“Yes, I’m a—”
“Cockermouth!” shouted the woman to the left.
The men jolted, almost dropping their briefcases. But Devon only frowned with mild confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“The caladrius will be in Cockermouth. The town in Cumbria. Wordsworth was born there, and you know what he wrote about birds.”
“Er…” Devon didn’t read poetry, but in any case he couldn’t see how it would influence the caladrius, unless the bird had evolved considerably since last observed.
“Nonsense,” scoffed the woman to the right. “It will be in Scotland! Everyone knows it likes the cold.” She eyed Devon shrewdly. “You should take your celestial being to Gretna Green, just over the Scottish border. Marry her there and catch the caladrius at the same time!”
Devon choked on his breath.
“What’s your name, dear boy?” asked the woman to the left, patting his arm now and murmuring something about Brussels (or possibly “big muscles”; Devon wasn’t exactly paying attention).
“Devon Lockley,” he told her.
“Ooh, the boy in the paper!” exclaimed the woman to the right. Both ladies lifted their lorgnettes to inspect him more thoroughly, and Devon glanced toward the compartment doorway in much the same way an archaeologist glances at the suddenly closing stone door of a pharaoh’s haunted tomb.
“You kissed the girl,” said the woman to the left, “so you have to marry her!”
“Um…”
“And you certainly can’t elope to Gretna Green!” argued the woman who’d suggested it in the first place. “You’re famous! You need to marry in a cathedral.”
“Er…”
“The people will demand it!”
“You should have all white flowers, in honor of the caladrius!”
“And release doves at the end of the ceremony!”
“And you’ll need to get a proper haircut!”
By this time, the men on the opposite bench were so tense, they appeared on the verge of shattering. Devon himself felt a headache coming on. He promised to use the ladies’ suggested marriage proposal, autographed their handkerchiefs, and finally effected an escape.
Beth had disappeared from the corridor, and with a doleful sigh he returned to his own compartment. Looking up from a geography textbook, Gabriel arched one eyebrow.
“What happened to you?”
“Admirers,” was all Devon managed to say before collapsing on the seat. He ran a hand across his face, through his hair. “Why people?”
Gabriel shrugged. “I wish I knew,” he said, and blessedly went back to reading his book.
Devon stared out the window, thinking about
Chapter Fourteen
A bird endeavoring to win a mate is often as unscrupulous as a certain German ornithologist who shall go unnamed for legal reasons but who can be identified by his brash manner and redolent cologne.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
Beth disembarked the train at Oxford Station with a great weight upon her. Namely, her suitcase, which she was used to leaving in the care of Hippolyta’s footmen. Nevertheless, determined to beat Devon to their mutual destination, she wrapped both arms around it and ventured forth with such speed, several shocked pedestrians muttered to each other, “There goes a feminist!”
They might have been relieved to know, however, that the real reason for this speed was because arriving before Devon would surely lead to meeting with Devon, and at this point Beth would have swerved around a dozen caladriuses if they got in the way of her doing that.
Granted, a plain owl of a woman had little chance of winning the heart of a man like Devon Lockley—but she hadn’t become a doctor of ornithology, Britain’s youngest professor, and Huttingdon Primary School’s Most Reliable Student (1873), by surrendering when things got tough! Besides, she didn’t aim so high as his heart, only his smile, maybe a kiss or two…and she wouldn’t turn up her nose at being stuck in a hotel bedroom with him again either, should fate absolutely insist upon it.
Stopping at her boardinghouse lodgings on St. Aldate’s to drop off the suitcase and despair briefly over the dust that had accumulated while she’d been away, she collected her bicycle, then set off for the Museum of Natural History, wherein Oxford University’s ornithology department was located. Twice, students from her classes waved to her, and she felt compelled to pause and check in on their welfare, encourage their summer reading, and inquire about any interesting birds they had seen. Consequently, it was twenty minutes before she finally reached Professor Gladstone’s office. Standing outside the door, her determination began wavering as she stared at the nameplate that someone, in an old and hallowed student tradition, had sabotaged to read “Professor BadStoned.”
“I’m doing this in the name of science,” she reassured herself as she drew the pin from her hat and inserted it in the door’s lock. Nevertheless, her breath ran away to hide at the back of her lungs. Gladstone’s secretary had informed her that the gentleman departed some time ago for the Peak District, which was indeed his annual tradition, but in the excitement of the competition Beth had forgotten it. At least with him being over one hundred miles away, it should be safe to search his office for clues about the caladrius.
On the other hand, being a teacher, Beth naturally expected the worst. Slipping cautiously into the warm, cluttered room and closing the door behind her, she turned toward Gladstone’s desk—
And the breath shook out of her.
Devon sat in Gladstone’s chair. With one leg crossed over the other, his elbow on the armrest and his jaw set between thumb and finger, he looked exactly like a professor willing to spend no more than three minutes listening to your excuse for missing the exam—except for the smug smile that clearly conveyed ha ha, got here before you.
Beth’s heart soared like an American bald eagle, even while her brain closed its eyes, knowing the fatal plummet that was sure to come.
—
Devon had taken only one step into Gladstone’s office before he wanted to walk right back out and go in search of the strongest whiskey Oxford offered. An imposing clutter of books, maps, papers, and taxidermied birds packed the space so thoroughly, it seemed time could find no access. He smelled ash from a pipe that must have been smoked weeks ago, and noted a portrait of King George III on the wall with a dodo bird mounted beside it in what he suspected was a non-ironic placement. As a student at Yale, he’d visited offices like this often, trying to explain to stern-faced professors how his grades could be so good while his behavior was so very bad. In contrast, his own office at Cambridge was little more than a desk, a comfortable chair, and a jar of peppermints to share with anxious students.
But he was also willing to bet that somewhere amid this antiquated mess lay a clue as to the caladrius’s whereabouts. And more importantly, he expected Beth would be along soon to uncover it. So he sat behind the professor’s desk and waited for her, like an Alaskan cat-catching warbler waiting for its prey. Like an utter scoundrel.
