THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Twenty-Two
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Twenty-Two
I sat at the island for lunch the next day, musing over the prior evening’s events with a bacon and chicken sandwich I’d made myself. There was no ranch dressing to be had, but a squirt of Dijon mustard whisked with a drizzle of honey made a satisfying alternate, and Mrs. Scott had left some nice fatty bacon in the fridge that paired well with some deli-sliced chicken. A crisp leaf of lettuce, some toasted bread, and culinary bliss was mine. I took another bite and watched two squirrels in a heated paso doble circle each other in the garden, dash a few feet to the base of a tree, pause, and scamper up the trunk and out of sight.
There had been more bumps and scrapes coming from upstairs last night. I had brushed my teeth, changed into pajamas, made a futile attempt to message Trish, and climbed into bed when I heard it. First, the swishing of the fan. That I knew well, and I was all but asleep when the whirring stopped. There was a pause, a loud thump, and then a dragging sound. Silence again for some minutes, and then the whirring resumed. After a while I gave up waiting for more noise and drifted off.
I’ll ask Adam about it, I determined, chewing slowly. We’re friends now, sort of. It can’t hurt to ask. A quick motion caught my eye, and I turned to see the squirrels dashing across the lawn again. This time I was certain the male would overtake the female. And yet he always kept a few paces behind, pausing when she paused, running when she ran. Now they had both stopped; he put a tentative foot forward. Her tail twitched. Would she run? He edged closer. She waited. He lifted another tiny paw—
“Lucy?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Adam Ratliffe had come into the kitchen while my back was turned. Though accustomed to his heavy footsteps, I’d heard nothing over the noise of my own narration. With just enough presence of mind to wipe my mouth of any stray mustard, I turned around and set down my sandwich.
“Hi,” I said, hoping there was no lettuce stuck in my teeth.
“Having a bit of lunch, I see,” Adam observed as he wandered over to the cutting board. “What’s this?” he held up a small dish.
“Honey mustard. There’s more bacon and chicken in the fridge if you want some on a sandwich. It’s pretty good.”
“Perhaps in a moment,” he said, dipping a pinky finger into the sauce. The dark brows rose as he tasted it. He likes it! I felt foolishly delighted.
“Actually,” he said, “I wanted to ask you about dinner plans for tonight.” I barely heard him, too busy wondering if he would take another lick of the sauce. Yoo-hoo! Earth to Lucy! He’s trying to talk to you!
“I don’t suppose you have any outings with your summer group tonight?” he continued.
My mind scrambled. Did I have plans? What day was it now? A weekday, Tuesday. No field trips on Tuesdays.
“Nope, no plans,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“Though I suppose you must have another essay due soon.” Adam made a little show of sweeping up the breadcrumbs on the cutting board with his hand, although all he really did was funnel them into a line along the center.
“Not until Thursday.” I thought it was Thursday. I hoped it was Thursday.
“Lots of reading, though?” he asked, still playing with the breadcrumbs.
What is this, a fishing expedition? Adam seemed to be either avoiding my eyes or really interested in breadcrumb art, and my bet was on the former. I ventured a cautious reply.
“Not really. I planned to do most of it tomorrow.” What is he getting at?
Adam began drawing the crumbs out into a sunburst pattern.
“I only ask because I had a message from some friends today, and it seems their band will be playing a show in the city tonight. It’s a pizza restaurant, actually. Supposed to be very good. The pizza that is, not the band. I mean, the band’s good, if you like jazz, but I’ve never been to the restaurant, though I’ve heard good things about it, not that I’m an expert like you, of course, but they did save a table for me, and I was thinking…”
Oh, I get it. He wants to go hang with his buddies tonight, but he doesn’t want me feeling abandoned or something. I sighed. I didn’t relish the thought of a long night in the house all alone, but I could hardly expect Adam Ratliffe to hang around for my sake. He didn’t seem to have much social life to spare.
“Hey, it’s cool,” I interrupted. “I’ll be okay by myself. I can make my own dinner and lock up or whatever.”
Adam met my eyes this time, looking a little disappointed. “So, you don’t want to go?”
“Go where?” I asked blankly.
“To London tonight? Jazz band? Pizza?”
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “You’re asking me?”
“Yes,” said Adam, with a cautious smile. “Unless you’d rather not.”
I furtively pinched my arm under the countertop where he couldn’t see. Yep, this was really happening. And did he say jazz?
“No! I mean, yes! I definitely would like to go.” If I sounded like a kid on Christmas morning, I couldn’t help it. There was no playing it cool when it came to jazz and London. And of course, I was eager for the chance to pick away at another layer of the mysterious Mr. Ratliffe, though I’d have to keep that part under wraps.
