by Clea Simon
Nancy nodded. ‘That’s why I was trying to do what I could. To get everything ready. And then I thought, maybe he’d like a nice soothing cup of tea. You know, before everyone gets here. And that’s when he, well, I wouldn’t say he yelled. Mr Thorpe is much too much of a gentleman to do that. But, Dulcie,’ she looked up, her eyes filled with tears. ‘He was very short. I was only trying to be friendly, and he positively barked at me.’
Barked? Dulcie wondered. Or howled?
TWENTY-TWO
With Dulcie as a steadying presence, Nancy settled down a bit, at least enough to make coffee and go back to the exam-room scheduling she seemed to have started hours before. Dulcie found it difficult, at first, to follow suit – the idea of her adviser, agitated and possibly moonstruck one floor above her, making concentration elusive. But as Nancy’s quiet bustling re-established an air of normalcy, before too long she was able to immerse herself, once again, in the text.
‘And do not Think that though I flee …’ She had copied the new segment into her laptop. It seemed to follow the earlier passage, with both the heroine and the mysterious M. le Gris in the carriage. The wolves were still howling outside, and the carriage hurtling along.
‘Those Night-time Terrors spring full-throated from the world both Seen and Unseen.’Dulcie had copied that bit down a few days ago, and it seemed to belong here. With a little cut and paste, she fit the passage into place. ‘What do you know of my Plight? What may a Stranger know of one who races forth?’ Her breath, returning, gave her courage to speak up, despite the howling fierce of both Wind and Wolf. ‘What would you know of a Woman in the Night, who needs must take shelter with a Stranger, as did I, neither knowing nor being Known beyond the kinship of the Dark?’
It was strong stuff, but there was still something missing.
‘Where do you introduce yourself, mysterious stranger?’ Dulcie scrolled back over the old text, muttering to herself. Her comments didn’t provoke any response from Nancy, but she didn’t find what she was looking for, either. Instead, it was another voice that ultimately interrupted her search, causing her to look up with something almost like relief.
‘There you are!’ It was Lloyd, with a big grin on his face. ‘I was hoping you’d come by the office, and when you didn’t, I tried calling.’
‘Sorry, I guess I turned my phone off.’ Dulcie pulled it from her bag: three messages. Two from Suze. Damn. ‘What’s up?’
‘My recognizance has paid off. Professor Showalter has checked into the Commodore also. She’s going to be meeting with students at the bar.’
Dulcie looked down at her notes. She should keep working. But she was, she suspected, at a bit of a dead end until she could go back to the Mildon and locate that missing passage. Besides, the opportunity to chat with Renée Showalter, a scholar who actually focused on eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century fiction and who cared about authorship to an unfashionable degree was too tempting. She looked over at Nancy, who had regained some color in her round cheeks.
‘Go on, Dulcie.’ The older woman seemed to have recovered her composure as well. ‘I’ll be fine here. I just won’t beard the lion in his den again.’
‘Don’t say “lion”.’ Lloyd was shaking his head. ‘Too much like “cat”.’
‘Just as well, Nancy. It’s probably better if you don’t.’ Dulcie forced a smile. She didn’t like leaving Nancy alone. It wasn’t a wild cat she was concerned about. However, she couldn’t resist Lloyd’s invitation. Renée Showalter was as close as Dulcie was likely to come to a role model: a specialist in her century, and a woman to boot. If she actually got the chairmanship, well, that could mean a world of difference for Dulcie.
‘How’s the kitten?’ Dulcie asked as they hit the sidewalk. In response, Lloyd took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Fine, I think.’
‘That bad?’ She waited while he dabbed at his eyes. ‘But you’ve visited at our place.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve taken antihistamines every time I’ve come over.’ He shoved the handkerchief in his pocket. ‘I never wanted you to know. It seemed unfriendly somehow.’
‘And that’s not an option now?’ Lloyd turned a sorrowful gaze on her, and even in the afternoon dusk she could see how red his eyes were. ‘Sorry. But, please, can you hang on a little longer? I promise, I’ll come up with another home for the kitten. It’s just—’
His sneeze cut her off, and she let the thought lie. Someone must need a kitten. Someone besides Martin Thorpe.
