. . .
THE CRUCIVERBALIST COURTSHIP
SUMMER 1936
Just as she stopped and dropped the heavier of the two bags at her feet, Amy saw him walking toward her. After her rush and with her overloaded arms aching, he looked like a cool breeze in his light linen suit, somehow spotless even at the height of a London summer. He had a slim leather bag slung across his chest instead of carrying it like a briefcase.
Waving her arm high, Amy smiled. Sheldon spotted her, raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement, and increased his pace. As he drew near, he leaned over to gently kiss her cheek. "Hello," they said at the same time.
"How was your meeting?" Amy asked.
"Productive. Everything seems to be progressing on schedule. We're hoping Dr. Rostenkowski should be installed at Cambridge before the end of the year."
"I'm so glad to hear it." Amy did not mention the rumor she'd heard when she stopped by The Telegraph newsroom earlier, about the Roma Gypsies being forcibly moved out of Berlin by Hitler's new police chief, a man called Himmler. She did not want to ruin this rare afternoon with Sheldon in London. True to his promise, he'd made a point of coming to London a few times since Easter, coinciding his visits with business. He even came on the train, leaving Stuart and his automobile in Medford, so that he had more freedom. But Amy could tell he did not wear the city easily. He was bothered by the noise and the crowds. Despite his love for trains - something she'd discovered about him - she often heard him performing deep breathing exercises as he stood or sat shoulder to shoulder with a stranger on the Tube.
"You've been productive, too, I see." Sheldon was taking her in, noticing one large bag still slung over a shoulder and looking down at the other at her feet.
"I received my pay packet this morning, and then I went to the lending library." As though it was planned, the bag of books on her shoulder slipped, and she had to rearrange it. "I lost track of time there, and then I had to rush to gets some things at the shops before meeting you." Amy brushed back a few errant strands of hair that had escaped from beneath her hat. "I'm sorry, I look a fright."
"No, you don't. But you do look weighed down." Sheldon picked up the bag at her feet. "My goodness! What did you buy? Bricks?"
Amy chuckled. "No, but my cans goods needed replenishment."
"Let's get them back to your place." Sheldon took a step toward the Underground station.
"Oh! Is there time?"
He stopped and took out his pocket watch, glancing down at it. "Yes. And we'll be more comfortable if we don't look and feel like American pack mules all afternoon."
Fortunately, they found seats on the train and passed the time in idle chit-chat over the clank and hissing of the subway. But once they exited and Amy led Sheldon in the direction of her boarding house, her heart rate increased. And then she stopped in the middle of the pavement. "Sheldon, my accommodations, they're -"
"Too far away? Do you have to ride for that long every day? It seems an ineffective use of time."
"Er, well, yes. What I was going to say was that my lodgings are . . . very simple. And you'll have to wait in the parlor; men aren't allowed upstairs."
Sheldon nodded. "Alright. It doesn't seem very chivalrous to make you carry everything up yourself, but I see the reasoning."
Unlocking the front door and stepping inside, Amy took a deep breath and let her bag of books fall near the coat hooks. Although everything was clean, the furniture was outdated, the paint was chipping, the rugs were thinning, and the drapes were fading. "So, this is it," Amy said needlessly as she hung up her hat.
Instead of replying, Sheldon swiveled his head slowly, taking it all in. "It's . . . quiet."
Amy tittered in relief; relief at his comment, and relief that it was quiet. It was mid-day on a Friday and all her housemates were at their jobs, most of them either typing or minding a shop counter. If it had been evening, she would have been even more reluctant to bring a handsome and clearly well-to-do man here; his letters in their heavy cream envelopes embellished with both the Medford crest and a red wax seal elicited enough attention as it was. In fact . . . "Mrs. Wesley?" she called for her landlady.
There was no reply. Amy stepped through the dining room and into the kitchen and they were both empty. Back in the parlor, she said to Sheldon, "It seems that she's stepped out. Friday is market day."
"I see." He stood in the very center of the threadbare rug, still holding the burden of her shopping bag.