A boyish smile spread over Adam’s face. “Good. Leave at five, then? It’s a bit of a drive into the city. I thought we might take the car instead of the train.”
“Sure!”
His Blackberry began to ring, and he glanced at the screen. “Sorry, have to take this. But I’ll see you at five.” He smiled again, and I grinned back, hardly able to contain my excitement.
As he walked away with the phone pressed to his ear, I danced in my chair. Yes! I’m going to a real jazz club in London! And pizza too! This is going to be so much fun! Suddenly I stopped. What am I going to wear?
There was a loud creak before Adam’s voice was muted behind the door to his office. I glanced at my watch. I had tutorials in half an hour, and I couldn’t interrupt him on the phone to ask about the dress code. Besides, I don’t want him to think I’m clueless. I decided to ask Annisa after tutorials, then hurry back to shower and go through my wardrobe.
###
When I got back to the house at 4:15, Adam was nowhere to be seen. I guessed he was upstairs getting dressed or something. Humming a tune to settle the butterflies in my stomach, I took a shower and blow-dried my hair, taking extra time with the barrel brush to give it big soft waves. Then I put on my robe and went to take stock of my wardrobe.
For the first time, I was glad I had overpacked. The welcome letter to Ruxbury had advised bringing some semi-formal and cocktail attire for special events at the school, but so far nothing had occasioned more than jeans and t-shirts. Annisa had told me it was better to overdress than under-dress for London and not to be afraid of bold colors or patterns. I decided on a sleeveless purple sheath dress with a sweetheart neckline and a black lace overlay, and paired it with a black, elbow-length bolero just in case it got chilly outside. Satisfied, I went to the mirror and put on my best makeup, a sweep of mascara over my amber eyelashes, and a coat of light pink lip gloss. Some strappy black heels, my wallet, lip gloss, and cell phone (just in case) tossed into a black clutch purse, and I was ready to go. I glanced at the clock--4:55-- and decided to go wait in the kitchen.
I was closing my door behind me just in time to see Adam exiting the upstairs. He was dressed in a soft white button-down, neatly tucked under a fine-grain leather belt into black slacks, which he smoothed with his hands before coming down the hallway to meet me. As we met, I caught the light whiff of aftershave and noticed his dark hair had been slicked back with more care than usual. For a moment, we gazed at each other, and the space between us compressed, crackling with expectation.
Is this a date? I suddenly thought, feeling incredibly stupid for not knowing and yet tingling with excitement at possibility that it was.
“You look very … that’s a nice … color,” he said finally.
Was it my imagination, or did he look a little pink?
“Thanks. I like your shirt,” I said. Gosh, that sounded dumb. I like your shirt? Come on, Lucy.
“Shall we?”
He led the way out to the garage after locking the kitchen door behind us. I’d never been inside the green building, and the two bay doors were always closed. Adam unlocked a door on the side and flicked on a light, revealing one empty bay and a dark blue Mini Cooper with a white top in the other bay. A thrill ran up my spine. I’d always wanted to ride in a Mini Cooper. They looked so cool in the movies, and they had to be a lot more fun than my beat-up old Honda Accord. I immediately went around to the right side, while Adam went over to the left side and opened the door.
“Perhaps you’d better let me drive,” he said, grinning. “At least this once.”
Huh? I looked down and realized that the steering wheel was on my side. Duh, Lucy. Wrong passenger’s side. I sheepishly hurried around to the left and slid into the seat as he closed the door behind me. While he walked around to the driver’s side, I suddenly noticed how far my skirt rode up my thighs when I sat down. Remembering Adam’s diatribe on “My Short Skirt” from The Vagina Monologues, I desperately tugged at the hem, trying to yank it down a little. I finally settled for perching my clutch purse on the gap between the hem and my knees before buckling in.
Adam turned the ignition, and a blast of sound came from the speakers, “So, Sally can—”
“Sorry,” he said, cranking the volume to low. “I get a bit carried away there, sometimes.”
Adam Ratliffe was the last person I could see getting carried away by anything. As we backed out of the garage, I tried to imagine him in full thug mode, shouting along with music at full blast, bass pounding, windows down, speeding through Wickwood. I was no failure for imagination, but on this one I drew a complete blank.
“Country route or city route?” he asked.
I chose the country route, and he turned down the lane and off onto the narrow, paved road. We crossed a bridge spanning a wide river and continued into forested area, populated with small cottages behind stone walls. While he paused at a stop sign and looked right for traffic, I yanked at my skirt again.
