My Oxford Year: A Novel

Be the green grass above me

With showers and dewdrops wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

Christina Rossetti, “Song,” 1848

Italy, Greece, Croatia, New Zealand . . . these are the places you hear are beautiful. Why didn’t anyone ever tell me that Scotland is gorgeous? I mean, mouth-droppingly, eye-buggingly, slap-yo-mama stunning.

We’ve been ascending the mountain for ten minutes when Jamie finally deigns to speak. A welcome change from the grunts and sighs he’s afforded me this whole week. “My mother’s going to give you a tour of the house. Everything she tells you will be wrong.”

An overeager laugh rips out of me, like ripping open a bag of Doritos so zealously that every last chip goes flying. Jamie, unaffected, continues. “She also invents clan names. The MacGrubberlochs had the finest herd of cattle in all the land, that sort of thing.”

I risk taking his hand. He doesn’t recoil. A major victory. “She’s so excited,” I wheedle.

“As well she should be. This is the first time I’ve brought a girl home. She’s likely arranged a parade.”

Look, I get it. I tricked him. I sucker-punched him. I done did him dirty. But sometimes you have to hide the medicine in the peanut butter to get it down the dog’s throat. (And if that doesn’t work, well, grab its muzzle, pry its jaw open, and shove the pill all the way to the back of its stubborn gullet). But to his credit, he kept his word. Not once did he try to back out of his promise to take me anywhere I wanted to go.

That night, after I had told him I wanted to go to Scotland, we watched the debate on my laptop in the bathroom. The vice president saved the issue of Janet’s pregnancy for the end, because—at his core—he’s a showman and a media whore. Which means that when he dug himself into the hole I’d predicted, there was no crawling out of it before the end of the debate. The debate finished with Janet looking unfazed and Hillerson refusing to shake her hand as he walked off. When someone got him on camera and asked him how he thought it went, Hillerson, flustered, exclaimed, “She just kept asking, ‘Why!’” Which became a viral meme within the hour. “She just kept asking why” is now Janet’s unofficial campaign slogan. When I got the text from Gavin that said, That was all you, kid, tip of the hat, I finally let myself have a moment of profound personal pride. Though still miffed with me about Scotland, Jamie opened one of his fancy bottles of wine (that he couldn’t drink) and toasted me with a water glass.

I bring his hand to my mouth now and kiss it, noticing the stains around his cuticles. He’s been feeling much better, almost completely back to normal, so he insisted on stripping and staining the floors on the second story of the house over the past few days. A psychologist would probably have a field day with the symbolism, but he just wanted to use the time away to let the floors cure and the odor dissipate.

I look up at him through my lashes, adopt a coquettish kitten voice that never fails to get an eye roll. “Do you hate me?”

On cue, Jamie rolls his eyes. “I’ve survived worse than a weekend with my family.”

I glance out the window. “You seriously grew up here?”

“Partly. Summers, holidays.”

“Shut up!” I screech when Jamie turns a corner and reveals a vista of craggy gray cliffs leading down to spring-green pastureland divided by low stone walls and dotted with shaggy highland cattle. I notice an old, abandoned gatehouse on our left, gates open. Before I can comment on its beauty, Jamie turns the Aston and we drive through it.

Oh my God.

The road stretches straight before us, bordered by towering oak trees, boughs arcing over us, tipping their leafy hats in a grand gesture of welcome. Jamie picks up speed, blowing down the lane.

Openmouthed, I stare at the house that’s just revealed itself through the copse of trees. I’m sorry, did I say house? I mean, estate. Castle. Compound. Ecosystem.

Jamie accelerates and we screech up to the house as if making a pit stop in the Indy 500. Gravel sprays as we skid to a stop. He pulls the parking brake, looks at me, and takes a deep, bearing-up breath. He opens the door and steps out. I can’t. Not yet. I can only gaze, in awe, at the sheer stone front of the house. This part of it looks like Blenheim (probably from the same time period), but the wing to the right looks older and castle-y, turrets and battlements.

