My Oxford Year

My steps falter. William tightens his grip on my waist, keeping me moving. I try to breathe through my astonished anger. You don’t often get blindsided in slow motion.

“I understand the appeal of lineage,” he murmurs. “Privilege. Access. Believe me. We’re more alike than you realize. My father, too, was a barman.”

My heart nearly explodes out of my chest. How does he know this?

“We both know the embarrassment of a meager upbringing.”

Instantly, my hackles go up. “I am not embarrassed by my father.”

“Had he lived longer you very well might have been.”

I stop dancing and move to wrench my hand out of William’s grasp. His grip turns to iron and he bites out, “Keep dancing, Eleanor. We shouldn’t want to draw unnecessary attention.”

He’s right. I can feel the eyes on us, the curious stares. I seethe as we continue to dance. Face to face. Eye to eye. I silently dare him to say more. He finally continues. “What I mean to say is that we can understand each other. We have both suffered a significant loss in our lives—”

“We’re not going to talk about my father.” My voice is steel. “William.” I call him by his first name because if he can talk to me like this then I can dispense with the formality bullshit. “Just because you somehow have some facts about my life doesn’t mean you know me. Or what I feel for your son. I have no interest in your money. Or you, for that matter.”

“You feel for my son, do you?” The word “feel” oozes disdain. “You have inserted yourself into the very thick of our lives. But you are transient, a squatter in our house. We, Antonia and I, are here for the duration. We are responsible for our son’s life. For his life. Do you hear? Listen carefully. You don’t take a son, an ill son, my-unfortunately-only son away from his mother for Christmas. You don’t tell a father who’s been down this blasted road before that you’re ‘handling it.’ You are fleeting. You, dear girl, are a distraction. A potentially fatal one. Can you live with that? Is it worth it? Riding in crested limousines and going to balls in yellow frocks and having your poor man’s grand tour? Is it worth my son’s life?”

I take a steadying breath. He’s being brutally unfair and insulting, but I understand where he’s coming from. If I were in his position I’d be worried about the sudden appearance of a girl in my wealthy, dying son’s life as well. In retrospect, I can’t believe I didn’t expect this response from him. The unexpected response is actually Antonia’s effusive welcoming.

I center myself, mentally editing what I really want to say. The ugly thing I want to say.

But then I look into his eyes, and I see the deadness there, the smugness, the righteousness, everything Jamie constantly battles when he shouldn’t have to—when he should just be assured of his father’s love—and it makes me angry. And I say the ugly thing anyway. “You know, it’s funny. I didn’t understand how Jamie could have such little regard for his own father. Until now.”

William’s face instantly reddens. Those dead eyes spark to life. “Who do you think you are?” he seethes. “I have already lost one son. I do not intend to lose another.”

As if a glamour had magically dropped away, I suddenly see how ravaged he looks. His eyes moisten with angry, frustrated tears, which I know must embarrass him. It softens me a bit. Just a bit. “You don’t get it. If Jamie wants to do chemo, I’ll sit with him. If he wants to do stem cells, I’ll wait for him. If he wants to swim with dolphins, I’ll get my towel. This isn’t about me. It’s Jamie’s choice, not mine. You have to let—”

“I have to let those choices be guided by an artful little girl who hasn’t the faintest bloody idea what she’s talking about? No, sweetie, I don’t believe I must.”

And I no longer care about appearances. I’m done dancing. I start to pull away, but he tightens his hold on my waist. “Wait—”

“No, sweetie, I don’t believe I must,” I hiss, pulling away from him and leaving the dance floor. William immediately follows. He won’t be left standing alone. The illusion only works if we both leave at the same time.

I’m almost to the safety of the ladies’ room when I feel William right behind me. His voice, though quiet, cuts sharply through the din, right at my ear. “Are you listening to me?”

I bang into the restroom and say, over my shoulder, “No. And neither is Jamie.”

Chapter 22

Madam Life’s a piece in bloom

Death goes dogging everywhere:

She’s the tenant of the room,

He’s the ruffian on the stair.

William Ernest Henley, “IX–To W.R.,” 1877

We’re about thirty miles outside of Oxford when Jamie says to me, for the hundredth time, “You have your passport?”

I take a moment, as if I’m thinking about it. Then I sit forward suddenly, straining against the seat belt, frantically patting the pockets of my jeans and jacket. “Oh no!”

Jamie tries to stay calm. His eyes snap to me. I raise a wry eyebrow. He exhales wearily and faces forward again. “Not the first time I’ve asked?”

“Not even close.”

“Sorry,” he mutters.

We call this “chemo brain,” his uncharacteristic forgetfulness. Sometimes it’s as simple as not remembering he’s already asked a question; sometimes it’s hours of not being able to locate his keys only to open the refrigerator and find them sitting next to the cream that’s still in a grocery bag.

I reach over and playfully tousle his hair. When I pull my hand back, I notice a few strands on my fingers. Jamie’s final round of treatment was three days ago and I know he feels more ill than he’s letting on. Still, there’s an air of victory in the car, and we couldn’t be doing anything better for him, for us, than driving through the countryside to Dover to catch a ferry to France.

We’re still going away for the holidays.

While locked inside a bathroom stall at Blenheim, I thought long and hard about telling Jamie everything that had transpired between William and me. I decided absolutely not. Not only do I refuse to throw more logs on whatever fire smolders between William and Jamie, but I also refuse to play any part in manipulating Jamie’s choices. It would have been playing directly into William’s hand, and that’s not how this is going to work. Not on my watch.

So I downed a glass of champagne and danced with Jamie until he said he was “rather tired” and we left. Jamie located Antonia—who was luckily a good distance from William—and gave her a kiss good-bye. She then turned that warm, smiling, welcoming face to me and insisted that I take her card, call her, and she’d take me to tea. I put her number in my phone, but haven’t called her yet. Because one thing William said stuck with me: that I am, to a certain extent, a transient. I don’t know the history between William and Jamie, I don’t know why things have deteriorated as they have, and I won’t be here to deal with the fallout. I’ll be pulling up stakes eventually.

So if Jamie’s fine not being with his parents for the holidays, then so am I. In fact, I’m excited. So excited.

We’re starting in Normandy for two days, then heading to Paris for four. Then we’ll head south, into Jamie’s beloved wine country, and end up along the Riviera for New Year’s. Every time I say this (out loud or to myself, doesn’t matter), I giggle. Legitimately giggle. After New Year’s, we’ll decide where we go for the next two weeks. No plans, just wandering. Perhaps Switzerland, or down into Italy, where it’ll be warmer. I’m game for anything.