The Promise of Change

by Rebecca Heflin

  Entering Tom’s Gate is like stepping back in time, or like Alice stepping through the looking glass, isolated from present day reality, where you can choose to ignore the real world, if only for a short time.

  When I climb the stairs to Tudor Hall, where the college has served meals to Christ Church residents since 1529, I feel the indentations worn into the stone steps by the centuries of footsteps from the scholars who’d tread the same path.

  Tonight is the final reception and dinner. In the morning I’ll leave these magical walls for a week alone in Oxford. It will seem all the lonelier for having spent this week in such engaging company.

  But for today, I will enjoy the atmosphere of Christ Church: the sense of stillness I find in the Master’s Garden, the hush of the Picture Gallery, and the peace and tranquility within the walls of this college, not passing through Tom’s Gate into the noise and chaos of the city until I leave tomorrow morning.

  Closing her journal, Sarah picked up her copies of Sense & Sensibility and Mansfield Park and headed to class, ready to make the most of her final day.

  The temperature rose into the upper seventies, a heat wave by England’s standards. She’d even had to remove her otherwise obligatory cardigan while she and her classmates picnicked in the Master’s Garden.

  She should be relieved it hadn’t been too warm this week since none of the dorms were air-conditioned.

  Glancing at her watch, she realized she’d dawdled in the Picture Gallery too long, and hadn’t left herself much time to change for the reception. After a week of wearing conservative trousers and cardigans, she’d selected a lovely, feminine black and white floral silk sundress, with a lemon yellow pashmina, and black strappy sandals. She left her hair loose around her shoulders.

  Satisfied with her appearance, she spritzed on a little Voile De Jasmin, grabbed her bag, and hurried over to the Cathedral Garden.

  From the volume of voices drifting through the door to the Garden, everyone had already arrived for the reception. She stepped through the doorway, looking for her group. Almost every head turned in her direction, eyes wide, some with frank approval, some with disapproval.

  Compared to everyone else in the Garden, she looked as if she were going to a garden party rather than a gathering at Christ Church. She couldn’t have stood out more if she’d been wearing a hat befitting Her Majesty and the races at Ascot.

  Clearly she should have asked around about the attire for this evening. Most of the tutors wore dark conservative suits, including the women.

  Unbeknownst to her, one particular set of eyes looked on with great approval. Alex watched as she stood, rooted to the spot, a becoming blush coloring her cheeks. His memory had failed him. She wasn’t beautiful; she was breathtaking.

  He was pleased now that he’d accompanied his grandmother to the reception. He’d planned to offer his services as her escort for the evening, and was surprised when she beat him to the punch and asked him instead.

  “Lord Rutherford,”—Mr. Phillips, the Program Director, interrupted Alex’s observation of the clearly disconcerted Sarah—“May I introduce you to Mr. George Summers, who’s visiting us from New Zealand. Mr. Sommers is the Minister of Education.”

  Alex reluctantly turned his attention to the two gentlemen, but kept an eye on Sarah.

  His interest in the conversation waned again as he watched his grandmother approach Sarah. Perfect. He smiled at his own good fortune.

  As if sensing her discomfiture, Lady Clara had rushed to Sarah’s side, effusive in her praise of her appearance. “My dear, you look absolutely stunning—a breath of fresh air in this otherwise stuffy gathering.” She turned her considerable frown upon those with disapproving looks. “Stodgy old codgers,” she mumbled.

  “Thank you,” Sarah murmured. “I certainly stand out.” A waiter walked by with a tray of champagne and she grabbed a flute off the tray and took a gulp.

  As the gawkers returned to their own conversations, Sarah spoke to Lady Clara a few minutes. Just as she thought she’d recovered her aplomb, she spotted Alex speaking to Mr. Phillips and another gentleman. What on earth was he doing here?

  He watched her, an amused expression on his face as he raised his champagne flute in a silent toast.

