screened by a trellis, the vines trained into the shape of a heart. The Garden itself was in the design of a French Parterre, with low plantings divided by gravel footpaths and the whole surrounded by walls cloaked in English ivy. The large Garden was overlooked by a first-floor gallery over a cloister walk, with the gallery leading to the dining hall.
“It’s just a feeling I have, James.” The aristocratic, nasal tones of Lady Bassett were unmistakable. “It would be better if we left. I’ll just claim a mysterious virus—you know the kind of thing. We can make it right with the Master at a later date.”
“Perhaps you’re right, India,” His answering voice, low and soothing, also carried clearly to where Portia stood.
“Do you mean it?”
“If it makes you happy, of course I mean it. I’ll have a word with the Master. It’s just a bit awkward, that’s all.”
“I’ll tell you what’s jolly well awkward is Lexy’s being here. I think it’s one of her blasted games, James, I really do. She so loves creating a scene. Don’t you remember?”
He shifted. Something in her tone seemed to have affected him. He sat for a long moment, looking at her, then took her hand in his.
“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” he said, his worry clear in his voice. “If you still want to go then, we’ll leave.”
He stood suddenly. Portia, afraid of discovery, shrank back and started to slip away. Just then, she saw something flash in the shadows of the cloister walk, the shape of a woman in a dress of gold lamé—a most unsuitable costume for undercover observation (and surely a bit of overkill, even for dinner in Hall).
Portia also had the sense that someone else was watching this little tableau of spies and espied. She felt rather than saw a shadow draw back from a window in the library overlooking the Garden, a window which stood open to the summer breeze. A lack of privacy was always a feature of college life. Making her escape, Portia nearly collided with someone as she turned a corner, heading for the main stairs.
“I’m looking for Lexy,” the man said, exactly as if everyone in the world would know whom he meant, as much of the world would. Fully taking in Portia’s appearance, he smiled appreciatively. “But you’ll do,” he said. He was a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man of muscular build. His broad smile displayed perfect white teeth, and he spoke perfect English with an overlay of accent from the Southern Hemisphere. He announced that he was Geraldo Valentiano, as if this, too, were a name she would recognize.
“I haven’t seen her,” Portia lied, without quite knowing why. It had almost certainly been Lexy in the gold lamé—what were the chances another woman would be wandering the college in a similar dress?
“She’s probably mooning about the college somewhere. She told me she always did that when she was upset, even twenty years ago.”
“Upset?” asked Portia.
“You don’t want to know. She’s been moody since we got here, and it’s looking like it’s only going to get worse. Now she’s disappeared immediately after dinner, and I’ve half a mind to leave her and go back up to London. If she had been a proper wife to James none of this would have happened, anyway. Are you free?”
Portia, not knowing if he meant free as in available, or free as in no charge, felt that one answer would suffice for both.
“No,” she said, brushing past him and up the stairs. Good heavens, she thought, letting herself into her flat. Much more of this and I will have a thoroughly jaded view of men. She thought with more than a little longing of St. Just, her eyes lingering on the most recent bouquet of flowers he’d brought her, which stood in a vase on a table in her front hall. A single petal had fallen on the table. She wondered if he were still at work so late.
She looked up at the sky, spotted a bright star, and wished upon it. But her prayer wouldn’t be answered just
“It’s just a feeling I have, James.” The aristocratic, nasal tones of Lady Bassett were unmistakable. “It would be better if we left. I’ll just claim a mysterious virus—you know the kind of thing. We can make it right with the Master at a later date.”
“Perhaps you’re right, India,” His answering voice, low and soothing, also carried clearly to where Portia stood.
“Do you mean it?”
“If it makes you happy, of course I mean it. I’ll have a word with the Master. It’s just a bit awkward, that’s all.”
“I’ll tell you what’s jolly well awkward is Lexy’s being here. I think it’s one of her blasted games, James, I really do. She so loves creating a scene. Don’t you remember?”
He shifted. Something in her tone seemed to have affected him. He sat for a long moment, looking at her, then took her hand in his.
“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” he said, his worry clear in his voice. “If you still want to go then, we’ll leave.”
He stood suddenly. Portia, afraid of discovery, shrank back and started to slip away. Just then, she saw something flash in the shadows of the cloister walk, the shape of a woman in a dress of gold lamé—a most unsuitable costume for undercover observation (and surely a bit of overkill, even for dinner in Hall).
Portia also had the sense that someone else was watching this little tableau of spies and espied. She felt rather than saw a shadow draw back from a window in the library overlooking the Garden, a window which stood open to the summer breeze. A lack of privacy was always a feature of college life. Making her escape, Portia nearly collided with someone as she turned a corner, heading for the main stairs.
“I’m looking for Lexy,” the man said, exactly as if everyone in the world would know whom he meant, as much of the world would. Fully taking in Portia’s appearance, he smiled appreciatively. “But you’ll do,” he said. He was a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man of muscular build. His broad smile displayed perfect white teeth, and he spoke perfect English with an overlay of accent from the Southern Hemisphere. He announced that he was Geraldo Valentiano, as if this, too, were a name she would recognize.
“I haven’t seen her,” Portia lied, without quite knowing why. It had almost certainly been Lexy in the gold lamé—what were the chances another woman would be wandering the college in a similar dress?
“She’s probably mooning about the college somewhere. She told me she always did that when she was upset, even twenty years ago.”
“Upset?” asked Portia.
“You don’t want to know. She’s been moody since we got here, and it’s looking like it’s only going to get worse. Now she’s disappeared immediately after dinner, and I’ve half a mind to leave her and go back up to London. If she had been a proper wife to James none of this would have happened, anyway. Are you free?”
Portia, not knowing if he meant free as in available, or free as in no charge, felt that one answer would suffice for both.
“No,” she said, brushing past him and up the stairs. Good heavens, she thought, letting herself into her flat. Much more of this and I will have a thoroughly jaded view of men. She thought with more than a little longing of St. Just, her eyes lingering on the most recent bouquet of flowers he’d brought her, which stood in a vase on a table in her front hall. A single petal had fallen on the table. She wondered if he were still at work so late.
She looked up at the sky, spotted a bright star, and wished upon it. But her prayer wouldn’t be answered just
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