Chapter 13

A sharp cracking sound filled the air – and Elizabeth had that sudden sick feeling when you know something very embarrassing is about to happen. The chair had looked sturdy enough, but then again she really hadn’t looked. This desk in the Bodleian was just like all the others. Except, she now knew the chair was broken. She felt the seat give way below her and she was shortly ungracefully arranged in a heap on the floor, surrounded by chunks of wood. The noise had been loud enough for everyone in the library to hear, and it seemed to Elizabeth that everyone in the library had now come over to stare at her / offer help. Her face felt like it was on fire, and she knew from past experiences that it was cherry red. She took one of the hands offered to help her up. She was pulled up and came face to face with a mysterious man. He had thick dark brown hair, and was wearing quirky and old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses. Behind the glasses were deep chocolate brown eyes, with surprisingly long lashes. His build was large – but more on the chubby than muscular side. He was dressed like a true academic, classic style that didn’t match at all. The black turtleneck sweater and the camel corduroy pants would have each been great paired with something else – but together they looked silly. It certainly made him less intimating. Still, Elizabeth immediately felt that this man must be one of those really, really smart people who get to stay at Oxford for years (he looked at least 10-15 years older than she).

She had processed all this information about the man on her way from the floor to a standing position. Now that she was standing face to face with him, still grasping his hand, she couldn’t think of what the appropriate thing to say was. She was having trouble even thinking of any options. She did know that speed was of the essence, she had to say something, now! “Nice glasses.” “AHHHH! NOT the right thing you dork!” Elizabeth berated herself, turning from red to an almost unearthly shade of red bordering on purple. If there hadn’t been so many people standing around, she would have been tempted to just run out of the Upper Cam and do all her reading in a different room from then on. But, there was no chance of escape – she was going to have to live out every painful moment of the exchange.

“Um, thanks” replied the mysterious man, obviously confused. “Are you alright? Did you hit your head?” “Great” thought Elizabeth to herself “he thinks I’m mental.” But to him she just gave a sheepish grin and tried to think of something clever to say, “Oh, nope, I just say stupid things all the time.” He gave her a slightly confused, slightly patronizing smile. “No! Definitely not the right thing to say. Elizabeth, just shut up before you get in any deeper!” her internal critic was being painfully honest. Fortunately she was not going to have any more chances to stick her foot in her mouth. The mysterious man let go of her hand and kindly said “If you’re alright, then I’ll be leaving.” She managed one correct response: “Thank you.”

And just like that he was gone, quietly moving through the crowd of curious undergrads to disappear down the spiral staircase. Elizabeth’s eyes followed him, there was something that made this mysterious stranger fascinating to her, and she felt truly, deeply angry at herself for making such a scene. All the eyes watching her embarrassment now were nothing compared to his eyes, which she had so wanted to impress and she had so not. She shook her head and forced her attention back to the incident at hand. A librarian had come up to see what the fuss was, and assured Elizabeth it was not her fault that the chair broke, it was one of the originals, and it must have slipped by the repairs team. They gathered up the pieces of wood, and one undergrad started a rush by asking if he could take a piece home as a souvenir. The librarian didn’t see why not, and soon everyone on the second floor was gathered around Elizabeth trying to scavenge their own piece of the Bodleian. “Well, if I went through all of this I might as well have a memento” thought Elizabeth to herself, spying what looked to be the end of one of the arms, small and relatively splinter free. She stuck it in her bag. The librarian again expressed concern for her injuries, but Elizabeth assured her it would only be a few bruises, and nothing compared to her bruised pride. The librarian smiled, and apologized again. Elizabeth finally looked around and saw the crowd busy fighting over pieces of wood, so she wove through the students to make her way outside.

“Urgh” Elizabeth stepped out of the Bodleian into the summer sun. She felt exhausted from her morning exercises in mortification. She really, really needed a treat. And more than the usual treat of tea at Ricardo’s, true humiliation required stronger therapy. Shopping therapy. She headed down Corn Market street to the pedestrian street where the nicest shops were. She did a bit of window shopping, but deep inside she knew where she wanted to go. Monsoon. She had window shopped at Monsoon ever day she walked by, and went in at least once a week to finger the fine fabrics of the clothes. But other than that one umbrella she had treated herself to, she could never bring herself to buy any clothes because they were so expensive. “But they are worth it, beautiful designs, and luxurious materials, it’s an investment piece.” She stepped inside the shop door, and was hit with a blast of air conditioning and a visual eyeful of roses and sages against the deep blue walls. The velvets and taffetas and organza were almost too much to take. This was the first time she had come in with the internal permission to buy, and it was almost too much. She knew there were probably better ways to deal with her morning’s experience, but she had no desire to talk to anyone about it, and buying clothes to make her feel better was better than buying food or chocolate. At least this was what she told herself.