  She turned away, chin lifted, pointedly dismissing him. Joining the remainder of her group who were discussing their immediate future plans, she tried to ignore his presence. Not very successfully.

  While some of her classmates were returning to jobs and families in their respective countries, others were continuing their travels. Kim was going to Italy to meet up with a boyfriend, much to Sean’s dismay, while Marie was meeting friends in London for one more week before returning to France.

  The gavel banged promptly at seven, announcing dinner. Sarah made a swift departure, hoping to avoid Alex. He must have come with his grandmother, but why?

  Thankfully, the class would be seated together this evening, so he wouldn’t be seated with Lady Clara. Determined to enjoy the evening’s pomp and circumstance, she put him out of her mind. Almost.

  Tudor Hall was regally dressed for the elaborate four-course dinner. The dark-paneled walls, adorned with portraits of such illustrious Christ Church alumni as W.H. Auden, William Penn, Charles Dodgson-a.k.a. Lewis Carroll-and John Wesley, glowed in the late summer light streaming through the stained glass windows.

  Alex watched from his place at High Table as Sarah took her seat among her classmates. He noticed as his grandmother and Sarah put their heads together conspiratorially, wondering what they were talking about, and selfishly hoping it was him.

  His grandmother had evidently taken a liking to Sarah. Having her to tea, sending her car for her, saving her from the effects of her grand entrance. She’d clearly been mortified, but what did she expect? She’d swept into the garden like a sweet summer breeze. Of course every red, or blue, -blooded male was going to take note.

  Following the last course Mr. Phillips garnered everyone’s attention and thanked them for participating in the programs and welcomed them to return for future programs.

  Students received their certificates without much fanfare, unless one counted the frequent camera flashes as people took pictures with their cherished certificates. Now they could all claim attendance at the revered Christ Church. Concluding the evening’s presentation, Mr. Phillips wished everyone safe travels, and the dinner conversation resumed.

  After dinner, many of the students adjourned to the Buttery, the college’s private bar just outside the Hall, for a final night of revelry.

  Sarah found herself chatting again with Lady Clara. She enjoyed her company so much, and would miss her when she returned home. Over the past week, she’d gotten to know her well, and she’d taken on an almost motherly, or grandmotherly, role to Sarah.

  Sarah noticed her tutor, Mr. Byrne, speaking with Alex. Was there anyone Alex didn’t know? His warm smile reached his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. His dark gray suit and deep blue tie enhanced his regal bearing, making him look every inch the Earl.

  Lady Clara noticed her slight preoccupation, and following her gaze, said, “Oh, I see you’ve spotted my grandson. He is a handsome lad, although I suppose I am biased. Would you like to be introduced?” she asked, a sly smile on her face.

  “Oh. No.” Sarah said, a little too emphatically. “That’s okay.” Too late . . . he walked toward her. It seemed that every head in the room turned to watch him, and consequently, Sarah. For the second time this evening, she wished a hole would open up and swallow her.

  As he sauntered in her direction, she couldn’t help but admire the way he moved, with the easy grace of an athlete. His well-tailored clothes fit his powerful frame as if made for him. And most likely they were.

  “Some escort you are. You’ve left me to fend for myself all evening,” Lady Clara chided her grandson.

  He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Yes, Grandmother, but if anyone can fend for herself, it would be you.” He smiled down int
o his grandmother’s beaming face. “You’d have Henry VIII himself wrapped around your finger in a moment.”

  “You’re a good grandson.” She reached up to pat his cheek as she said it.

  Sarah tensed. Would he make reference to their meeting the other night?

  “May I introduce Sarah Edwards? Sarah was one of my classmates this week.” Lady Clara turned to her. “Sarah, this is my grandson, Alexander Fraser, the Ninth Earl of Rutherford.”

  “How do you do?” He took her hand, never taking his eyes off her face.

  Sarah smiled tentatively.

  He couldn’t resist. “You look familiar.” Her hand tensed in his. “But then again, if I had met you, I’d have remembered eyes as lovely as yours.” Her hand relaxed a little, but there was a spark of fire in those green eyes.