"Would you like to be chivalrous after all? And see my room?" Sheldon raised an eyebrow and Amy raised her chin in response.
Then he nodded and Amy picked back up her bag of books as she ascended the stairs, Sheldon behind her. They creaked beneath her feet, the treads bare wood instead of the plush carpets of Medford. Two flights up in silence, the heat growing with every step.
She pressed open her door and stepped aside to let Sheldon enter first. "You can set it by the desk - the table, I mean." They were one and the same as there was no room for both. The small square table sat beneath her only window with barely enough room for her second-hand typewriter and a jar of pencils.
Watching him enter her room, Amy stood in the hallway and closed her eyes for a moment of regret. But she had insisted they get to know each other better, the realities of their daily living, even the unpleasant. But she could not imagine Sheldon had ever seen a room quite like this. Indeed, he seemed to be studying it with all the attention of an archeologist: her single iron bed and her lone upholstered chair - the one she'd repaired herself, stitching the torn fabric with heavy black thread - flanking a fireplace that had been converted to hold a small heater, the table-cum-desk, and a wardrobe and cabinet on the opposite wall. In her generous moods, Amy would have described it as cozy. Seeing it through Sheldon's eyes, she would have said claustrophobic.
"What is this?" he asked, taking a single step to reach out and touch the device on the wall next to the mantel.
"The gas meter," Amy explained. "If you want gas for heat, you put in coins." She did not mention that most of the proceeding winter she went without heat and instead wore her fingerless gloves to work, wrapping herself in extra jumpers or the lovely quilted bed jacket Penny had sent as a Christmas gift.
He looked over sharply. "It's not included in your rent?"
"No. Electricity is, though. And water."
Circling the space, almost a rotation as it was so small, he asked, "Where is the washroom?"
"Down the hall. We share."
"Where shall I put your provisions?"
"Let me." Amy finally entered, handing him her book bag instead. "If you'll line these up on the mantel, please. I use it as a bookshelf."
Turning their backs to each other, Amy put away her tinned peaches, powdered milk, and Early Gray as she listened to him arrange the books. The old dining hutch she used was a lucky find; Ruby across the hall used old wooden milk crates to store her food. The flat counter was useful for extra space and it gave it her somewhere to rest her electric teakettle, a Christmas present from her parents three years ago, and an old chipped bowl that she used for her stack of fresh apples.
"Is that all you eat?" Sheldon said, his voice suddenly close, startling her.
"It's for tea," she explained, closing the cabinet. "Breakfast and supper are provided; we all eat together downstairs."
"And lunch?"
Amy turned around. "It depends. An apple or peaches, usually, or I might buy something if I'm out." And if I have the spare coins for a bun and pot of tea, she did not add.
"I see." He was frowning and holding his hat, a light woven thing. It was from a fine milliner and tailor's shop on Saville Row; Amy knew this because last month she'd met him there, after he'd ordered several new suits for the coming year, each at far more than she would make in that time frame.
"We'd better go," she said, full of regret for bringing him here. "If you're caught up here, I'll -"
"Of course." Abruptly, he strode out and down the stairs.
Sheldon maintained his speed and determination as she grabbed her hat off the hook and rushed to lock the door behind them, running to catch up with him on the pavement. "Will we be late for the cinema?" she asked.
"We're not going to the cinema." It was his only explanation and the firm set of his jaw did not invite further questions. Amy fought the dampness rising in her chest. Why was he angry? Was her boarding house that revolting to him? Had he just now realize how far apart their worlds were? Did he think so much less of her now?
The only brief pause was on the Tube platform, when he glanced at the map, his eyes darting quickly along the colorful lines. Amy boarded the next train with him and changed the line twice behind him, all without comment. They were headed to Belgravia, it seemed.
Indeed, they emerged on a leafy corner, a bright red phone box greeting them. Walking with continued purpose, Amy fell into stride next to Sheldon, her stomach a knot of fear and, now, anger. Why should he not see where and how she lived? Why should he not understand the plight of single women in London, scraping by on pay far less than that of men in the same profession? Why should he not see the large, uneven stitches in the only soft place she had to land?
