Chapter 10

Elizabeth started her next, more intense, stage of research right away. She left the novels and criticism she had been working through on the shelf, and instead sat herself down at a computer. She had spent quite a few hours doing internet research, and had ultimately reached a dead end each time. “But,” thought Elizabeth “I refuse to believe that there is nothing on the web. That would just be a travesty for everything the ‘world wide web’ stands for.” And she certainly wasn’t willing to admit that it was there and she couldn’t find it. No, she had taken all those research courses and even worked as a research assistant during her undergrad – if it was there, she would find it.

She started down the usual paths, checking bibliographies and reference sites, trying to link what she did know, Mae’s works, to what she didn’t know, Mae’s life.
She found more than enough sites that were selling original Raymond novels at hefty prices, but very few could tell more about the book than the author and title. She tried following some of the publishing houses, but publishing houses in London during Raymond’s day were a dime a dozen. She checked all the graveyard records she could find in England, which took a few hours. By closing time, Elizabeth felt she had put forth a 100% effort for 0% return. Fortunately for her thesis, Elizabeth’s personality was built so that she was undaunted by failure. She had a ‘stick-to-it-ness’ that had stood her well throughout her academic career. Once she knew what needed to be done, she kept at it, despite whether the evidence pointed to success or failure. Only when she logically knew she had reached the end of her capabilities did she make a conscious decision to stop. So her evening of searching the internet was a small set back but it in no way put a damper on Elizabeth’s resolve to work, work, work, until she found something.

“It’s been almost a week!” she thought to herself, as she stood up from the computer to stretch her back and unfold her legs. She felt like she lived at this computer, and her eyes were not thanking her, she felt like she was getting the beginnings of a migraine from staring at the screen incessantly. After the fifth day, she had finally gotten the urge to quit, but had decided to give it a week, and then if she hadn’t found anything, she would accept failure and move on. Every morning when she came in the librarians gave her a look that seemed to say: “Poor dear – she’s gone over the edge – we’ve seen ones like that before.” But Elizabeth was pretty sure she hadn’t reached the real edge – drinks from Ricardo’s and going home to the peace of Charlbury each evening were keeping her sane. And according to the bargain she had made with herself, tomorrow was the last day of what was looking more and more like a colossal waste of time. The librarian came around to let her know the Radcliffe was closing in 15 minutes. Elizabeth thanked her, and started packing up her stuff. Suddenly, Elizabeth sat straight up and stared at the screen. “Why didn’t I see that before!” She grabbed the mouse to click on the small add on the top right hand corner of her screen: “Census Reports – England – Scotland – Wales, including Census of 1876, 1924 and more.”

She had seen the advertisement before, of course, but had dismissed it. Checking the census was one of the first research steps she had taken, and had since regarded the census as another dead end. But this was a different census, the years were different, but they were a perfect match with Raymond, right around her early years of marriage and as an author – a time when she would most likely be in the census. Elizabeth typed in the search fields for Mae Raymond. Nothing came up – although it wasn’t much of a surprise to Elizabeth. She tried adding birth and death dates, still no help. One of Raymond’s non-fiction works was a historical piece about a parish church, so Elizabeth tried typing in that town, Milborne Port, as the residence city. Finally – a little carrot. The census gave her a list of 4 males named Raymond from Milborne Port in 1876. “Now, which one is Mae’s husband? Matthew?” She clicked on the name. “Not an 80 year old, I hope. How about Joesph?” She clicked and immediately felt that excited butterfly feeling start to stir in her stomach. It was one of the few “eureka!” moments she had experienced in her life, and it was overwhelming. “This is it! This is it!” Her hand flew to her cover her mouth to keep from shouting. The giggles couldn’t be contained, though, Elizabeth was monumentally excited. So excited, in fact, the librarian had to tap her on the shoulder three times to get her attention. “We’re closed, now, you need to leave.” “You’re closing?” Elizabeth asked, confused. “Yes” said the librarian looked perturbed, “I warned you 15 minutes ago.” Elizabeth remembered and quickly replied sheepishly, “Oh, yes, I’m sorry I just got excited about my research. I’ll leave right away.” Elizabeth didn’t want to leave, of course, but having worked in more than one job like the librarians, she had no desire to be the obnoxious patron that would never leave promptly at closing time. So she shut down the computer, and replaced the books and writing implements in her bag. Waving goodbye to the librarian on the way out (“It never hurts to be friendly, even if they are a bit stand-offish”) Elizabeth had to fight the urge to skip down the path from the Radcliffe. The breakthrough she had half-hoped for, but had never had the courage to wish for had finally come. A link to history, even the smallest one, was all the encouragement Elizabeth needed. The world was rosy again, the night air was sweet, and Elizabeth knew, deep inside, that she would finish her thesis and she would find the real Mae Raymond of her letters.

Because she had been working so diligently, the idea of a vacation had almost entirely been pushed out of Elizabeth’s head. Her dreams of Venice which had led her to dreams of anywhere had consumed her momentarily only to die out in the rigor of academic life. So she was surprised to find an email in her inbox: “Re: Retreat Questions.” She clicked on it, remembering her request for more information about the retreat at the Abbey.