  She pulled her hand from his, with the memory of their warmth uppermost in her mind. Was he being considerate, she wondered, or worse, did he actually not remember meeting her?

  Lady Clara’s eyes sparkled mischievously as she looked between the two of them. “Ah, there’s Mrs. Talbot. I must have a word with her. Will you excuse me?” She strode off before either of them could object.

  “So, we meet again,” Alex whispered conspiratorially.

  His breath tickled Sarah’s face, suffusing her cheeks with warmth, and raising another blush.

  “I thought—”

  “I know, you wondered if I’d actually forgotten you.” He took her now-empty wineglass which she turned nervously in her hands and placed it on the table behind her. “The answer to that is of course no. But my grandmother told me of your visit to Rutherford, and I gathered from that conversation that you did not reveal our previous meeting.” He tilted his head. “I wondered why that was.”

  With nothing left to fidget with, she folded her hands in front of her. “Because I didn’t want to tell your grandmother what a liar you are.”

  “A liar?” He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “You told me you were an actor.”

  “No, you asked me if I was an actor.”

  “So that makes lying about it all right? Did you lie about accidentally bumping into me, too?” Her ire was up. How dare he play semantics with her, as if that excused his dishonesty.

  “No. I can assure you the collision was accidental. If I’d set my sights on meeting you, I wouldn’t have resorted to dousing you with beer. I would simply have introduced myself.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a slight grin. “As to the bit about being a liar, I can assure that I am not. I am an actor.” He turned to indicate Lady Clara’s approach. “You can ask my grandmother if you wish.”

  “Ask me what?” Lady Clara asked as she rejoined them.

  “Sarah expressed an interest in my acting.” Alex said, eyebrow arched in Sarah’s direction.

  “Ah, his acting.” Lady Clara waved her hand as if the subject were a disagreeable fly she was shooing away.

  “Grandmother doesn’t approve.” He observed Sarah’s chagrinned expression and the pretty blush that accompanied it. He must remember to make her blush regularly and often.

  “It isn’t that I don’t approve of acting. I think it a noble profession. Look at Sir Laurence Olivier and Dame Judi Dench. I just disapprove of my grandson, the Earl, acting.”

  Lady Clara turned to Sarah. “That isn’t to say he’s not good. I think him quite good. But you can judge for yourself. When you return to the States, you should get the BBC videos and watch them at your leisure. I’m sure they are available on DVD.”

  Taking a sip of his wine, Alex asked, “When do you return to the States . . . which state, by the way?”

  “I return to Florida the end of next week.” She found herself wishing again for a wine glass, something to hold so she knew what to do with her hands.

  “How will you be spending the remainder of your holiday now that your classes are over?” he asked with great interest.

  Before she could answer, Lady Clara interjected, “She is planning to tour Oxfordshire and the Cotswolds–all alone.”

  Sarah blushed again; nothing obvious about that response.

  “Did you hire a car?” he inquired, again enjoying the pink in her cheeks.

  “No, I took the train from London.”

  “How did you plan to tour the countryside and take advantage of all it offers without a car?”

  “I planned on one of the touring companies.”

  “That’s no way to see the Cotswolds,” he said, shaking his head in mock horror. “If I’m not being too presumptuous, may I offer my services as a tour guide for the week?” he replied. “After all, we are no longer strangers,” he added with a subtle grin.

  Before Sarah could respond, Lady Clara declared, “Oh, I’m sure she would enjoy your company! Wouldn’t you, my dear?”

  “Um, thank you. Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to impose.” Sarah looked down trying to hide her embarrassment over Lady Clara’s transparent matchmaking.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he replied warmly. “Where are you lodging after tonight?”

  “The Old Parsonage on Banbury Road.”

  “Ah, yes. Very nice hotel. May I call you there tomorrow?”

  “Oh, yes. Or you could call my cell phone, or my mobile as you call it, in case I’m not in my room.”