"Here." He stopped so suddenly, Amy almost ran into his expensive suit. She looked up at the large white row house in front of them, divided from the street by a fine black wrought-iron fence. Flowers poured out of window boxes. It was beautiful and bright, just like every other house on the shaded block.
"Where are we?" Amy asked.
"My townhome."
"What?"
He turned, looking at her directly for the first time since they'd left her boarding house. "I had it converted into flats for lease. They're closer to your job and college and they're larger than your current abode. It would only be sensible to move here."
"Sheldon, if I could afford to lease a flat as nice as this, don't you think I already would?"
"Not lease. The top floor is mine, although I rarely stay here. But you could."
His meaning dawned on her, and Amy's eyes widened. Then she shook her head. "Thank you, but no."
"If you won't take it as a gift, then you may pay the same as you pay now for rent now."
Amy sighed. "That is as good as a gift, and you know it. But don't you see? It just wouldn't do. You cannot keep an unmarried woman in your bachelor flat!"
"Why not, if it unused by me and beneficial to you?"
"Oh, Sheldon. It would ruin both our reputations. I would be the kept woman, practically a courtesan, and you'd - well, you're a man, so it would not be so dire or consequential but it would certainly be gossiped about."
"Who would know?"
"Everyone! The neighbors, my housemates when I leave, my employer and college when I change my address, my parents."
"But it would a lease," Sheldon explained, stepping closer. "You would be a tenet."
"It is still far too expensive."
"I set the fees, and it does not need to be."
"My bedsit includes breakfast and supper."
"Mrs. Petrescu, the woman who lives in the basement flat, she and her husband are my caretakers; she comes to clean every week. I will make arrangements with her. Although I should warn you, they are Romanian by birth. It might be a little spicy."
"I won't dare ask her for such a thing."
"You're not asking, I'm offering."
For a moment, the temptation shimmered in her brain. It would be so much easier. The shorter commute, the warmth in the winter, the larger space, the cleaning woman once a week, and meals probably large enough she could have seconds if she were still hungry. It could be so easy. And so costly.
Amy placed a hand on his forearm. "I truly appreciate the offer, I do. But I can't. There would be questions and I would have no good answers. It's not fair to your other tenants, to pay so much less than the market rate. And I am not worth any more than another single spinster in London -"
"That's not true. You're brilliant. Your puzzles are much more difficult now and your articles, why, Amy, they're so enlightening. The Telegraph should be paying you tenfold for your work." Then, softer, "And I thought you knew I do not see you as a spinster."
Smiling sadly, Amy said, "And yet I am only a brilliant woman. That is what makes all the difference. Don't you see my position?"
He made a grimacing face and sighed. "I suppose I do. And it's not as though I can force you to move here. Or that I would."
"It's good that you know that." Amy paused. "Perhaps it's not too late to catch the film?"
"We've missed lunch. Will you at least allow me to buy you popcorn? They were putting in the machine last time we were there."
Looping her arm through his elbow, Amy said, "Of course! Eating during a film. How novel!"
"Oh my God, you have got to try this cheese!"
Amy turned from her spot in the sun as Penny approached across the flagstone terrace. A plate was balancing in her hand and what appeared to be a thick magazine was tucked under her arm. Her long legs were almost shockingly bare, as she wore those new type of summer trousers Amy would have called a child's culottes but Penny simply called shorts. Her blonde friend thrust the plate toward her, leaving Amy to drop her book before it fell, as Penny arranged herself on the chaise lounge beside her. She slipped her sandals off her feet and Amy noticed her toenails were varnished red.
"It's chèvre," Amy explained, "made from goat milk. Right here at Medford."
"I thought it was spun from heaven." Penny reached for the plate, picking up one of the slices of bread and taking a bite. "God, I miss cheese. It doesn't seem fair to have it around Leonard."