The email made her laugh. It was from a clearly non-computer literate Sister at the convent. In it, she apologized for taking so long to reply – she couldn’t get the “thing to go” and she had to bring in someone from the community to help her make it send. Despite the delay, Sister Wendy was hopeful Elizabeth would still be able to come on a retreat, the convent’s hospitality was fully extended to her. According to the email, there was a retreat house on the property of the Abbey, and it was designed to welcome pilgrims and travelers of all faiths who needed it for times of quiet and contemplation. It was designed as a ministry, thus there was no charge, although donations to the Abbey were gladly accepted.

Elizabeth read the email with a smile. Sister Wendy sounded absolutely charming, and even through the impersonal mode of an email, Elizabeth felt that hospitality was indeed being extended to her in its truest form. She felt a calm settled ness in her spirit that she took as a “yes.” All she had to do was work out the details.

It took a few hours, but Elizabeth had it all planned. There were a good deal of travel arrangements to be made, she had to get from Banbury Hill Farm, to Charlbury, to Oxford, to London Paddington, to London Charring Cross, to Portsmouth, to the Harbor, to the Isle of Wight, to the Abbey. It seemed daunting, but Elizabeth took it as a personal test of her ‘travel agent’ skills. Once she had all the times, connections, and prices figured out; she booked herself the train, bus, and ferry tickets she would need. That accomplished, she emailed Sister Wendy back, thankfully accepting her hospitality and informing her of the dates she would be there.

Pushing “send”, Elizabeth leaned back in the comfy, swirling office chair of the Bodleian computer lab, and felt very proud of her self. In less than three hours, she had gone from predicting a week of reading, reading, and more reading, to looking forward to a week of reading, being quiet and sleeping, and on the Isle of Wight, at that. She still had a few days to look forward to her journey, before she’d actually take it “That’s good – ‘Travel is 70% anticipation and 30% recollection. Or 60 -40? Something like that.”

That evening Elizabeth made her requisite “to-do” list that accompanied nearly everything she did. This one had “To-Do to get ready for Wight” written on the top, and, at the moment, had three items on it – two of which Elizabeth had already done. Some people found her slightly neurotic for doing this – but Elizabeth just considered it a motivational tool. If you have a to-do list, and you’ve already done some things before you write it, it makes sense to write the things you’ve done down and cross them off, so you can have the sense of accomplishment you deserve. She had gone to all the work to “Contact and Confirm with the Abbey” and “Make travel arrangements and book tickets to and from Abbey” – she might as well get the credit. The next item to do was: “Inform a variety of people about travel plans.” Elizabeth wasn’t used to being quite so autonomous; she was used to living with roommates or having a few close girlfriends who seemed to know her every movement. Even though no-one would probably get very concerned if she disappeared for a few days, she still felt better knowing a couple people knew where she was going. She added: “Barrett, Abby, Dr. Nottim, Browning, Meg.” A couple additions later, she looked over the list satisfied. “I think that’s everything. And in, three days, I’ll be on my way to mental peace and quiet. Until then, I need to worry about getting this chapter of my thesis done.”

There was not a question in Elizabeth’s mind that this was the end. It had to be. Life couldn’t possibly get any worse, could it? She banged her head lightly on the door. How could she lock her keys inside the bedroom?!

She had been running around her house, trying to get things finished up for morning. The plan was to walk into Charlbury at first light, to make the first morning train. That plan was to be implemented in less than 8 hours, and Elizabeth had been trying to finish packing, even though some of her laundry done earlier in the day was still not dry. She had been chastising herself during the whole process: “I can’t believe you! You do this every time – it’s like you thrive on the last minute chaos of packing the night before. And then you always forget something important like your toothbrush.” As she had finished stuffing socks into her duffel, she was no longer just carrying on her internal dialogue in her head; she had crossed the line to muttering to herself.

And now, her duffel and her keys were securely locked behind her bedroom door. She was 45 minutes behind schedule – she was supposed to be relaxing in bed reading a book, and getting ready to drift off to sleep at 10:30 sharp. Now, it was just after 11, and she would have to switch to emergency response mode. She slid down to sit on the floor with her head resting against the firmly locked door. “Okay, what are my options?” Her first impulse was to try and get in a window – a self-sufficient choice that would not require any one else knowing about her stupidity. But upon going outside and looking up, she realized it would be a far greater stupidity to try to climb up to the little ledge by her bedroom window. “Nope, that’s out.” She thought dismally. She thought and thought, but as much as she tried to avoid the conclusion, she knew the only other option she had was to go knock on the farmhouse door and get Barrett to let her into her room with the spare key. This was the route she had hoped to avoid, for two reasons. First, she didn’t particularly want anyone, least of all Barrett, knowing that she was silly enough to lock her keys accidentally in her room. Second, she hadn’t seen Barrett in almost two weeks, and she was afraid that it could possibly look like she had locked the keys in the room on purpose to have an excuse to go see him. This bothered her the most, because it wasn’t too far removed from what she would actually be willing to consider doing. However, time was flying by, and she had no desire to wake to start her retreat on only 3 hours sleep.

