The Devlin Diary by Christi Phillips Page A

Claire knocked on the dispenser, which spewed forth a measured stream of hot water, precisely enough for one cup of tea. In it she steeped a bag of Earl Grey, then looked for a place to sit down.
    “How did it go?” The woman barely glanced up from her book.
    “How did what go?” Claire asked.
    “Your lecture.” This time she favored Claire with eye contact.
    Claire reckoned she should probably get used to the fact that as a new fish in a fairly small pond, others would recognize her before she recognized them. She certainly didn’t recognize the woman who was speaking to her. She was in her late forties or early fifties, Claire guessed, but blessed with one of those high-browed aristocratic faces, slightly horsey but very appealing, that seemed impervious to time.
    “It was terrible,” Claire confessed. “Only one student showed up.”
    “That’s one more than Isaac,” she responded with a tilt of her head and a raise of her eyebrows. A few gray strands lightly streaked her chestnut brown hair, which was worn in a fashionable, shoulder-length blunt cut. She was fit, as though she walked a great deal, rode a bike daily, or was a yoga fanatic, any of which was possible in Cambridge. Against the tawny, lightly freckled skin exposed above the V-neck of her beige cashmere sweater, a tiny, rose-colored pearl dangled on a thin gold chain. A pair of stylish wool slacks bared trim ankles and new,unscuffed black leather flats. She possessed a no-nonsense elegance, in her simple but expensive clothes, and she radiated intelligence and a brisk self-sufficiency.
    “Isaac?” Claire repeated.
    “Newton, of course,” she replied as if everyone was, or should be, on a first-name basis with the father of modern physics. “He was a Trinity fellow for thirty-three years, and there’s no record that anyone ever attended his lectures. Apparently he just spoke to the walls.” She paused thoughtfully. “Although I doubt that Science and Religion in Early Modern Italy is ever going to have the same impact as the theory of gravity or the invention of calculus.”
    “No, I suppose it wouldn’t,” Claire said.
    The woman removed her reading glasses, folded the earpieces carefully before setting them on top of the journal, and fixed her bright hazel eyes on Claire. “Have any of the students put your bicycle in a tree yet?”
    “No,” Claire answered. She hadn’t even bothered getting a bicycle. She had discovered that the area which encompassed the old colleges and Cambridge’s pedestrian-and-bikes-only town center was relatively small, and she could easily go everywhere she needed to go on foot.
    “Oh.” The woman sounded disappointed. “Well, there’s still time,” she added reassuringly. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
    “I’m so sorry. There were so many people—”
    “No need to apologize. No one ever remembers what happens during those dinners. The fellows can drink enough wine in one night to launch a battleship.” She held out her hand. “Elizabeth Bennet, social history, Britain, nineteenth century.”
    “Elizabeth Bennet?” Claire repeated. Elizabeth Bennet as in Pride and Prejudice ? she wanted to ask but didn’t, suddenly intuiting that this was an obvious and stupid question. Unfortunately it had already been implied in her tone. She could see that at once by the look of annoyance on Elizabeth Bennet’s face.
    The fellow sighed and fiddled a bit with her glasses. “Yes. ElizabethBennet as in Pride and Prejudice . If you say she’s your favorite character from literature, I’ll scream.” She shook her head. “The Jane Austen revival of the past fifteen years has made my life a misery.”
    Claire had no idea how to respond. In less than five minutes, she felt as though she had managed to put not one but both feet in her mouth.
    “So tell me,” Elizabeth said, “which was she: proud or prejudiced?”
    “Prejudiced. Darcy was proud.”
    “Well done.”
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