She had a handful of dresses to try on, and each one seemed to be more stunning than the last. They were all from the same colour family, though – Elizabeth’s favorite color was sage green, and it happened to go very well with her skin tone and hair. Although she looked best in that color, she had never found a dress in it, so it was the perfect treat. After almost 20 minutes in the dressing room, trying to make up her mind, she decided, with the sales person’s help, that the chiffon with velvet accents did the most for her figure. The scoop cowl neck showed off her shoulders and collarbone, and the just below the knee length hem was exactly where she wanted it. So she took the dress to the counter, steeling herself against the incredibly large total. “Would you like to find some matching jewelry?” the woman asked amiably. “Oh, no, I think the dress is quite enough of a splurge for today” Elizabeth replied cheerily, already forgetting some of the morning’s pain. “Okay, then your total is £20.” “What!?!” Elizabeth looked at the register’s screen in disbelief. “But the tag says £120.” The salesperson dug around in the bag to find the tag, and for a moment Elizabeth wondered if she should have kept her mouth shut. “Oh, you’re right, it does say £20, but it’s part of our last season collection, so it’s 80% off.” Elizabeth couldn’t contain herself, “Wonderful! Maybe I will get some jewelry after all!”

Elizabeth stepped out into the busy street, and hardly noticed the noise and traffic. She felt wonderful with her first real Monsoon purchase in her hand, and she was really glad she hadn’t blown the budget like she had been prepared to do. She decided to run to Marks & Spencer’s for some groceries to make a nice dinner for herself. Maybe she would invite Barrett over. She would wear her new dress but that would most certainly be overkill, and she imagined it would make Barrett feel pretty uncomfortable. He wouldn’t have a clue what to do. No, jeans and shepherd’s pie made more sense with Barrett. She’d have to save her new dress for someone else on some other occasion.

Elizabeth found all the food she needed quickly, and, as always was impressed with the yummy British food choices. “Good old Marks & Sparks” she thought to herself. Her favorite purchase was a caramel chocolate cake that she couldn’t wait to try. She was excited about the evening, and was busy planning what she needed to do in her head, when she realized she hadn’t actually invited Barrett yet. “Oops. I’d better give him a ring!” She pulled out her mobile, and tried to dial his number, juggle her parcels and keep one eye on where she was headed. It didn’t work, and just as she pushed the button of Barrett’s phone number, she ran right into someone. “Oh, excuse me,” she muttered, moving to the side, without looking up. She had no desire to repeat any of the morning’s embarrassment. But much to her surprise, the person she had bumped into did not grumpily nod and keep walking, he stopped. Elizabeth had another sick feeling in her stomach as she looked over in horror to see the mysterious man from her morning’s escapade. He looked amused. “You!”

“Goodness, imagine the chances of two embarrassing moments in one day with the same witness each time, what are the chances?” Elizabeth was beginning to think the gods were against her or something. “Yes, I imagine it’s been less than an ideal day for you. How about I take you for some coffee so you can tell me all about it?” The mysterious man’s offer sounded very polite and one hand, Elizabeth had a deep desire to know who this man was; on the other hand, he was quite a bit older than her, and she didn’t know her name or anything. “He could be a nut-case. He could be a really nice professor who knows all about Mae Raymond. Hmmm.” Elizabeth remembered the groceries in her bag, and the dinner she had planned. “Hmmm.” She was never good at making decisions on the spot. “Ummm, well…” she started her answer only to realize she didn’t know what she wanted to say. Mr. Mystery Man picked up on her hesitation. “Perhaps it would help to know who is inviting you out to coffee? My name is Dante Macgregor.” Elizabeth noticed for the first time his soft Scottish accent. “Dante? That’s an unusual name.” “Yes, my parents were fanatic academics who lacked the foresight to realize that naming their child after a renaissance artist would bring years of pain and heartache on the schoolyard. And you are?” Elizabeth took a moment to reflect. She had no weird feelings about this man, and she was quite interested in who and what he was. So she smiled warmly, “Elizabeth Hanover, ready to accept your offer of coffee.”

Dante had insisted they go to his favorite coffee shop: “No one knows about it, so it’s always empty but they have the best coffee in Oxford. You are lucky I feel sorry enough for you that I will show you this well-guarded secret!” He led her down one of the small alleys off the main street that Elizabeth had seen before but never really thought about where it went. As they wound through narrow alleys behind the shops, one part of Elizabeth’s brain, which never really shut off, began to create elaborate newspaper headlines about her death in the back alleys of Oxford at the hands of the fanatical poet, Dante. However, she was still a rational human being, and so she kept her paranoia to herself, and just tried to avoid the garbage scattered throughout the streets. After a few minutes, Dante suddenly stopped, and Elizabeth walked straight into his back. “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry, I was too busy watching where I stepped to avoid the garbage. Oh, dear – I’m a lost cause…” Dante interrupted her: “It’s okay. Let’s go inside.”