She pulled on her rubber boots, and set off for the farmhouse. She didn’t have to worry about locking herself out of the cottage, because, wisely, that was a skeleton key. “Those old fashioned keys and locks are the way to go.” She thought to herself, decided if she ever built a house she would take special care with the locks.

She rang the farm doorbell. She rang it again. The silence of the cool April evening was uninterrupted. “Uh-oh.” Elizabeth hadn’t considered this as a possible eventuality. She headed to the back door, and knocked as loudly as she could manage. Still nothing. Under normal circumstances, she would have simply given up and accepted the fact that Barrett was not home. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Eyeing the dark path between the wall of the house and the fence of the field, she started off, walking the perimeter of the large farmhouse looking for lights. She saw a glow coming from the large bay windows of the dining room. She peered through the glass to see Barrett, having what appeared to be a fancy dinner with a rather attractive young woman.

Elizabeth’s first reaction was immediate anger. “What on earth! He’s having dinner with another woman – in his house.” The next reaction was jealousy. “He never invited me to his house, he never cooked for me. She is very pretty, and her dress is gorgeous!” The final stage was self-loathing. “No wonder Barrett chose her. I’m a dumpy, silly, frump who’s stupid enough to lock her keys in her room!”
“Oh, no! I can’t just stand here, he’ll see me and think I’m a freak.” It was a split-second decision, she had to knock. So she rapped on the window, and Barrett and his guest looked over, surprised. She motioned to the front door, and then gingerly walked back through the dark path to meet Barrett by the door. “Hi, Barrett, I’m sorry to disturb you.” Elizabeth thought it was best to get to the point quickly to have as little discomfort as possible, like ripping off a band-aid. “I’m afraid I’ve done something stupid – I’ve locked my house keys in the bedroom of the cottage. Breaking in through the window seemed less than wise, so I was hoping you could get me the spare key.” The last part came out in a rush, as Elizabeth gave a big smile to hide her insecurity about Barrett’s dinner guest and her sheepishness at her stupidity.

“Ahhh, sure. Hold on, I’ll grab the keys.” He ducked back inside, leaving Elizabeth again alone in the growing cold. But the door swung open again, and he stepped out, jingling a ring of keys. “Let’s get it unlocked!” As they walked together towards the cottage, Elizabeth wondered whose job it was to clear the air and broach the subject of Barrett’s dinner guest. Once again, Elizabeth felt she should wait for Barrett to do it, but her womanly instincts refused to remain quiet – she had to know. “Sorry I interrupted your dinner.” “Not a problem.” Barrett replied congenially. She would have to be more direct. “Any special occasion?” She had crossed the line into jealous prying now, but there was no going back. “No, not really.” Barrett’s reply did not sound like a brush-off, instead, he was doing a very good job making it sound like nothing was going on. “Or maybe nothing is going on, and you’re jumping to conclusions. Or maybe you have no right to draw conclusions at all, because it’s not like you and Barrett were ever really dating. Or maybe…”

Elizabeth’s internal punching bag was stopped, as Barrett opened the door to the cottage and headed up stairs. “How long have we not been talking? Oh, dear. I hope he doesn’t think I’m mad.” Elizabeth internally kicked herself for over-analyzing and tried to think of something appropriate to say. She settled on the polite and informative: “I would have just slept in the spare room and come to get you in the morning, but I’m leaving for the Isle of Wight early tomorrow morning, and I need to get all my luggage from the room. I figured you’d rather I knocked on your door at 11:00 pm then at 5:00 am tomorrow.”
“Well, on most day’s I’d be asleep at 11 and awake at 5, but my publisher can only come by after her evening commute from work, so we were having a late dinner.” And like that, Barrett put Elizabeth’s mind at ease. “His publisher!?! You’re such a silly goose for jumping to conclusions.” Elizabeth was so relieved she hadn’t said anything that would have tipped her hand. From all indications he had no guilt or worry about the appearance of the dinner to Elizabeth, or else he would have defended himself earlier. No, she was sure that Barrett was as innocent and native as he appeared to be, and she liked him all the more for it. And she liked herself less for the catty and accusing nature that had come to the forefront in the whole situation. But, even though Barrett now knew how stupid she was to lock her keys in her room, at least he didn’t know anything else that had happened in her head that evening. She walked Barrett to the door of the cottage, and thanked him profusely. She desperately wanted to inquire more about what exactly he was having published, but she restrained herself, for one reason, Barrett seemed anxious not to keep his publisher waiting, and also because Elizabeth was know about 2 hours behind her schedule. Barrett wished her a pleasant journey, and they made plans to meet up when she returned so he could hear about how the trip went. “I hear the Isle of Wight is beautiful, but I’ve never been there myself. You’ll have to send me a postcard.” “I’ll be sure to do that” Elizabeth replied, as she waved goodbye, and shut the door. As she locked herself in with the ‘safe’ skeleton key, she thought again of how lucky she was to have a landlord like Barrett, and a friend who was maybe something more, and who still seemed like the nicest guy in the world. Despite being behind schedule and her key fiasco, Elizabeth went to bed feeling peaceful and relaxed. She couldn’t wait for her adventure to begin, on schedule, at 5 am.