As I get out of the car, the double front doors of the house fly open and Antonia steps out, clapping her hands. Another woman, as wide as she is tall with a crop of bushy white hair, waddles purposefully down the steps behind her. Wearing an apron and a towel thrown over her shoulder, she makes a beeline for Jamie, coming at him like a brick wall and engulfing him in a bosom-centric hug. She pulls back, looking stern.

“Let me look atcha!” she demands. Jamie stands up straight and holds out his arms like he’s at an army induction center. “Just as I s’pected. Too thin,” she declares, shaking her head. She jabs a pudgy thumb behind her. “Me broth’s in the house. Made it especial.”

Jamie glances at me with a warm, genuine smile I haven’t seen in a week. “Ella, this is Smithy, the love of my life. Smithy’s broth has curative properties.”

Smithy grunts in the affirmative. She takes a closer look at me, sticking out her hand. I take it. “You must be the birthday girl everyone’s makin’ such a fuss about.”

Antonia slips in to hug me, announcing, “So you’ve finally rid yourself of that dreadful stuffed-shirt professor, have you? What was his name? Doesn’t matter, you’ve done quite well for yourself. You’ve brought a gorgeous boy with you.”

“I could easily get back into this car and be off,” Jamie says, not entirely joking.

Antonia huffs. “Well, if you’re going to be a priss about it.” She goes to her son and takes him full around. Jamie kisses the top of her head. No matter what happens, I’m already so happy. Just seeing them together, here, meeting Smithy, makes the last week worth it.

Jamie puts one arm around Antonia and the other around Smithy and turns toward the house. “Now, Mother, I’ve promised Ella the grand tour and she’s quite keen. You know how she loves history, and you’re the perfect person to . . .” He trails off and stops walking. I follow his gaze to the open doorway.

William looms over us. He jerks his head. “Hello.” He looks to me. “Welcome, Eleanor.”

“Thank you,” I reply. “I’m very happy to be here.”

He turns back to Jamie, takes him in, assessing. “Jamie.”

“Father.”

“You’re looking rather well. As it were.”

“You as well. As it were.”

In the silence, they stare at each other. Two bulls on opposite sides of a pasture.

“Boys, please,” Antonia stage-whispers, jerking her head toward Smithy. “Must you be so effusive in front of the staff?” Smithy cackles, her laugh sounding exactly like I imagined it would. I have to bite my lip to keep from joining her.

William reddens. “Yes, well. I’ll have Colin take care of the bags and such.” With that, he turns back into the house. Jamie takes a breath and we all follow him.

ANTONIA, PEEKING INTO an under-the-stairs bathroom, says with a sly grin, “The wood on these walls was nicked from Warwick Castle during the Reformation.” Then Jamie whispers to me, “Kenilworth.” Antonia continues, “Right before my great-great-great-great-grandfather was given the house and land by James the Sixth.” (Jamie whispers, “The Fifth.”) In a fifty-foot-long gallery overlooking the pond, Antonia points to a portrait and declares, “That is Jamie’s ancestor, a MacTartanish, who hid from the English during the Troubles by dressing as a woman and living in the kitchens with the servants.” (Jamie whispers, “MacTavish; stables.”) Antonia points into a rock-walled, dungeon-looking room in a turret and announces, “Elizabeth imprisoned Mary Queen of Scots in these rooms in 1437.”

Jamie: “Absurd.”

Antonia: “She escaped by rappelling down a bedsheet tied to the radiator.”

Jamie: “A medieval radiator, you see.”

Upstairs, we come to a long, wide hallway with rows of tall white doors on each side. Two across from each other are open. “This will be your room,” Antonia says, sweeping into the one on the right. I follow her and notice that my bag has appeared on a settee at the foot of a massive canopied bed, curtained with heavy antique brocade. Four huge windows overlook the vast property, all the way to the cliffs beyond. Every piece of furniture belongs in a museum.

“This is stunning.”

I’m about to gush further, but Jamie, who’s ventured farther into the room, searching for something, speaks first. “Mother, where’s my valise?”

“In the Rose Room, dear.”

Jamie’s hands find his hips. He levels a look at Antonia. “Is that so?”

She slinks for the door, coming back to me. “Your father and I thought it best. There are traditions of the house, long-standing traditions.”

