THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Seven
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Seven
After class, Dr. Mosely pointed out the dining hall on my map and told me to meet him in his office after an hour. Thankful again for Mom’s cash, I bought a depressing boxed sandwich and a bottled soda, then ate alone with my giant suitcase for company. When I got back to Dr. Mosely’s office, he immediately said we were going to walk over to see Mr. Ratliffe.
By this time, I wished I’d come with only the clothes on my back and a pencil, but I dragged the suitcase along anyway. It was surprising how closely the university abutted the little main street of the town, even compared to Northwestern and University of Chicago. After a few blocks spent rolling past stores, pubs, and restaurants, we took a long side road that opened to the countryside. I was thankful for the sidewalk, but wondered where the heck we could possibly be going all the way out here. It felt like I was hauling a ton of bricks between the case and my overstuffed backpack, but Dr. Mosely trotted along at an even pace, swinging his thin briefcase, seemingly indifferent to my struggle. He chatted about a few things I’d missed at orientation, reviewed the syllabus from memory, and, as a large cottage came into view, said something about the Ratliffe family being longtime donors to the university and also personal friends.
“This way,” he said, leading up the steps to the house while I hefted my worldly goods up each step with Herculean effort.
I was almost gasping for breath when a friendly-looking lady with curly gray hair and a round face opened the door.
“Dr. Mosely, how lovely to see you again. Do come in,” she said, holding the door open.
“Thank you, Mrs. Scott.”
I struggled in behind him. The woman gave my suitcase a curious look, but kept the door open for me.
“Hi,” I said, dragging my stuff in with me and hoping the wheels didn’t mark up the floors.
She gave me a warm smile. “You may leave your bags by the door, dear.” I obediently shed my stuff while she exchanged a few words with Dr. Mosely. In a moment he introduced Mrs. Scott as the Ratliffe family’s housekeeper, then presented me inauspiciously as “the student he had mentioned on the phone.”
“Mr. Ratliffe’s in with the provost just now,” Mrs. Scott replied after acknowledging our introduction. “Won’t you have a seat in the drawing room?”
She led us to a sofa with its back to the front windows. Relieved, I dropped into the deep floral cushions immediately. While Dr. Mosely declined a seat, I glanced around the room. The sofa faced the wall, which had a small television in one corner and a shelf with a few spare but tasteful decorations in the other. The blank screen of the tv reflected the light of day from the windows, and in the convex glass I observed my own distorted form looking terribly small and out of place.
To my left, there was a black door in the white plastered wall. The faint, muffled sound of voices emanated from within. Dr. Mosely took a long look at a maroon umbrella with a mahogany handle leaned against the wall and made a dry sniff.
“Ah, Bascomb. What’s he doing anyway?” he asked Mrs. Scott.
She shook her grey curls in dismay. “I’m afraid there’s some confusion about the house. Bascomb seems to think we’ll have to start boarding students from the university again.”
“After four years without? That’s nonsense.”
“Undoubtedly,” she said, “but Mr. Geoffrey is in recovery, and Mr. Adam can’t seem to make much of it.”
“Better let me in, then. I know old Bascomb’s chinks as well as anyone.”
“If you think you can help, I wish you would.” She excused herself, opened the black door, and disappeared behind it, leaving it slightly ajar.
I heard the voice of an older British man saying, “Mr. Ratliffe, please understand the predicament of the trustees. It is imperative that we prepare for an increase in student population immediately, given the enrollment numbers for this fall.”
“And that is a problem for the trustees to solve, not the donors or alumni,” a smooth tenor replied.
“But you must understand,” the older voice continued, “that the Ratliffe family’s lease of this house as a student residence has been contractually considered an in-kind donation. The lapse of that lease in the last four years leaves your family’s donor account in arrears of two hundred thousand pounds.”
“That’s ridiculous,” the second voice contested.
“Unfortunately, it is the truth. And without immediate repayment of that debt, the family stands to lose its Silver Circle Donor status. Permanently.”
“So this is just a money grab. You want me to go wake Geoffrey from post-op to write a check for two hundred thousand quid?”
“Not at all. That is, not necessarily. The board is willing to dispense with the lapsed payment if the Ratliffe House can begin housing students immediately. It would be an important show of good faith especially as Dr. Ratliffe has declined to return to her post for yet another term.”
“You mean my mother?”
“The same.”
Finally, the Mrs. Scott interrupted. “Pardon me, Mr. Ratliffe, but Dr. Mosely has arrived.”
Without waiting for permission, Dr. Mosely stepped into the room, briefcase in hand, and disappeared from my sight. I heard another door in the room open and close and assumed it was the housekeeper leaving through another exit, as she didn’t return to the sitting room.
“Bascomb,” I heard Dr. Mosely say cheerfully.
“Mosely,” returned the older man’s voice, with what sounded like a tinge of annoyance.
“Dr. Mosely, I’m a bit occupied at present,” I heard the younger voice say.
“Oh, this won’t take but a moment,” Dr. Mosely assured. I heard the sound of clicking on the briefcase’s latches. “I’ve only brought back that book you lent to the library today.”
“Yes, the copy of Jane Eyre.”
“That’s right. And as you can see, the cover’s come right off.”
There was a pause, and I imagined Mr. Ratliffe examining the book. With every second’s delay my shoulders tightened and my ears strained, listening for the younger man’s voice.
“That’s unfortunate. It’s part of a set. Probably be a few hundred to repair it. Can’t be replaced. How did this happen?”
