The House on Fortune Street Read Online Free PDF Page B

appearance. “Very pleased about his promotion. How’s Keats?”
    Sean felt himself grimace. In an ideal world he would report that everything was going splendidly, but the habit of complaining to Judy was too strong. He described his struggles with tracing Keats’s influ-ences and asked about her work.
    Judy confided that she had defended her thesis, received her doctorate, and best of all, Macmillan was going to publish her manuscript next year; she just had to make it more accessible. “At first I wanted to defend every footnote,” she said.“Then I began to enjoy myself. It’s nice to think that people like my mother will be able to read the book.”
    “That’s great.” He would have given ten years of his life to be able to announce the same three events.
    “And”—she smiled—“I’m pregnant. Your coffee smells so good.” As if realizing that he was having trouble processing the informa-
    tion, she added that the baby was due in January. “Great,” Sean said again. It seemed the key word for his side of this conversation. He and Judy had talked about babies as something to be considered only after their dissertations were done, which, of course, hers was. He glanced at his watch, too rapidly to take in the time, and said that he had to go.
    “I’m so glad we ran into each other,” she said. “Maybe it’s the baby, but I’ve been thinking about you recently, wanting to let you know that I don’t bear you a grudge any longer. People do change. Roger and I are very happy together. I hope you and Abigail are too.” She stood up—now he could see the small bulge taking over her waistline—and bent to hug him. As her arms wrapped around him, Sean smelled her familiar perfume. For a shameful moment he felt the sting of tears.
    Back out in the rainy street he no longer cared whom he encoun-
     
    tered. He strode along oblivious to pedestrians, umbrellas, puddles, traffic. Soon after their wedding, he and Judy had spent a day explor-ing the Cotswolds. They were driving from one exquisite village to the next when, in the middle of a field of cows, they spotted a small stone church. They had pulled onto the verge and gone to investigate. The door was locked, a bird’s nest wedged in one corner, but round the back they had found a couple of milk crates and climbed up to peer through the leaded windows. Sean had never forgotten the sight that met his eyes. The narrow nave was crammed not with pews but with statues of knights, maybe eight or nine of them, lying on their tombs, hands folded on their chests, dogs or swords or, in one case, a book, at their pointed feet. How peaceful and dusty they looked. He wished he’d asked Judy if she remembered them too. It would have been nice to be back together, even briefly, in that pool of memory where no one else would ever swim.
    At the college, he barely nodded to the porter. He made his way through the archway, along the gloomy cloisters, and up the dark stairs that led to Georgina’s door. Although he was ten minutes early, he knocked twice. Her voice, surprisingly deep for such a reed of a woman, said, “Come in.”
    Inside she was sitting in her usual chair. The first time Sean had entered this room, with its large desk and walls of books, he had thought it the perfect scholar’s lair, a place of high wit and deep endeavor. Now, by the feeble light of the desk lamp, the books looked dusty, the fur-nishings soiled; it seemed a fitting home for fraudulent theories and secondhand thoughts. “Sean,” said Georgina, “you’re very prompt. I worried the rain might slow you down.”
    “I caught an earlier bus.”
    Georgina stood up from behind her desk—she was wearing a smoke gray dress—and gesturing for him to sit in one of the two chairs by
     
    the window, left the room. Before he could speculate as to what she was doing, she returned with a white towel in her outstretched hand. Unthinkingly he buried his face in the fabric. It felt good to be