‘So, Dulcie.’ Lloyd interrupted her thoughts. They were walking quickly, heading toward the Common. The Commodore was right across the public space, and Dulcie could see its canopied front entrance through the leafless trees. ‘May I ask you something?’
There was an edge of anxiety in his voice that his earlier confession didn’t explain. She turned toward him and nodded, and once they’d crossed the street, he continued. ‘Do you think Showalter would be good for you?’
‘For me?’ Dulcie was a little startled by the question. ‘Or the department?’ Surely Lloyd wasn’t questioning the ability of a woman to head their little fiefdom – or was it her area of expertise? Dulcie had thought Lloyd above that kind of prejudice, though the institutional bias against the Gothic novelists was widespread.
‘For you.’ Lloyd was watching her. ‘I mean, she’s pretty much an unreconstructed structuralist, if that’s a term, and that’s your thing. And she’s eighteenth-century fiction, too, right? So if she’s here, doesn’t that mean the university wouldn’t need another expert? I mean, unless she decided not to teach or something.’
‘Oh.’ Dulcie hadn’t thought about that possibility. Then again, she rarely thought about life after her dissertation. It all seemed so impossibly far away at this point. ‘I guess I was just thinking about how great it would be to have someone who shared my interest.’
‘Poor Dulcie.’ Lloyd smiled at her. ‘You really are alone out there, aren’t you?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m kind of used to it.’ It was true: she’d been one of very few children at the commune, and, among them, she’d been the only bookworm. With only Lucy and no brothers or sisters, she’d grown used to following her interests by herself. Even Chris, as dear as he was, only vaguely understood her area of expertise. He certainly had never read The Ravages of Umbria, or anything like it. Before she could explain, however, they crossed over from the Common, and Lloyd was pulling the door open.
‘Hey, kids.’ Trista was at the bar, holding what looked like a Martini. Beyond her, a small crowd had gathered, and as they approached, Dulcie looked to see if she could identify Professor Showalter.
‘What are you having?’ Trista seemed more interested in her cocktail than the candidate, leaning forward to get the barman’s attention.
‘PBR,’ said Lloyd. ‘Uh, if they have it. Otherwise, whatever’s on draft.’
‘Diet coke?’ Dulcie thought she made out the professor, but with this crowd it was hard to tell. Sure, she recognized several of her colleagues, but it seemed the bar attracted an older clientele than the People’s Republik, their usual hang. Several tweedy men held down one end of the bar, and three women, all with short hair and minimal make-up, sat at one of the few tables beyond its end. Between them and the bar, however, there was one woman – greying, reddish hair in a bun. Could that be Renée Showalter?
‘Thanks.’ Dulcie took the glass from Trista and nodded toward the end of the bar. ‘Is that her?’
‘What? Oh, Showalter?’ Trista turned to stare. ‘Yeah. She needs to color her hair, or something. Redheads going grey just look faded.’
‘Huh.’ Dulcie paused, thinking of her mother. Lucy used so much henna that her hair had taken on an odd purplish hue. Maybe she agreed with Trista. Maybe that was also why Dulcie’s author had opted out of using red hair in this latest manuscript, not that her characters ever got past their prime.
‘Dulcie?’ She looked up. Trista seemed to be waiting for something. ‘I asked if y
ou want an introduction.’
‘Oh, sorry. No, not yet.’ Dulcie grabbed an empty bar stool and took a sip of her soda. It was funny. She’d been so involved with her latest find that she’d nearly forgotten the big question her initial discovery had raised.
In that first fragment, her heroine had been fighting with – and then possibly standing over the dead body of – a man. A man whose hair color had seemed to change in various versions from red to black and back again. At the time, it had infuriated her, not being able to figure out which version the author had intended. That was a problem with rough drafts, though. And over time, the hair question had been overwhelmed by others surrounding the young lord’s role in the heroine’s life – and her possible role in his death.
‘Come on, Dulcie.’ This time it was Lloyd who was talking. ‘It won’t be that bad.’
‘What?’ Clearly, Dulcie was missing something. Luckily, Lloyd was filling Trista in.
‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’ He was talking softly and his nose was stuffy, but through some trick of the bar, Dulcie could hear him clearly. ‘I pointed out that if Showalter gets the gig, she might take all the eighteenth-century fiction courses for herself. And, really, how many Goths does a department need?’
‘A few anyway.’ Dulcie broke in, forcing the happy tone into her voice. She really didn’t need her friends’ pity. Not yet anyway.
‘So, I can introduce you?’ Trista slid off her stool, leaving her empty glass on the bar.
‘Uh, sure.’ Maybe she needed to go back to that original fragment. Maybe she needed to focus on what that hair color meant. If only … Dulcie caught herself. This was nerves. What Lloyd had said in combination with her own hopes was making her anxious. She was being silly. And so she followed as Trista weaved her way through the bar crowd.
‘Dulcie …’What was that? Dulcie turned, and Lloyd bumped into her. ‘Listen to …’
‘Sorry.’ Lloyd had been holding his beer, which now slopped onto the floor.
‘Dulcie, are you okay?’ Lloyd transferred his pint to his other hand and reached back to the bar for a napkin. All the while, he was watching Dulcie. ‘You look, I don’t know, distracted. Do you really not want to meet this woman?’
‘No, I do.’ Dulcie nodded to stress her point, and turned around. Trista was a few people ahead of them, now, and Dulcie made to follow her. It beat trying to explain.
‘Professor Showalter.’ Trista was talking to the red-haired woman. ‘I’d like to introduce my friends,’ she was saying. ‘They’re both doctoral candidates in the department, and Dulcie …’
Her way was blocked. A suit jacket, presumably occupied by one of those older regulars, had stepped in front of her. Only instead of tweed, this was grey flannel, probably a business suit. A little corporate, but soft, which Dulcie noticed because she had stepped right into it.
‘Pay attention, Dulcie.’ The suit knew her name?
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She stepped back and looked up – but the man was gone. When she turned back, Trista was gesturing to her. And the red-haired professor was looking up with a smile.
‘Professor Showalter.’ Dulcie squeezed between two more drinkers. ‘Hi, I’m Dulcie Schwartz. I’m very interested in hearing you speak tonight.’
‘Will you be dealing with Nathaniel Hawthorne?’ To her right, Sean Cafferty butted in.
‘He’s a little late for me,’ the professor responded. ‘Though I am very interested in American Romanticism and its origins.’
‘Like the Gothics?’ Dulcie wasn’t going to let her chance go.
‘Why, yes.’ She had the professor’s attention again. ‘Ms Dunlop here was just telling me that you are writing about the period.’ The professor had the most piercing eyes. Not green, exactly, but greenish gold. ‘You’re focusing on one of the English novelists?’
‘Yes, but actually, she—’ Dulcie didn’t get a chance to finish. Sean, tall and confident, was leaning in again as if he owned the professor.
‘If you’re looking for a research associate in the Romantics, I’ve been working on a paper.’ Of course, count on Sean to position himself as a research associate. He wasn’t the sort to be taken advantage of. ‘I’m writing about the rise of Dark Romanticism for the Literary Compendium …’
Well, that was it. Sean could go on for hours, and soon it would be time for the professor to prepare for her talk. No wonder Mr Grey had warned her. If she’d been paying attention, maybe she wouldn’t have missed her chance. But as Dulcie turned away, she felt a hand on her sleeve. The professor’s – and Dulcie turned back, a little startled.
‘I’m sorry,’ she was saying to Sean. ‘I need to ask your colleague about something.’
Sean looked stunned. Handsome and self-assured, he was used to being the center of attention. Certainly, he’d never lost out to Dulcie.
She didn’t have long to savor her victory, however. Professor Showalter was looking at her again, and her gaze was intense. ‘What were you saying, Ms Schwartz?’
‘Oh,’ Dulcie struggled to remember. That stranger, the soft grey cloth. What had the voice being telling her to do? ‘Just that, yes, I am writing about an English novelist. But I think she emigrated. Are you familiar with The Ravages of Umbria?’It was an awkward question. One would assume that any properly credentialed academic – especially one being considered for the chairmanship of the department – would know the work. But Dulcie had learned by long experience that many otherwise quite well read scholars skimped on the Gothics. And The Ravageswas hardly The Castle of Otranto.