“All the way back to the Eskimo invasion of 45 BC,” Jamie mutters.

Antonia leans in to me. “I’ve put slippers by your bed. The hallway floor gets rather chilly at night. Wouldn’t want you getting cold feet.” She exits to the hallway, leaving Jamie and me alone.

“What did she say?” he asks. He sounds stroppy, impatient. Jesus. Get him anywhere near William and it’s as if he filches only the most unpleasant aspects of his father’s personality.

I squeeze his arm. “We’ll be fine.”

Jamie exhales. I know why he’s upset at being separated. We haven’t had a chance to be together yet—what with his recovery, and the floors, and my, you know, sucker punching.

Jamie seems to relax. “Right. Well, then.” He looks around the room. The fleur-de-lis wallpaper, the gilded vanity and mirror, the abundance of decorative pillows. He seems reflective. It’s obviously been a while since he’s walked these rooms. When I go back to the house I grew up in, I’m always shocked at how small it is. This is clearly not that experience, but I can relate to seeing something so familiar with new eyes. “It’s rather . . . fussy,” Jamie mutters. “And cold.”

“I love it. All of it. Every corner.” I look up at him. “I love her.”

He looks down at me, finally meeting my eye. A heat sparks there, a heat I haven’t seen in months. A heat that isn’t banked or contained. A heat like “Dover Beach.” Like the Buttery. Like his dining room. A heat with potentiality. “I love her, too,” he murmurs.

I don’t know why we can both say that so freely about his mother, but haven’t yet said it to each other, about each other. Maybe he doesn’t feel it. Maybe he’s just English. Maybe he’s protecting himself.

I know which reason is mine.

I go up on tiptoe. I kiss him softly. He kisses me back. Not so softly.

“Are you two coming?” Antonia calls from the hall.

Jamie groans in the back of his throat, like a discontented bear.

Antonia leads us back downstairs, describing the frescoes and the battle they depict (which even I can see is, in fact, a hunt). We stop in front of two solid oak doors.

“Last stop.” Antonia smiles. “The library. Where Jamie once locked his brother in a suit of armor.”

“He asked me to!”

“Overnight?”

I laugh. Antonia nods toward the doors. “You do the honors.”

I happily grab hold of the round knobs and push the double doors open with purpose, as if I were presenting mother and son to the room—

Why are there balloons?

Why are there streamers?

Why is William smiling?

What are they doing here?!

“Surprise!” everyone cries.

Charlie, Maggie, and Tom (wearing some kind of hunting outfit and waders) charge over and sweep me into a group hug. Tears spring to my eyes. Over Charlie’s shoulder I see Jamie’s smile become a laugh as he and Antonia embrace. I hear him say to his mother, “Completely surprised.”

“Couldn’t have come off better,” she confirms.

I disentangle one arm and reach out for them both. Jamie laces his fingers through mine. He leans forward and finds the space to kiss my cheek, warming me to my core, a roaring fire on a winter night. He planned this. Even though he was pissed at me, even though he didn’t want to come, he did this for me.

I love this man. I love everything about him.

I promise myself that I’m going to tell him that.

AFTER A BIRTHDAY tea in the library, I open presents. I get a collection of (used) philosophy books from Tom, a leather-bound journal from Maggie, and a bottle of fine Scotch from Charlie, which manages to get William’s nod of approval. Although he keeps leaving the room to take a call, he always comes back. While we haven’t said anything to each other, we’ve exchanged a number of tight smiles and nods. Progress?

Jamie hands me one final card. “From Ce.” I look at the envelope, my name written in cursive on the front. As I slip my finger under the flap, Jamie continues, “She desperately wanted to be here, but she had an obligation from which she couldn’t extricate herself.”

Maggie, sitting across from me on a love seat next to Tom, nudges him in the ribs. “How sad for you.”

Tom seems distracted, preoccupied. He’s still unable to meet Maggie’s eye. “Cecelia Knowles? Ancient history.”

Her mouth forms a confused moue, although she continues to tease him. “Oh, is that so?”

Tom nods tightly. “I’ve moved on. To more fertile ground.”

Charlie, who’s been inspecting the first editions around the room, doesn’t even have the wherewithal to turn to Tom when he groans, “Oh, good God, who now? Vegetable, mineral, or beast?”