Amy couldn't help but smile at her enjoyment. It was good to know that even if Billy Sparks' endeavor didn't pay monetary dividends yet, at least his efforts were being appreciated by one of the prettiest mouths in the world. "Did you go to the kitchen for it?"
"Nah. I just asked Mr. Bloom." Penny leaned closer. "He's got a soft spot for the ladies. All I have to do is bat my eyelashes at him and off he runs, to do my bidding."
"I'm certain that is not the case." Amy caught herself. "By which I mean, he's the butler. It's his duty."
Penny shrugged. "Maybe you haven't asked the right questions. Or maybe he's a little afraid of you, being his boss's gal and all that."
Warmth spread through Amy's chest and she knew it wasn't entirely from the sun. She was somebody's gal! How very modern! "What are you reading?"
"A script my agent wants me to consider. It's about Marie Pasteur." She took another bite. "My agent keeps sending me every scientific script he can find. He thinks I ought to capitalize on my 'hobby.' That's what he calls it! But I don't want to be typecast."
Frowning, Amy nodded. Words such as that were all too familiar to her. "But if you play female scientists, then maybe you'll normalize it for the public and inspire more young women to enter the field."
"Okay, fine, that's true. And I suppose I could finally earn Sheldon's respect for my acting." She sighed. "Or I'd just have to listen to him go on and on about the inaccuracies for the rest of my life." Penny glanced over at the book Amy had dropped. "And you, you're reading a mystery novel? I would have thought you'd be done with murders."
Behold, Here's Poison declared the cover of Amy's cheap paperback. "Georgette Heyer," she explained as she picked it back up. "One of my favorites. I started reading her when she wrote romantic novels, but now she's writing mysteries as well. This is her latest. I love the title, don't you? Although I think an exclamation mark would not go amiss." She continued, her voice more wistful, "It's my dream to win an interview with her for my column but she's notoriously private."
"Well, if you can keep the notoriously private Lord Cooper happy while writing about an actual murder on his estate, you ought to be able to keep a private writer of some fake murders happy."
Amy furrowed her brow. "You think I should use that approach in my appeals?"
"Of course. We women need to capitalize on whatever we can whenever we can."
Looking out at the garden, Amy mulled Penny's suggestion. She normally took pains to distance herself from her reporting of the murder at Medford Hall, but perhaps it could prove useful in this instance.
"Speaking of His Lordship," Penny asked, "how's that going? I can't believe you got him to enjoy London!"
"Enjoy might be too strong of a word," Amy said. "Perhaps it's more accurate that he tolerates it. But he does seem to enjoy the cinema."
"But he tolerates it for you, and that's the point, isn't it?"
Amy thought of their conversation on his last visit. "I suppose."
"Hey," Penny twisted on her chair, "what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. He's so intelligent. And kind. He wants to give me everything, to buy me everything. It's . . ." she frowned that she, who dealt in words for a living, couldn't find the correct one.
"It's difficult to accept his help after you've spent so long fighting on your own?"
"Yes," she admitted, somewhat surprised at her friend's insight. It seemed to her that Penny lived such a charmed life that any struggle was foreign to her. "I've fought so hard for my independence. Every woman has, I suppose. But it's exhausting, fighting for every penny, fighting for every job, fighting to be heard, fighting alone." Amy paused. "Some days, I am so very tired." Then she shook her head. "But I also don't believe a woman should depend on a man for her independence."
"One year, I got a gig with the Rockettes. Do you know them?" Amy nodded at Penny's question, remembering a photograph she'd seen once of the long line of kicking women in sparkly costumes. "Well, this was early, back when they were still in St. Louis. Anyway, the hard part isn't kicking so high. It's learning that you have to lean back, rest your weight on the girls next to you. If you relax and let them support you properly, you can kick even higher."
The women in the photograph Amy saw had ramrod straight posture, their spines all pointing straight up. "Is that really true? I don't believe the physics or kinesiology are correct."
Penny sat back with a grin. "Well, you and a certain physicist will just have to try it to find out, won't you?"