  “Even better.”

  After providing him with her cell phone number, Sarah realized that the room was nearly empty, except for the staff who clearly hoped they would leave so they could clean up. Apparently they’d overstayed their welcome. Although she was now reluctant to leave, she indicated that perhaps the evening was at an end.

  As they walked out of the Buttery, Alex offered to walk Sarah back to her dorm.

  Wow! Talk about a flashback to college. She felt like she was nineteen again, and Dan Acosta had asked her the same thing. With one glaring difference: Dan had not been an Earl.

  When she said good night to Lady Clara, the Countess grinned broadly. “My dear, I will be in touch in a day or two regarding our planned lunch date.”

  They’d already planned to meet for lunch while Sarah remained in Oxford, but now she clearly had another motive for their lunch date. Lady Clara was worse than a teenager, but that’s what Sarah loved about her.

  Alex and Sarah descended the stairs and stepped out into the cool evening. She wrapped her pashmina tighter around her shoulders, prompting Alex to offer his jacket.

  “No, thank you,” she replied. “It was just the sudden difference in temperature. I’m fine.” She realized that it had been rather warm in the Buttery. Or perhaps the warmth was in response to Alex.

  It was a beautiful night. The stars were visible, the air perfumed and gentle. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the night air, thinking how it was vastly different from the climate in Florida this time of year, where you had to wring out the air in order to take a deep breath.

  “Where is your dorm?”

  Alex’s voice gently pulled Sarah back from her thoughts. “Not far. I’m in Meadow five.”

  They turned and walked slowly in that direction. The resonant tolling of Great Tom punctuated the quiet. The seven ton bell housed in Tom Tower rang one-hundred-one times each night at five-after-nine in honor of the original scholars of Christ Church College.

  “What am I to call you? Lord Rutherford?” A little embarrassed by her question, she half expected him to laugh.

  “You may call me Your Lordship,” he returned in his haughtiest voice, his tone dead serious.

  Sarah turned to him appalled, eyes flashing.

  “I’m only teasing.”

  He chuckled, a warm, melodic laugh that went straight to her head like a shot of whiskey, making her woozy.

  “Please call me Alex.”

  “Oh.” Astonishment turned to embarrassment once more. She seemed destined to make herself look foolish in front of him. “Alex, I owe you an apology for calling you a liar and assuming the worst.”

  “Apol
ogy accepted.”

  They walked very slowly, meandering through the vaulted corridors, taking the long way to the Meadow Building.

  “But why did you focus only on your acting?”

  “I’d rather be known for something I’ve worked to accomplish, rather than a fate of birth. Besides, if I’d told you I was an Earl, would you have believed me?” he asked, his expression dubious.

  Sarah laughed good-naturedly. “I suppose not.” A breath or two later, she asked, “Do you think that means I have deep-seated trust issues that have only now come to light?”

  He laughed, deep and rich. “Perhaps it means you have a healthy mistrust of strangers in pubs who bump into you, clumsily sloshing beer on you, before asking you out on a date.”

  “I’ve seen that technique work before.”

  “Have you?”

  “Not on myself of course,” she said rather primly, although with a slight smile, “but certainly on other women. It even has a name: the Bump and Spill. It’s patented.”

  “Hmmm. And I thought I’d invented it. Just goes to show there’s nothing new under the sun.”

  The gravel crunched under their feet, signaling their arrival at her dormitory courtyard.

  “How—”

  “When—”

  They both spoke at the same time.

  “Go ahead—” Sarah said, a little flustered.

  “Ladies first.”

  “I saw you speaking with Trevor Byrne, my tutor, how do you know him?”

  A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “Trevor and I shared a dorm in Peckwater Seven, where I believe your class meets.”

  So, he was a Christ Church man. Not surprising.

  “You were going to ask a question . . .”

  “Did you find your experience worthwhile?”

  “Oh, yes. I’d like to return next year, but, of course, my job and economics will dictate that.”