“I’m not at liberty. To say. At present.”

Maggie faces forward again, placing her hands primly on her knees, out of things to say. Even as I extract from the envelope a gift certificate for a spa in Oxford (and silently thank Cecelia for knowing just what I need), my eyes are drawn to Maggie and Tom, who now sit next to each other like two owls sharing a stumpy tree branch, staring straight ahead. Maggie meets my eyes, brow furrowed.

But then Jamie leans over and whispers in my ear, “My gift will come later.”

I turn to him, raising an eyebrow, whispering back, “It better.”

“It’s not that.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “Well, it very well could be that.” He looks back up. “I have a present, of sorts. Rather silly and sentimental. Not for public consumption.”

Before I can reply, my phone rings. I dig it out of my pocket as the room goes quiet. “Don’t mind me!” I urge, and everyone resumes their conversations. Everyone except William, who continues to watch me. It’s like the Blenheim ball all over again. I stand and walk to a corner of the library as I answer. “Gavin.”

I’m greeted by a tinny, speakerphone rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Janet’s horribly off-key and Gavin’s deep bass drowns her out, but it’s still sweet of them. When they’re done, they applaud. For themselves. Why do people do that?

I laugh. “Very nice! Thank you. Both of you!”

“How old are you now?” Janet asks, a chuckle in her voice.

“Twenty-five.”

Gavin groans. “I have socks older than you.”

“Now, Gavin,” she reprimands. “This is actually good news. Her being twenty-five and all.”

“Why, Janet, you’re right. Very good news.”

My ear pricks, like hearing a different frequency. They sound rehearsed. Teasing and wink-wink-nudge-nudge. “How so?” I ask.

“Well . . .” Gavin sighs theatrically. “You know the trouble we’ve been having filling the deputy political director position.” God, do I. It’s practically all we’ve talked about for months now. Janet doesn’t like any of the people Gavin and I and everyone else have thrown at her and we’re running out of suggestions. “We’ve realized that there’s one detail, one quality, that none of them have.”

My mouth dries. “Oh yeah?”

“None of them have been twenty-five.”

“Not a one!” Janet chirps.

“And we’ve agreed that’s a deal breaker. We just can’t have someone who isn’t twenty-five.”

I feel as if the smile taking over my face is going to run right off it. “I completely agree,” I manage to say.

“Good,” Gavin says. “We thought you would.” Now they both laugh. “So, you’re in?”

It’s a funny thing, clocking the moment your life changes forever while it’s happening. Usually a moment’s significance only matters in retrospect. Seeing the exit you meant to take in the rearview mirror, that sort of thing. Not this time. I suppose it’s like seeing your boyfriend go down on one knee, or watching a plus sign appear on a pregnancy test. Or, on the other side of life, opening your front door to find a sad-eyed cop with his hat in his hand.

Which just makes me think of another birthday, twelve years ago. I push it down.

“I’m in! Thank you! Both of you!”

“Just remember,” Gavin says, his stern-father voice on. “Enjoy the rest of your time there. But, on June eleventh, the carriage turns into a pumpkin and the footmen into mice. You come home and help us change the world. We’re counting on you.”

“It’s a plan,” I answer.

We hang up and I float back to my friends in a daze. I sit down once again next to Jamie; he takes my hand.

“Everything all right, Eleanor?” Antonia asks.

“Yes!” I chirp. “Sorry about that.”

“No need, love. But, if we may . . . we have something for you. William and I,” she clarifies.

William moves to stand behind her chair. They look as if they’re posing. In fact, I’m reminded of the photograph in Jamie’s dining room and realize that it was taken in this library. William sets his hand on her shoulder while she reaches into her pocket and takes out a small blue velvet box. Its edges are threadbare, showing its age. As Antonia extends her arm, presenting the box palm up, my heart drops into my stomach.

“It appears they’re proposing,” Jamie drawls.

At my hesitation, Antonia thrusts the box closer to me. “Go on, then.”

