Andrew needed work, notmoney: work to occupy his mind, work to keep the demons at bay, work to make his father proud.The need to make his father proud gnawed at him.It would require the kind of work Cambridge’s scholars guarded possessively.Murchison’s gossip could scuttle his plans.
Fellows like Dunning, those stalwart professors of the great University, lived in bachelor’s quarters in keeping with medieval edicts that made celibacy a requirement of their position and made their society quick to cut and slow to accept outsiders.His father had carefully trod a narrow path, earning respect for his tutoring and translation but never penetrating the heights.He had chosen a wife and son over University, and the son had failed him.
Andrew scowled at the sudden memory of his father beaming at him over a successful translation of a particularly thorny passage from Plato.He’d given the old man little enough to be proud of despite Edwina Potter’s sentimental twaddle.The old man valued learning, not battlefield heroics.Andrew owed him something better, something cleaner.
Murchison’s threat sent a shudder through him.Damn Georgiana Hayden!Is there no end to the trouble she will cause me?
The bells of Great Saint Mary’s rang the noon hour when Andrew ducked into the dim confines of Sam Dawe’s coffeehouse.The old establishment, tucked away on Green Street, was a short walk from Trinity, but it made a long road for Andrew’s halting gait.He regretted this outing.
Dawe’s place filled rapidly.Andrew searched for a seat from which he could easily stretch out his legs without tripping the shop’s patrons but found none.He hobbled to a seat by the door and leaned on an uneven table.
“Good day to you, Mallet.Good to see you out and about.”Dunning, prompt and cheerful, took a seat.He always struck Andrew as a decent enough sort.His narrow ideas made him no different than most of the clerical citizens of this town of prigs and scholars.Kindness made him approachable.Andrew hoped their fathers’ friendship and childhood connection would lead to work.
“Enjoyed our little dinner last month and your most excellent port.Good to sit in your father’s study again.Reminded me of what an excellent raconteur Mr.Mallet was.He wouldn’t want to see his son become a hermit.”
Friendship with a veteran of Waterloo was a coup of sorts.It probably added some cachet to the acquaintance for Dunning.Andrew had to give him one thing: he never flinched from Andrew’s pitifully lacerated face.
“I’m hardly a hermit,” Andrew murmured.“We’ve dined together three or four times now.”
Dunning gave him a wry face but said nothing.
“I saw your grandmother this morning,” Andrew interjected to change the subject.
“Gran?Wherever did you?—”
“In front of her house.She was leaving when I passed.”Andrew hated the lie and his reluctance to describe his encounter with Lady Georgiana as soon as the words left his mouth.
Dunning didn’t notice.Polite conversation flowed smoothly between them.Dunning inquired about his health; Mallet lied that he felt better.University gossip filled several minutes.
“Tell me, Dunning, are you acquainted with Lady Georgiana Hayden?”The abrupt change of subject startled Andrew’s companion.Stupid!I should be more subtle.
“The Duke of Sudbury’s daughter?”Dunning sounded cautious.“Why do you ask?”
“It came to my attention that she lives nearby.The family seat is in Sussex, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, of course.But you would know, wouldn’t you, Mallet?Did your time in London, didn’t you?You must have encountered them at some function or another.Sudbury’s family lives in rarefied air.They aren’t likely to frequent the haunts of Cambridge, I can tell you.Outside my scope, old boy.”
“But the daughter?”Andrew pressed.He just couldn’t drop the subject.He damned himself for a fool.
Dunning nodded.“She is reputed to live nearby.Helsington Cottage, out past Grantchester.Odd for a single woman to have her own establishment, particularly near the University.”
“It isn’tgenerally done,” Andrew agreed.“One wouldn’t expect Sudbury to allow it.”That was the truth with no bark on it.
Dunning shrugged.“The house must be a family holding, of course.Gran would know.She knows everyone.”
Andrew felt Dunning studying him and forced a blank expression onto his face.
“Perhaps the lady is an admirer of scholarship,” Dunning said.
Perhaps?Unless she has changed greatly, scholarship is the air she breathes.
Andrew took a sip of scalding coffee and looked expectantly at Dunning.
“As to the lady’s fancies, I can’t say.”Dunning went on, “I did hear a wild tale that she sought admission to the Wren Library, but didn’t put much stock in it.The lady can’t be that big a fool, no matter what—” Dunning colored slightly.Andrew waited for him to go on.“The thing is, Mallet, Lawrence Watterson spread a tale that she sought tutelage.He claimed she showed him some crudely translated poetry.”
“Poetry?”
“Obscure minor works, unimportant.Watterson claimed the translation was accurate to a point but overly literal.What one might expect of the uneducated.”Dunning shook his head and drank deep.“Don’t like gossip myself, so I can’t say in any detail.Distasteful, isn’t it?”His keen eyes scanned Andrew’s face.
