic, as though he read my ambivalence. I’d never experienced a man listening to me with such complete attention. His blue gaze was intent and not even when a drunk undergrad bumped into the back of his chair and mumbled a slurred, “Sorry, mate,” did his gaze waver from mine.
When I’d finished he said, “And will you do it? Will you stay?”
This was the question I’d been wrestling with since I’d left Mr. Tate’s office. I lifted my hand to my mouth and gnawed on my thumbnail, a habit I had when I was perturbed. He watched me, his gaze on my mouth, until I caught myself and hastily put my hand back in my lap. “I don’t know. I want to respect Gran’s last wishes, obviously, but I’m twenty-seven years old. That seems a little young to be running a knitting shop, don’t you think?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders as though he’d never given the age of knitting shop proprietors much thought.
“Anyway, I don’t even know how to knit.”
“Really? Did your grandmother never teach you?”
I sipped more of the sherry. “She tried. I have absolutely no aptitude.”
“Perhaps you simply need to practice.”
“That’s what Gran always said. I’m too impatient. If you’d ever tried knitting, you’d understand.”
“I can knit,” he said.
Okay, that surprised me so much I choked on a sip of sherry. “Seriously?” It was like hearing that a boxing champion raised orchids as a hobby. It probably happened, but it seemed incongruous. The thought of this dark and virile stranger—who reminded me of a Brontë hero—knitting, well, you never thought of Heathcliff or Mr. Rochester dropping a stitch.
“I believe I mentioned my insomnia.” He raised his hands, palms up, “Knitting relaxes me.”
It occurred to me that with his cold hands and poor circulation he probably wore a lot of sweaters and scarves. “Well, I don’t find getting tangled up in wool relaxing, and I’m not sure I want to stay in Oxford and run a knitting shop.” I sighed and my thumb crept toward my mouth again. “Not that I have a lot of other ideas for my future.”
“You don’t have a job back at home? Or a boyfriend?” He seemed more interested in the second question than the first it seemed to me. Though why would this incredibly sexy, sophisticated man be interested in me? I was the girl-next-door type, a solid B student, and he was the kind of sexy academic who probably dated brilliant supermodels.
“No. My job at home was downsized, and I recently ended a relationship.” I left it there. Let him believe that I’d regretfully ended a love affair with a wonderful man, not that I’d been cheated on by The Toad.
“How about you? Do you have, um, a job?” The second the words were out, I realized how stupid I sounded. Of course he had a job, I’d looked at his website. What I really wanted to know was
the girlfriend or wife thing, but I didn’t want to appear as interested as I was. I quickly added, “I mean, I looked at your website today. Your work sounds so interesting.” Oh, great, now I was gushing. And inane.
“Evaluating old books is fascinating. I’ve worked with illuminated manuscripts from Roman times, papyrus scrolls, letters and diaries of the famous and infamous. The actual repair and restoration can be as tedious as you seem to find knitting.” When he teased me those winter-blue eyes warmed. “In fact, that’s what I wanted to see your grandmother about. An old book.”
He was looking at me intently, but then he always looked at me intently; perhaps there was something even more piercing in his gaze, as though I might know what he was talking about. I didn’t. “What book?”
“She described it as quite ancient and in need of restoration to preserve it. I believe it’s some sort of a record of your family.”
Immediately, I knew what he was talking about. “You mean the old family diary?” The one Gran had mentioned in my letter.
“Family diary?”
“That’s what she called it. Strange term, since a diary usually belongs to one person, but Gran said that’s what made the book so special. Different people had been adding their stories to the book for a long time. She showed it to me once, but I didn’t understand it. Some of it was in Latin and some of the writing was so old-fashioned and faded I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. There were some very nice drawings, though. We had some good artists in our family.”
It came to me, now, almost as though the book was in front of me. It book was bound in leather, badly cracked in places. I could imagine that my grandmother might want it restored, to make sure none of our family history was lost. “She kept it in a glass-fronted bookcase, in the flat. I can show it to you if you like.”
“I’d like that very much. I’d be happy to restore it, in your grandmother’s honor. I wouldn’t charge you for my services.”