The image of her and Sheldon, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, kicking in unison made Amy smile as well. And Penny had made her point, possibly by lying and certainly by ignoring the differences in their heights, but it was a point made nonetheless. "If you'll excuse me," Amy said, "I think Sheldon is in the library."
"Happy kicking," Penny called as she picked up another slice of cheese-covered bread.
As expected, Sheldon was sitting at the desk, looking over one of the large ledgers that Amy now knew contained various records and budgets for the estate. "Am I disturbing you?" she asked softly as she entered.
He looked up. "Not at all. Looking for a new book?"
"Not yet." Amy took the chair across from him, the one she'd sat in on more than one occasion to have a serious conversation with him. Perhaps he recognized the gesture for what it was because he sat down his pencil and clasped his hands over the page. "Sheldon, I regret the way our conversation went in London when you last visited. The one in front of your townhome."
"You do?" His face brightened. "You've reconsidered my offer?"
"No. I just wish to explain my position more clearly, so that you understand my refusal."
Sheldon frowned in disappointment. "I do understand your reasoning. You do not wish to appear as a kept woman, who plies her body in sexual trade for shelter."
"Well, yes, there's that. But there's more." Sheldon raised an eyebrow in return but then made a rolling motion with his hand, encouraging her to continue. Amy took a deep breath. "I came of age in 1923. There was no shortage of boys my exact age or younger when I was growing up. I suppose, if I ever stopped to think about it, I did not doubt there would be someone to marry someday. But it was not my primary focus. I had a scholarship to Oxford, and, unlike some others, I did not consider it only a stepping stone to finding a husband. After I graduated, though, everything was more difficult than I expected. What few scientific jobs existed were, as a matter of course, given to the men with my degree, even if their grades were poorer. I was even told during one interview that it wasn't seemly for a woman to work in science. So I took what I could, the job at The Herald. The wages were extremely meager, far less than any of the men there made, barely enough to pay for the room I found - the room you saw. But I was glad for it. Mrs. Wesley is strict and I know the comforts are scarce, but she is fair and the house is clean."
"Amy, I do understand all of this. I understand why things had to be the way they were for you. But I'm offering you a change in your fortunes."
She put her hand on the edge of his desk, "Please let me finish." After he nodded, she did. "And, almost suddenly it seemed to me, although I know it is not true, there were no men left. Oh, there were men my age or younger, but they were not ready to settle down, just ready to make passes or unwelcome advances. They only wanted a girl for a good time, for a dance and then the night. If they wanted a woman to take home to their parents, it would not be someone like me. It turned out they wanted the girls younger than me, fresh and wide-eyed things from the typing pool. And if there was a man older than me, ready to settle down, he had such a choice of women. Why would he pick me in a world of Pennys?" She paused. "I was only courted by one man with some seriousness, but he . . . well, I don't know. He was kind and respectable, but I just couldn't make myself fall for him." Dave's open, cheerful face passed through her mind. She had yet to make good on her promise to introduce him to Sheldon.
She must have paused, for Sheldon said, "Alright. But I don't understand why that would prevent you from leasing a flat in my building - and that's what we'd make it clear it was: a business arrangement, complete with a contract. Just because almost no one appreciated your worth before me does not mean you cannot benefit from that appreciation now."
Shaking her head, Amy said, "I see I have not explained it properly. I do not feel that taking your flat and your caretaker's food at such a reduced rate is fair to all the women I know who have struggled as I have. For I am not alone, Sheldon. I'm merely one of a million. Did you know that? One million surplus women, it's been said. Surplus!" She spat the word, angry at both its use and its truth. "I don't know how to explain it well, but I feel it's my duty to make my way in the world with the lot I've been given, even if it is a struggle. I will not trade the supposed weakness of my sex for comfort. What I was trying to say that day, in front of your flat, was not that I am not worth more in terms of income than the other women - although that may be true - but I am not worth more in person."