She followed Dante up the narrow, badly light flights of stairs. After going around and around, Elizabeth had to ask “Is this coffee shop on the roof?” Dante didn’t answer, just stopped and opened a door for her. The coffee shop was, as Dante had promised, almost empty. On scholar sat in the corner, looking just as distinguished and smart as Dante. Inside the room was all dark wooden furniture, and walls, and ceiling beams. It looked like it had been unchanged for 200 years. The shop was called “Malvern’s Cellar” which Elizabeth worried was an obscure literary allusion that she didn’t know, otherwise it made no sense to call a coffee shop on the third floor a cellar. “Hopefully that won’t come up in conversation” she thought to herself. Dante led them over to two large velvet armchairs by the window. Elizabeth caught her breath. Because they had taken all the back ways, Elizabeth hadn’t known which part of Oxford they were in, but from the third floor window she could see out over all the stores that had blocked her view from the alley. The coffee shop had a beautiful view of almost all of Oxford’s spires, starting with Christ Church and its bell tower. “My goodness – this is beautiful. Scenery like this, and the best coffee in Oxford? How do they manage to keep it a secret?”

“Easy” explained Dante, setting his bag down next to the chair. “They don’t advertise. Some friends of mine opened it a year ago. They wanted to find a coffee shop that wasn’t overrun by tourists and undergrads. There wasn’t a single one in Oxford, so they started their own. It was by invitation only at the beginning, but now we ‘members’ are allowed to tell a few select friends. Oh, but there is a strict condition that you must keep it a secret. I’m afraid I should have told you that before. You don’t mind, do you?” Elizabeth laughed softly, “Oh, no, I love the idea of an exclusive coffee shop! Someone should have thought of that before. I have no problem promising to keep the secret. But, am I allowed to come back?” “Of course, you may come any time now, you’re on the list. Although I hope you’ll come back with me occasionally.”

They ordered their coffees and Elizabeth ordered a blackcurrant scone to enjoy with hers. She felt somewhat guilty at the array of groceries that were intended for dinner with Barrett, sitting in her bag while she had afternoon coffee with Dante. “Oh well, it can’t be helped! Maybe I can have dinner with Barrett tomorrow.” She bit into the scone: “Divine.” Dante seemed very pleased that she enjoyed the shop as much as he did.

Elizabeth still didn’t feel like she had any of her questions answered. Dante had been more than amiable, and they had discussed Oxford and her work. She felt it had been an appropriate amount of time – she could start the subtle grilling now. “So – what are you working on here in Oxford?” Elizabeth ran the question through her head to check for any sign of stupidity. Nope – good question. “So – what are you working on here in Oxford?” She asked Dante, while casually leaning forward to take a bite out of her scone. “Research, just like everyone else, I suppose. I’ve been working in the field of Scottish history – my focus is on the clan warfare of the early settlement period.” “Ah.” Elizabeth did indeed find his topic interesting, she had been afraid she would have to feign interest. “I’ve always found Scottish history fascinating. What is your research for?” “Well,” said Dante, weighing his words, “I suppose it’s for me, in a way.” He reached forward for his coffee, sat back and took a long drink. Elizabeth was beginning to think that was the end of his answer, and she was in the middle of thinking up a polite response, when he added: “I have a research foundation that I’m in charge of. It’s funded by the Scottish cultural society, and we’re a series of part-time and full-time researchers on various fields related to some form of Scottish history. Since I’m the director of the foundation, I’m usually held up with bookwork and speaking engagements. But, I was beginning to miss my beloved books and libraries, so I’m taking a month-long ‘vacation’ from my administrative duties to enable me to come to Oxford and do some research for a small paper.” “Oh. So then you’re only here for a month.” Elizabeth was disappointed to hear this news. Dante noticed the tone of her voice and was quick to respond: “Oh, well, no, I’m in Oxford at least every other week with my regular duties at the society. I keep a flat here year-round. I’m just usually in Oxford discussing and exploring other people’s research – this is the first time in a long while I’ve been doing my own work.”

Elizabeth knew it bordered on prying, but she had to ask. “So, then, do you have family either here or in Scotland?” Dante didn’t seem to mind the personal question. “Of course, my family has a long line of roots in Glasgow, that’s were my extended family all lives. Since moving to Edinburgh, my brother and his wife have been my only relatives nearby. And I don’t have any family in Oxford. I get downright lonely sometimes here. My wife and I used to have a lovely house near Durham, when I was a professor at the university there, and her entire extended family virtually lived next door. But since she died a few years ago, I’ve sort of lost contact with them.” Elizabeth was truly surprised; he hadn’t seemed old enough to be a widower. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife.” Elizabeth had the good sense to know that in such situations, saying the least amount possible was usually the best way to avoid an awkward gaffe. Dante accepted what she said, and soon turned the conversation in other directions. Elizabeth felt like she better understood this mystery man and his caring eyes. It was one of those most unusual feelings, the feeling that you had found a friend, in just one day. As they finished off the ends of their coffee, and admired the first rays of the sun setting over Christ Church, Elizabeth was happy to have met Dante, even if it had to be through breaking a chair!