Wimble moaned. “I cannot fail again.”
“I suppose I can spare an extra fifteen minutes tomorrow in my office. Why don’t you stop by before class and show me what ol’ Gruff Grim will be quizzing you on?”
The young man’s face lightened considerably. “You’re the best, Professor Webb! See you then.”
The students bumped their way off the bench, ribbing each other like overgrown pups. Which they were.
Bram leaned his head against the back of the tall bench, feeling inordinately old. What did he have to show for his life? Hardly more than that trio of young men. All his former classmates were married, many of them with children. Even his old friend Price, who had sworn off women, had married last year. And what did he have to go home to every night? A rented room in the fellows’ house, which was more of a monastic cell than a home, and a growing collection of lonely nights.
He scrubbed his face, weary—which was new. Usually he grabbed life by the neck and gave it a good shake. What was wrong with him? Bah! He needed a change, that’s what. A new venture and possibly someone to share it with.
And that was another new thought. He’d had plenty of women take interest in him in the past, but none he’d given a second thought to. Settling down always seemed like a weight that would pin him in place, stifle the very air he breathed. But now? For some unexplainable reason—though he highly suspected it was his recent twenty-seventh birthday—things were different. Or maybe his perspective had changed. Whatever the reason, matrimony with the right woman didn’t seem so bad anymore.
He yanked out his silver pocket watch, thumb poised to click the latch, when Uncle Pendleton sloshed into the opposite seat looking like a shipwrecked sailor. Water darkened his coat, matted his silvery hair, and dotted the lenses on his spectacles.
“Uncle! You’re soaked to the skin, and it’s not even raining.” Bram flew off his bench and wrapped his coat around his uncle’s shoulders. Wheeling about, he hailed the nearest server with a wave of his hand. “Miss! A hot toddy right away, please.”
Uncle Pendleton laughed merrily. “I’m not at death’s door, nephew, though I won’t turn down that drink.”
Frowning, Bram resumed his seat. “What happened?”
His uncle sniffled while producing a limp handkerchief as soaked as he was. “Apparently the Willow Bridge is under repair.”
“Yes, it has been for some time now.” He handed over his own handkerchief. “Surely you didn’t try to cross it? Oh, Uncle.” He groaned. “You did, didn’t you? Sweet mercy. Are you hurt?”
“None of it. These old bones are stronger than you think.” He honked into the cloth and offered it back, to which Bram held up his palm. He may soon be destitute if he didn’t find that forgotten Roman settlement, but for now he could provide his uncle with a dry handkerchief.
An apron-clad young miss arrived with a steaming stoneware mug. Uncle Pendleton wrapped both hands around it. “Thank you. Oh, and a hearty bowl of beef and ale stew as well.”
“Right away, sir.”
His uncle winked at Bram as he held up his cup. “This ought to do the trick.”
Bram gave him a few moments to relish the warm brew, all the while trying to shove down the rising concern for his uncle’s mental state. Several memoranda had been sent to faculty and students detailing the slow progress on the pedestrian bridge. Either Uncle hadn’t read them or—more likely—had forgotten about the warnings. Was his uncle becoming more absent-minded, or was Bram simply noticing it more?
“Stop looking at me like I’m a doddering old fool.” Uncle Pendleton set down his empty cup. “Judging by the rut worn into the bank I climbed up, I’m not the only one who’s made the mistake.”
“Maybe so, but I insist on hiring a cab to take you home as soon as you’ve eaten.”
“Don’t tell me our roles are reversing so soon.” His uncle arched a brow. “It wasn’t so very long ago I was the one seeing you home from the pub.”
A snort ripped out of Bram. “For a very different reason.”
“True.” A serious gleam flashed in his uncle’s eyes. “I’m glad you’ve mended your ways. Your mother would have been proud, God rest her.”
Bram’s gut clenched. Much to his regret, he hadn’t given the woman any reason to be proud of him when she was alive.
Then again, she hadn’t been the picture of virtue herself.
The server returned with a bowl of stew, the meaty scent almost making Bram wish he’d ordered one of his own.
“Thank you, my dear.” Uncle spared her a smile while picking up his spoon.
Bram waited for him to enjoy several mouthfuls before sliding the journal to the middle of the table. “About these notes.” He stabbed the cover with his finger. “The last half of this journal makes no sense whatsoever.”
“What’s that you say?” Stew suddenly forgotten, his uncle grabbed the worn book and paged through. The longer he looked, the more a slow grin grew until he exchanged the journal for his spoon again. “Oh yes, now I remember.”
As if that explained anything.