"And that is almost uncertainly true," Sheldon interrupted, his voice forceful. "That is what I was trying to say. If you want to fight for equality with your fellow women, I support that. If you want to hoard your independence that you have fought so hard for . . . well, I respect that even as I beg you to understand I will not steal it from you. If your infuriating self-sufficiency makes you into the woman you are, then I cannot help but love it. But I will not -" here he slapped the top of his desk "- sit here and allow you to say you are not worth more than these million women put together."
"Sheldon!" Amy said, shook by his display of anger.
He took a deep breath and pushed away from the desk, standing and then coming around to sit in the chair next to hers. There, he reached for her hand, and she let him take it, understanding this change in position was a form of apology. She angled toward him, their knees touching in the space between the chairs.
"Amy," Sheldon whispered, "does this mean you never want to live at Medford? I thought we were -"
"We are," Amy said quickly. "I will live at Medford when I'm asked to do so. Despite my independence, I never lost my hope for someone with whom to share my life. So I will come as a wife, as society wills it."
"But do you not will it?" His voice broke. "I love you, Amy, but I will not force you into a role you do not desire. I know the unhappiness that can bring."
Amy gasped. "Oh, Sheldon, you said it."
He tilted his head. "I thought it was clear. I thought you knew. I fell in love with your words, you know. The articles, the puzzles, and it was sealed up in your letters, along with that cheap paper you use." He encircled her hand with both of his now. "Sometimes I think I may have loved you before I ever met you, as preposterous as that sounds. And it is! But when I try to pinpoint it, I cannot define another moment. When you tried to hand that money back to me? When you sat in this chair for the first time? When you angered me so? It is an brain illness, this lapse of memory?" He shook his head. "I have no knowledge of the elapsed time, it was just simply always there. And I have no sense of how to approach it. This love. You."
Removing her hand from his, she instead pulled his shoulders close to her and squeezed him tightly. It was awkward in the space, the muscles of her waist straining to reach him. "Oh, Sheldon, you do love me!"
"Of course." He patted her side lightly. "I wanted to tell you that day in the great hall when you threatened to leave me forever, but I thought it seemed overenthusiastic. Much like this hug."
Chuckling happily, Amy released him and smiled at him. But his brow was wrinkled in confusion, which was not the response she expected.
"But you didn't answer my question," he said. "Do you not want to come to Medford of your own accord someday?"
"I want it. I do will it, with all my heart, but you know I must get my degree first, as we discussed."
"Yes, I know. But -"
"You said you love me." She put her palm on his cheek to quiet him. "I love you, too, Sheldon. That is all that matters right now."
Sheldon held still for a beat and then nodded. "Do you find you are able to determine when you loved me? I would sleep better if one of us had some certainty in the matter."
She leaned forward, kissing him softly. "I think so. But it - well, I must be wrong."
Brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingertips silken on her ear lobe, Sheldon whispered, "The moment you stepped into the dining room, in that blue frock?"
So close now that when she shook her head, her lips brushed against his cheek. "But it cannot be."
"I remember. I thought you looked pretty. I could hardly concentrate on the meal." His thumb ran along her lower lip.
Amy leaned her forehead against his. "But there's no such thing as love at first sight."
"No, of course not. There's absolutely no empirical evidence of its existence. You wrote that."
"Absolutely none." But the word was lost in the warmth of his kiss.
To be continued . . .
Movie theaters started to serve popcorn during the 1930s as another way to make money during the economic downturn.
Marie Pasteur was the wife of Louis Pasteur, who is certainly more famous. But she was an active lab assistant for him and wrote the majority of his published scientific papers, in addition to raising their children.
Georgette Heyer probably needs no introduction. She was a prolific British novelist who, it can be argued, single-handily invented the genre of historical romance. As Amy points out, she also wrote mysteries and refused all interviews after 1926.
For an excellent and detailed look into the struggles of British women during the interwar years, I highly recommend Singled Out: How Two Million British Women Survived Without Men After the First World War by Virginia Nicholson.
Thank you in advance for your reviews!