I take it. I try to keep my hand from shaking. I try to breathe. I open the lid. It’s exactly what I didn’t want to see. It’s a ring. A diamond ring. I move to hand it back. “Antonia, please, this is—”

“The diamond is flawed,” Antonia blurts. “It has no monetary value, really. No need to refuse. Jamie told us that you’re not a jewelry person,” she says, smiling. “It’s for your love of history, a keepsake that you might find of value.”

I gaze up at her.

She takes a breath. “Before the war—the first one—a wealthy American woman married into this family. Quite unwillingly. She was more than content with a young clerk she had decided upon, but her father refused their engagement and shipped her off to the wilds of Scotland. This was the ring her clerk had given her.”

I look back down at it. Emeralds encircle the diamond, which is small but well set. The band looks brand-new. Never worn.

“She kept that ring in the back of her nightstand drawer. Now, you might pity her, but don’t. She had a surprisingly happy marriage here. Had four children. My father was her eldest, actually. My grandmother and I were quite close.”

William interjects awkwardly, “She was my grandmother-in-law, you see.”

The entire room pauses. Antonia looks up at him and smiles, giving his hand a loving pat. “Yes, dear, very true.” She turns back to me and continues: “She never heard from her clerk again. She did what was asked of her—well, if it comes down to it, what she was told—yet she had a fine life regardless. Now, we don’t always get to choose what happens in life, don’t we all know. However, we can choose what we do with what we’re given.” Antonia pauses. “And so this ring is for you. A thank-you from two parents who are quite impressed with the choices you’ve made in this situation you’ve found yourself in.” She glances quickly at Jamie and smiles back at me.

I’m caught in her eyes. Eyes that hold the weight of her two sons. One here, one not. And still, she chooses to smile at me. To thank me. To give me a family heirloom like a daughter.

I know my mouth is hanging open. I turn to Jamie. He shrugs, says, “That story’s correct.”

I see Maggie, Charlie, and Tom exchanging confused, curious glances, but they’re too polite to speak up, to ask for clarification.

Then, as if none of this ever happened, Antonia glances at her watch and stands. “I must talk to Smithy about the roast. Happy birthday, love.” She bends down and kisses my stunned cheek, straightens, and walks to the door.

Jamie calls after her, “Aren’t you going to tell her your grandmother’s name?”

“Oh, bother, of course.” She sighs, turning back to me, briefly. “Carolina Vanderbilt.”

I AM SO full of so many things right now and none of them have anywhere to go. “Jamie, where’s the bathroom?”

“I’ll take you.”

“No, just point the way.” It comes out sharper than I intended.

Jamie shows me where to go and I take off across the grand foyer and down a long hallway. I want to bolt out the front door, a horse out of the corral. Instead, I’m going to go lock myself in one of the twenty-seven bathrooms for a minute. Just a minute.

I finally find it, and close the door, leaning against it, breathing. In and out. In and out.

I see myself in the exquisite mirror over the sink. It’s as if I can see the thoughts running in and out of my head like Metro Center at rush hour.

I want to look at the ring again, focus on that for a moment. I take the box out of my pocket and pop it open. The ring really is beautiful, trinket or not. I gently take it out and—dammit!—it slips from my hand, falling into the copper sink. I dive after it, trying to grab it before it goes down the drain. It escapes one hand and I pounce with the other, trapping it with my palm. I slowly lift my hand, pinching at it with my thumb and forefinger, but end up shooting it closer to the drain. Jesus! I lurch forward with both hands, a final, desperate grab before it disappears into drain hell. Got it!

I steady my hands before I oh-so-gently pluck the ring out of the sink and carefully put it back in the box.

I’m never taking it out again. It’s as if the ring knows I’m unworthy of having it.

I look in the mirror. A newly appointed deputy political director stares back at me.

THERE’S NOTHING LIKE the smell of good food being prepared by people who know what they’re doing. Smithy is one of those people. “Before we leave, will you show me how to make coq au vin?” I ask her.

Her face lights up. “You like it, do ya?”

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever had.” I’m not blowing smoke either. I’ve become addicted to Smithy’s coq au vin.

Charlie, Maggie, and Tom are exploring the grounds and Jamie is taking a nap, tired from the drive. I watch Antonia and Smithy put the finishing touches on dinner. They’ve given me a menial task, folding napkins. Which they had to teach me how to do first. I had no idea there were so many wrong ways to do it.