“I’m glad you chose this way,” Adam said, shifting gears. “I can show you some interesting things along the road. There”—he pointed to a modest looking house, not much different from his own except that it was partially screened from view by some large trees— “that’s one of the Shelley residences.”
“You mean Percy Shelley? And Mary Shelley?”
Adam looked pleased at my recognition. “Yes, they lived here for a little while. Lots of rich history around the area, if you know where to look.”
He shifted again, and the car sped past a row of old white stone buildings edged with red brick and mossy roofs.
“How old are these buildings?” I asked.
Adam grinned. “Old enough, I suppose.”
I gave him a look. He chuckled and relented.
“Age is relative. I believe the original part of that chapel’s from the thirteenth century, though it was rebuilt in the 1860s. The pub we passed a minute ago is from the eleven hundreds, but it’s been rebuilt too. Lord Lovelace had a lot of work done in the area.” He pointed past the trees to a long road. “Down that way is Horsley Towers. Lord Lovelace’s wife, Ada lived there. She was the daughter of—”
“Lord Byron,” I finished.
He glanced at me quickly before turning his attention back to the road. “Yes, how did you know that?”
“I saw something about her on my class trip to the British Library. You’re a big fan, right?”
“Sorry?”
“Oh, I just thought Mrs. Scott had said something … never mind.”
“Said I compared someone to her?” He gave a little shrug with one of those self-effacing smiles. “Well, perhaps at one time. What can I say? I admire intelligent women.”
I wonder if he thinks I’m intelligent. Probably not. I’m not a math person. The thought depressed me a little until I realized I hoped I was worthy of his admiration. I must be worthy of something if he was taking me to see his friends. But maybe I was just his last available choice for company. I looked down and tugged my skirt again, wishing I’d worn something else. But Adam probably didn’t even notice whether it was short or long. Gosh, Lucy, you’re just going out to see a concert. Stop making a big deal out of everything!
“Here’s the village with all the suffragette burnings,” he said as we passed a small group of homes, half-hidden behind more brick walls and trees.
I gasped. “They burned the suffragettes here?” I imagined women in Victorian dresses, being held to the stake like political Joans of Arc, the Votes for Women pins on their bosoms gradually engulfed in flames.
Adam laughed. “Don’t be silly! It was the suffragettes who made the attacks. Arson, bomb plots. Lots of window-smashing campaigns. Some of them were quite militant. One woman actually attacked Winston Churchill with a bullwhip.”
I shook my head. “Hold on. You’re saying the suffragettes actually attacked other people?”
“You haven’t heard of it?” He glanced at me again. “No, I don’t suppose you would. Doesn’t quite fit the narrative of females as victim class, does it?”
“I guess not. But I don’t think it happened that way in the US,” I said, still trying to wrap my mind around the idea.
“Perhaps not,” he said, and left it at that.
The narrow road widened, and the brick walls were replaced with sidewalk stoops leading to identical brick townhomes, topped with narrow chimneys. Block after block of them lined the streets, and soon they were interspersed with shops and restaurants. I figured we must be getting close to the pizza place, though my taxi and train rides hadn’t really provided the definitive skyline view I was used to for big cities back home.
We pulled through an intersection and Adam nodded toward an ugly modernist townhouse three stories high. “That’s my old flat, over there.”
“You lived in London?” I said, probably with a more incredulous tone than I meant to use. For some reason, I had imagined Adam living in Wickwood his whole life. And with all his care about the Ratliffe House, with its old pipes and creaky wooden floors, the brick Bauhaus monstrosity beside us looked like the last place he’d choose to live.
“Yes, for a few years,” he said, shifting into first as we sat at a stoplight.
I couldn’t let a juicy tidbit like this go without a little dressing. “What was that like?” I asked.
Adam sniffed. “Hot in summer, cold in winter. No garden, no car park. Rather dull, actually. But there”—he gestured to a restaurant front with a black, red, and green awning as we pulled across the intersection— “I could always smell that Jamaican restaurant on my walk home from the Tube. Best part of my day. And on the weekends, I made my way to a secondhand bookshop around the corner. Could always find interesting things in there.”
I flinched, wondering if that was where he picked up the copy of Jane Eyre that I had broken. Maybe I should ask him about the book right now and get it over with. We’re pals, right? But would it ruin the evening? I wanted to enjoy my silly crush a little longer, not haggle over bills I couldn’t afford. I had enough of that back home in Chicago. Better wait for later, I told myself, even knowing I was a chicken.
“So why did you move?” I asked, mentally kicking my conscience into the closet and locking the door. If my curiosity was loud enough, maybe it would drown out the nagging.
Adam pursed his lips. “It’s … a long story. I’ll tell you sometime, I promise. But anyway, we’re here.”
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