“Bit of an accident by one of the summer program students.”
“He’ll have to pay for it, of course.”
“Certainly,” Dr. Mosely assured. “And it’s a she, as it happens. A summer abroad student from America. Quite the sad story, really. You see, the university seems to have scheduled her flight a day late, causing her to miss orientation and lose her room to a waitlisted student. An Olivia Bascomb, as I discovered. Any relation, by chance?”
This last remark seemed directed at the older voice, who hesitated, then replied, “My niece.”
“Ah yes, I remember now. She was meant for the Oxbridge program this summer. But as I always say, Oxbridge’s loss is Ruxbury’s gain. No doubt she’ll be an outstanding addition to my literature course this summer. Still, it does look rather bad to have an international student put on the street because of it.”
The older voice made some kind of rumbling sound, and finally said, “A coincidence, I’m sure.”
Dr. Mosely pressed on. “Forgive me for overhearing, but did you say that Ratliffe House was to begin housing students immediately? Perhaps the girl could stay here.”
Woah, what? I gulped, wondering if I had heard correctly.
“We hadn’t quite agreed on that,” the younger voice put in. “It’s rather impossible, actually. The house has been renovated to accommodate my personal lodging and my business. There’s only one room left of the student lodgings and that’s scheduled for work next month.”
“Ah, I see. And how many students were you anticipating to lodge, Dr. Bascomb?” Mosely asked.
Bascomb cleared his throat. “I believe two was the minimum expected.”
“Well, you see, that solves it. The girl can stay here,” Mosely pronounced.
“That’s only one,” the older voice replied.
“Not if Mr. Ratliffe enrolls in a program.”
“Dr. Mosely, my brother isn’t well enough to enroll in any courses. He’s recovering from another surgery. And that’s if we could convince him to go along with it.”
“Not Geoffrey,” Dr. Mosely replied. “I meant you.”
“What, me? I have a business to run! I don’t have time for coursework.”
“Of course you do. It’s a capital idea. Shows support from the family for the university. Preserves the Silver Circle with its founding members. And takes care of this nasty little business with the American student. That is, if Dr. Bascomb agrees.”
There was silence for a moment before Bascomb responded. “I believe the board could be … persuaded to accept it. As a temporary measure.”
I heard an exasperated sigh from the younger voice. “Well, I suppose I could do it. But only for the summer term.”
“Now isn’t that wonderful? All tidy, all satisfied,” Dr. Mosely said.
They said a few formalities, and Dr. Bascomb excused himself to communicate the “good news” to the trustees. As he exited the doorway and leaned over to retrieve the black umbrella, he noticed me on the couch. Looking a bit surprised, he said, “How are you?” but bustled out the front door before I could reply.
“Fine, I guess,” I muttered to myself as his shoes clattered down the steps outside. Is everyone here this rude?
Then I heard the voices of the younger man and Dr. Mosely approaching. Dr. Mosely mentioned that “the student in question” had been conveniently able to accompany him this afternoon and was waiting in the sitting room even now. With that, the men emerged from the doorway.
“So you’re the girl who ruined my book,” the younger man said, folding his arms over the chest of his blue plaid shirt. I recognized him as the guy from the courtyard who had smirked at me that morning. There he was, with the same dark wavy hair and broad chin. I hated him immediately.
“This is Lucy Steppenwolf,” Dr. Mosely announced. “Lucy, this is Adam Ratliffe.” I stood up, not sure what to do next. Am I supposed to wave, or shake hands, or what? I waited for one of them to give a clue.
“I suppose you’ll be living here,” Mr. Ratliffe stated, arms still folded. He looked past me to the doorway where my suitcase and backpack were standing. “Brought your luggage already? That’s a bit presumptuous.”
A little match of resentment suddenly kindled inside me. I tried to snuff it. Be thankful you have a place to stay. But as he led the way to the kitchen to see the housekeeper, I was already imagining the worst.
“Mrs. Scott, this is Lucy Steppenwolf. She’s a study abroad student and she’ll be staying in the guest room for the summer. You’ll see she gets settled properly?”
The housekeeper agreed with such a prompt and cheerful manner than I had to wonder if she had some prescience about the whole thing. Meanwhile, Mr. Ratliffe wasted no time about the other half of the business.
“I’ve got to walk down to the university with Dr. Mosely and register for whatever summer courses are left,” he continued.
That’s good. Maybe between my classes and his I won’t have to see him very often. I couldn’t imagine actually spending lots of time with this jerk.
Then Mr. Ratliffe turned to me. “I’ll draw up some sort of house rules for you when I get back. In the meantime, you can make yourself comfortable, but please don’t trespass in my office or the upstairs suite.”
I nodded, realizing I hadn’t said a word to him yet. He didn’t seem to expect a reply.
“Let me fetch some records from my office, Mosely,” he said, then disappeared down the side hallway to another black door. Huh. I guess that’s how the housekeeper got back here. I began musing on what other weird features were in this old house, and why Mrs. Scott didn’t seem surprised at having me as the new tenant, when it occurred to me that I should thank Dr. Mosely for patching things up even if I wasn’t thrilled with the outcome.
“Thanks for helping with the room situation, Dr. Moseley,” I said, trying to muster a grateful smile.
He chuckled. “Helping? Yes, I suppose one could call it that. Just don’t be late for class tomorrow. You might underestimate the walk, you know.”
Miss a chapter of THE RATLIFFE HOUSE? No problem! Just visit the Table of Contents to catch up on previous chapters.
