Carla pretends to think about it. “I don’t think they’d go for the pink hair.”
“Probably not.” Hauling myself up, I turn back to the sea, my smile fixed and determined. If I can feel this good staying upright just a few seconds, imagine how I’ll feel when I get it right. “Now, let’s try that again. . . .”
21
“We’re so lost.”
“No, we aren’t!”
“I swear we passed that gate half an hour ago.” I stop in the middle of the winding country lane and cross my arms. “Seriously, we’re lost.”
“We didn’t and we’re not.” Will unfolds his map again and consults the small print. “Look, we took the 57 bus to Upper Higgledown, cut across that field, took the road toward Farleigh Wallop, and now . . .” He stops when I begin to giggle. “What’s so funny?”
“Come on.” I laugh. “‘Higgledown,’ ‘Wallop’ — who comes up with these names?”
Finally, Will allows himself a grin. “They are rather silly.”
“And totally impossible to find,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. We’re bundled up in totally unfashionable jackets and scarves, but there’s nobody except the cows to see us. “If you admit you haven’t got a clue where we are, I’ll shut up. It won’t diminish, like, your masculine prowess, I promise.”
“Perhaps . . . I could have taken a wrong turn,” he admits as we pass another identical field.
“See? That wasn’t so hard.” I survey the stretch of trees, grass, and cute cottages around us. When I joked to Emily about search parties, I wasn’t expecting it to come true. “I think we should keep heading in the same direction. I mean, we know it’s not back there.”
“Whatever you say, Natasha.” Will makes this dramatic little gesture and hands me the map. “I hereby relinquish all navigational duties.”
I laugh, mimicking his tone. “Why thank you, kind sir.”
We walk in silence for a while. The weather is finally thawing out now that spring is almost here, and I felt this urge to get out of the city for the day, take a break from all that studying. I even managed to speed through most of my reading for this week, so here we are: strolling through the countryside like we’re in one of those BBC America period dramas. I even have my very own chivalrous companion to protect my virtue, except, you know, it’s kind of late for that.
“So what is this house we’re looking for?” Will asks with a grin. “I’m guessing it’s pretty special to get you out on a hike.”
“Hey!”
“And you’ve only complained about not having a car, oh, five times today.”
“I wouldn’t have to complain if you English people realized cars are basic human necessities. I still can’t believe most of the kids at Oxford don’t drive.”
“There is a little something called the environment,” Will teases. “And people who actually want it to last.”
“Whatever,” I drawl, reaching down to pick a daffodil from the side of the road. “You think a few less SUVs are really going to make a difference? And I thought my math was bad!” Will looks like he’s going to fight me on this one, so I change the subject back. “We’re looking for Alma Mayall’s house. Well, I guess it was her father’s — yay, archaic property laws. Anyway,” I continue, “she was this pioneering feminist of her time, back in the eighteen hundreds. She wrote all these essays on voting rights and equality, and there are even rumors she had this totally scandalous affair with J. S. Mill.”
“Like, omigod!”
I push Will into a hedge. “Chauvinist pig.”
“Femi-nazi.”
We grin at each other.
“Is that it?” He nods over my shoulder. I spin around.
“Yes!” The cottage is thatched, with whitewashed walls and a little plaque on the gate. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Then we weren’t lost,” Will says, smug as hell.
“Oh whatever.” I push him again and head for the front gate. “See? ‘1824 to 1896, Alma Mayall.’” The front yard is overgrown, flowers dotted around in bunches and a tangle of shrubbery over the door. “Isn’t it adorable?” I sigh, clasping my hands together at the total picture-perfectness of it all.
Will just looks at me, loosening his striped scarf. “You’re becoming such an Anglophile.”
“Says the guy who downloads, like, ten different American TV shows every week.” I check my leaflet. “OK, so this place should be open to visitors. . . .” Cautiously, I push the door, half expecting to walk into somebody’s actual home. Inside, the hallway is silent and totally deserted, papered with a tiny rose print.
“Gone for lunch,” Will reads from a note on the antique-looking desk.
“Cool, we can just wander around. I hate having those guided tours; they’re always so dull and —” A side door opens and a woman comes out. She can’t be more than forty, but she’s dressed in this dowdy flowery blouse and a tweed skirt, with a button on her lapel reading, TOUR GUIDE. She glares at us.
“Umm, sorry.” I blush while Will tries to hide his laughter.
The woman keeps looking at us suspiciously, until Will steps forward and shakes her hand.
“Hello there. We’ve come from Oxford University. We were hoping to take a look around, but, of course, if you’re busy . . .” His polite thing works like a charm; in an instant, the disapproving expression switches into a smile. I don’t blame her.
“Students, of course.” She lights up. “It’s always nice to see the young people take an interest in Alma’s life.”
I let out a slow breath of relief.
Will nods along, an angelic look on his face. “Well, she was a pioneering feminist of her time.” As he steers the woman down the hallway, he throws me a wink. “Now you must tell me about her relationship with J. S. Mill. . . .”
The house is perfectly preserved, with all Alma’s old decor and things, and by the time I’m done looking through her letters (for any hint of that scandalous affair), Will is seriously in need of feeding. Luckily, that tour guide still totally adores him, so she directs us to a nearby pub for lunch.
“Ah, food!” Will bites down hungrily on a wedge of sandwich. “I thought I was going to die of starvation back there.”