Suddenly William walks into the kitchen, his determined gait interrupted by my presence. He has a moment of hesitation, as if he’s stumbled into the women’s bathroom at a restaurant. “Hello,” he mutters. “I’ve finished for the day. I came to see if there’s anything I can do.”

I glance down. “Wanna help me fold?”

“Surely one person is more than enough.” He looks to Antonia. Then, seeming to hear his answer on a delay, he glances back at me. “But thank you.”

Antonia bustles over to him, wiping her wet hands on her apron. She takes him by the elbow and steers him toward a beautiful old door with handcrafted ironwork, which I’ve been peering at, trying to figure out where it leads. “Go down to the cellar and pick out some wine. Champagne to start.”

“Colin can choose, you know I’m not the best at—”

“I have complete faith in you,” she drawls. “Now shoo!”

William sighs, looking like a reprimanded child, and leaves through the iron door, disappearing down a spiral staircase. It’s endearing, the way this overbearing, hotheaded man defers to his wife.

Antonia goes back to the island where she’s been chopping an onion. After a moment, she says, “William is actually quite happy to see you. He knows you had everything to do with getting Jamie here. He’s thrilled. He’s talked about it for days.”

“Have they said anything to each other yet?”

Smithy glances between us as she kneads dough, lips pursed, tracking everything. “When the two o’ thems don’t speak a word is when they say the most, if ya ask me.”

I lean forward. “They need to be locked in a room somewhere until one of them crawls out bloodied and victorious, eating the other’s heart.”

Antonia snorts. “They might do, it wouldn’t surprise—” She looks up and her face alights with that special smile she reserves for Jamie. “My lad! You’re awake. Feeling better?”

He’s loitering in the doorway, looking adorable. Hair still rumpled from his nap, misbuttoned shirt. His voice is throaty when he says, “Yes, cheers. Slept quite soundly, actually.” He crosses over to me and kisses the side of my head. I lean into him, loving the smell of sleepy Jamie. “What can I do?” he asks.

“Fold?” He won’t refuse me.

He nods and scoots out the chair next to me. The easy silence that fills the kitchen gives me a sense of calm that I haven’t felt since I don’t know when; members of a family, working together, preparing a meal. It’s all so . . . right. Except for William. He belongs here and yet his presence would be disruptive. If only these two men could see what I see in them, a boyishness, a tenderness. They’ve lost sight of—

“Jamie, can we have champagne? Now?” I ask. “I’m feeling celebratory.”

“Of course.” He stands, kisses me. “I’ll just run upstairs for a jumper. Bit dank in the cellar.”

He leaves and the kitchen goes silent.

Antonia and Smithy look at each other and, as one, turn to me. Antonia, wide-eyed, whispers, “You clever, clever girl.”

Panic sets in. This wasn’t the plan. The plan was to have a mediated sit-down, a Camp David–worthy summit. “You think? It was totally spontaneous, I didn’t really think it through—”

“It was brilliant.”

“Shall we ready the whiskey and bandages?” Smithy quips, slapping her dough onto the table.

Antonia takes a stuttered breath, her casual bravado gone. “What now?”

“We wait, I guess.”

“All right, we wait.” We all go back to our tasks. Smithy continues to work her dough. Antonia begins chopping anything in front of her.

“What if they need a referee? I mean, you’re so good at that.” My voice has accelerated.

Antonia stops chopping and peers at me. “They should have their time. Some privacy, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Of course.”

“We’ll give it twenty minutes. If they don’t reappear, we’ll take the back stairs down.”

“There are back stairs?” I sound desperate.

Antonia nods once.

I fold. Antonia chops. Fold. Chop. Dough slap. Fold. Chop. Dough slap.

“Twenty minutes is a long time,” comes out of me.

“Ten minutes, then. We’ll give them ten minutes.”

Fold. Chop. Dough slap.

Smithy looks between us, her eyes moving like a metronome.

Fold. Chop. Dough slap.

Antonia and I stop. We look at each other.

Without another word, we both leave the kitchen.