By Ruth A. Acheson
With my American sense of direction and independence, I’d thought I could make it from my boarding house to the dreaming spires and spinning cogs of Oxford University without help. But I’d been wandering the crooked, twisting streets for hours now. A distant clock tower, hidden behind thick swathes of fog, struck noon with a melodic mix of bells and whistles.
I sneezed and pulled my sodden tweed jacket closer around me. “Well, shoot.”
“Who goes there?”
I peered through the drifting mist, searching for the voice’s owner. It wasn’t the bubbling sputter of the steam-powered sweeps or the soft, menacing whisper of street rats. No, it was a cultured voice, edged with intelligence.
Perhaps one of the academics? I stopped under a soot-crusted lamppost. The light gave me courage, even though the thick mix of fog, steam, and chimney smoke swallowed the lamp’s feeble rays.
A figure materialized in the haze, drawing closer and solidifying into a tall figure wearing an overcoat. A pair of aviator’s goggles was perched on his cap, and he walked as steadily and precisely as the droids that wandered Oxford’s streets.
“Are you lost?” He paused a few feet from me. The lamplight shone on his face, revealing he wasn’t one of Oxford’s machines, but rather a college-aged boy with a homely face.
“No. Yes.” I sneezed again. “Maybe?”
He smiled. “American?”
“Yes, in fact,” I snapped. “I’m touring the university and on the hunt for a pint and a hot meal.”
His brows drew together. “The university—as in, Oxford?”
“No, Cambridge.” I crossed my arms. “Of course, Oxford!”
“Why are you looking for Oxford… or its pubs?” His eyebrows shot up. “You’re a girl.”
I rolled my eyes and spread my arms wide. “How very astute you are, sir.”
“Well, yes, I try. Do you study at Oxford?” He readjusted his cap, and I noted his armband with gray-and-black bars.
“Not yet, but I will.” I pointed to the armband. “Are your dreams up in the air?” The gray-and-black bars of Magdalen often incited jokes and puns at the aero students’ expense.
“Well done, you.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Thomas Homer. We rather got off on the wrong foot, and I’d like to attempt a polite introduction.”
“I’ve insulted you and made sarcastic remarks about your college.” I held out my hand, laughing. “I’m Sophia Cauldwell, American and lost. It’s a pleasure, Mr. Homer. Heavens, they must like that name in Latin classes.”
“Veritas.” Mr. Homer shook my hand. His fingers were calloused and his palms hardened from much work. “But Latin classes are few and far between at Magdalen since the advent of flying machines. We’ve turned our focus to the skies.”
“Ah.” I smoothed my tweed jacket.
“Shall we be getting on?”
“Yes. To where, though?” I shoved my hands into my pockets.
He looked down at me, almost smiling. “You’re still hunting for a pub, I presume?”
I nodded.
“Follow me.”
The fog thickened, turning from muddy yellow to the same gray as the stripes on Mr. Homer’s scarf. The occasional streetlamps provided oases of light, and a light rain drizzled down upon us. The scent of damp stone hung in the misty silence, which was punctuated by distant tapping, whooshing, and clanking—Oxford gone inventor-crazy.
“So, flying machines?” I said when the silence grew too heavy.
Mr. Homer turned a corner, glanced at the street sign, and nodded. “Aye. A fascinating scope of study. We have the earth conquered, Miss Cauldwell, but what about the skies?”
“What a grand thing it would be for men to fly.” I cleared my throat. “Speaking of flying, has The Eagle and the Child been improved out of existence? I’ve heard they serve an excellent pint.”
“No, St. Giles is unchanged. The Kolbitar still meet, insisting that ink, not automatons, will save the world.” He pivoted and stared at me, squinting as if he couldn’t see me in the fog or was doubting what he did see. “You’re a pint connoisseur, and do you also fight duels? Or write novels? Or own a country estate? Are all Americans like you?”
I laughed aloud. “I fence—though those new wax bullets make dueling quite tempting. And I’ve attempted novels. But no country estate until I marry someone scandalously rich and wonderfully indulgent. Few Americans are like me, actually.”
He propped his hands on his hips. “What sort of woman are you?”
“One of those terrifying New Women, I suppose.” I shrugged. “But if we’re going to have horseless carriages, flying machines, and robotic chimney sweeps, aren’t the women who exercise control over their own lives allowed too?”
Mr. Homer raised his eyebrows. “You aren’t a New Woman, but you are a most interesting one—and you aren’t terrifying.”
I smirked. “You haven’t seen me put down a pint yet, so you might recant that opinion.”
“We’re almost to St. Giles, so I’ll soon have the chance.”
I pushed my hands deeper into my pockets and fell into step with him as he strode down the street, toward the next lamplit circle in the fog. We turned onto another street, which was wider and better lit. In the distance, I heard the chatter and clatter of the pub.
“You were serious when you called me interesting?” I asked as we drew closer.
“Yes.” His voice was soft as falling rain.
I smiled. “You don’t find me scandalous, terrifying, or off-putting? Everyone I know thinks I’m a great joke. But,” I sighed, “can you blame them? I am a joke.”
Mr. Homer gazed at me; his eyes were golden brown. “No, I don’t. I find you fascinating, Miss Cauldwell.”
“You do?”
“Infinitely,” he said. “And in need of a pint.”
We halted in front of The Eagle and the Child. Fish, chips, cold beer, and warm firelight beckoned me inside, and I smiled as I stepped into the pub. Getting lost in Oxford may be how I find myself.
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