‘Of course.’ Renée Showalter was nodding. ‘The two surviving fragments are a testimony to the importance of the women authors of the era. In fact, there was something, if only I could remember. A paper looking at the political significance of the author’s work. Wait – that was you. You’ve been tracking essays you think she wrote.’
‘Yes, that was me. I, I mean.’ Dulcie felt herself flushing with pride, as well as embarrassment over her awkward response. She was flustered: so few of her colleagues even cared about this anonymous author’s best-known work. ‘Those essays are why I think she may have emigrated.’ Best to move on. ‘There are some fascinating pieces that I believe I can connect to her. And that’s not all. Just in the last few months, I’ve found some fragments …’ She was about to explain, to tell this professor about the manuscript, but something about the situation – the intensity of the professor’s gaze – stopped her. It was as if she was looking into Dulcie for some reason. Or looking for something …
What if Lloyd was right? What if this professor – this Renée Showalter – was looking not only to head the department, but also dominate its studies of eighteenth-century fiction? Should Dulcie share her discovery? That might be all she had when she left the university to seek her fortune. And until she published, the work was fair game. Dulcie didn’t want to end up one of those graduate students who got credit only as a research assistant when a paper, or worse, a book, came out.
‘Yes?’ The professor was leaning in.
‘Well, I’m hoping to maybe finally put a name to the author.’ That was true, though it was also far more speculative than her other work. ‘You know, if I can actually trace her work.’
‘That’s it.’ Showalter snapped her fingers. Her hands, Dulcie saw, were large and strong, and she didn’t wear any nail polish. ‘I knew there was something. You’ve been looking for the lost Gothic Thomas Paine referred to, am I right? You found something in the rare book collection here?’
Dulcie nodded, a knot forming in her stomach. She had gotten ahead of herself, mentioning that first fragment in her paper. But it was too late now. The professor’s hand was on her forearm now, as if the older woman could sense her desire to flee.
‘We have to talk. I’ve read something – something that was given to me. And I was contacted recently by a student, an undergrad, who wanted information about a source she’d found while on an unrelated search. I’m not sure, but ther
e are some extremely intriguing possibilities. Highly speculative, I assure you, but we should discuss them.’ She glanced around, and Dulcie found herself following her gaze. To her left, Trista was saying something to Lloyd, and Lloyd was smiling at Dulcie, happy that he had facilitated the meeting. To her right, Sean Cafferty had a look on his face like a stymied puppy. Dulcie doubted that women ever cut him out of their conversations.
Not that he lacked persistence. Taking the professor’s pause as an opportunity, he tried again. ‘Professor Showalter, if you’re interested in our rare book collection, I’d be happy to show you around. The Mildon Collection—’
She raised her hand, silencing him, all her attention back on Dulcie. ‘In private. Are you free tomorrow morning?’
‘I – I can be.’ She had one section. That wasn’t enough of an excuse. ‘I have a section, but after eleven …’
‘Good.’ The professor sounded like she wouldn’t take no for an answer anyway. ‘Let’s meet here at quarter after. Trust me.’ She reached for her bag. ‘This will be worth your while.’
With that, she turned to the assembled students. ‘Time for me to get ready. Thank you all for this warm university welcome,’ she said, and headed toward the elevator.
‘Well, that was something,’ said Lloyd as he and Trista flanked her to get the news.
‘It was something all right.’ Dulcie couldn’t feel as sanguine. ‘I wish I knew exactly what.’ Ignoring Sean, who was openly glaring at her, she led her friends out of the bar. This time, she wasn’t going to be stupid. ‘House of Pizza?’ She affected a lighter tone than she felt. ‘I’d say we have time for a large with everything before Professor Showalter takes the podium.’
‘Sean?’ Lloyd was a peacemaker. It was one of his endearing traits. Their colleague, however, simply turned away.
‘I guess not everyone likes pepperoni,’ said Dulcie, trying not to sound too relieved.