Chapter Three

A young woman was balanced on tiptoe at the top of a stepstool, struggling to retrieve a volume from a high shelf. The book was just out of reach, and she stretched futilely, muttering under her breath as she attempted to dislodge it with her fingertips. Her feet were pressed up and out of her slippers, revealing stocking-clad heels, and her dress swayed with her movements. Peter was just about to announce himself when the young woman crouched, flung herself into the air, and seized the book. She landed on the stepstool at an awkward angle, wobbled, and flailed for balance. Instinctively, Peter darted forward and put his hands around her waist to steady her.

The young woman yelped and twisted out of his grasp like a startled housecat. She jumped off the stool and spun to face him, wielding the heavy book over her head like a bludgeon.

"I'm your tutor!" Peter threw up his hands to protect his face.

"Oh!" She lowered the book and gave him a cross, chastising look. "You shouldn't sneak up on people. I almost brained you with a first edition John Donne. It's irreplaceable."

"So am I," Peter grumbled. His pupil frowned and tucked the book under her arm. As his pounding heartbeat slowed, he took a moment to study her. In looks, she was perfectly unremarkable. Her chestnut hair was pinned up in a tidy, practical twist. She wore a high-necked, dove-gray dress with a row of mother-of-pearl buttons. Eyes the color of strong tea, a round face and a downturned mouth. No jewelry or cosmetics, and a figure that was neither slender nor plump. The sort of girl you would pass by without a glance, on the street or in a shop. She had an ink smudge on the side of her nose.

The young woman gave him another disgruntled look, then turned and headed for the dining table in the center of the library. After a moment's hesitation, Peter followed. She took a seat before the pile of papers and writing implements, and Peter slid into a chair across from her. His student straightened her spine and cleared her throat.

"I apologize for brandishing poetry at you," she said. "I'm not accustomed to having visitors. But I'm pleased you've accepted the position. I'm eager to begin." She folded her hands, an expression of polite interest on her face. "Whenever you are ready."

Peter stared at her. In truth, he had not thought this far ahead. He fumbled for a convincing opening. What was it rich people wanted? To have their least efforts praised and be assured of their cleverness. He could manage that. For Summa Logicae, he could manage anything. He rose to his feet and clasped his hands behind his back.

"For new students, I begin with the classics." He pitched his voice low, to convey authority. "We will study the Iliad and the Odyssey , both as literature and primers for the Greek language. For dramatic works, the plays of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. For philosophy, the essays of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. That should give us a solid foundation upon which to build."

A wave of subtle yet unmistakable disappointment moved over his student's face. She made no response, but put on an indulgent smile, the sort one might wear for a child reciting a nursery rhyme.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked.

"Nothing! It's very good."

Peter let out a huff and sank back into his chair. "Look here," he said, crossing his arms. "Your uncle has given me not the slightest hint as to your level of education. If you might provide some insight, I pray do so." She looked dubious. "Go on," he urged.

His student picked up a quill and toyed with it, rolling it between her fingers. "I had read everything on your list before my tenth birthday."

He blinked. "In that case, this would be an opportunity to reread them in the original—"

"In Greek."

"Oh."

"My parents were academics," she offered. "I showed an early aptitude for reading, as well as languages. They encouraged my development."

"How many languages do you speak?"

She studied the ceiling. "Greek. Latin. Italian. French. Hebrew. I studied German last year." He must have looked incredulous because she added, "I wanted to read Faust ."

"How was it?"

She shrugged. " Sehr gut ."

Peter sagged in his chair and let out a long breath. His pupil shot him an apologetic look. As he was considering what to do next, the door to the library opened, and a tall, thin woman carrying a tea-tray walked in.

Judging from her apron and sleeves rolled to the elbow, Peter surmised that she might be a housekeeper. The woman, whose age was hinted at by the iron-gray hair peeking from beneath her lacy cap, set the tray on the table and laid a friendly hand on his student's shoulder. The two set about serving the tea in what was clearly an oft-practiced, comfortable routine. In short order, the teacups, white porcelain stamped with blue roses, were full and steaming fragrantly. Peter, who had eaten neither breakfast nor dinner the night before, was delighted to see a plate piled high with fresh sweet rolls. He leaned in and took a whiff of warm sugar and yeast.

The older woman gave Peter a startled glance, as if noticing him for the first time. She looked him up and down with her mouth pursed and her hands on her skinny hips.

"This is him?" the woman asked Peter's student.

"Yes, Sarah." His student sipped her tea.

"I'm Professor Abelard." Peter picked up a sweet roll and put almost the entire thing into his mouth.

Sarah and his student exchanged an inscrutable glance. Then the housekeeper hurried out, smoothing down her apron and benevolently leaving the rolls behind.

Peter and his pupil drank their tea in silence. She seemed unperturbed by the events of the morning; she took up her quill and added a few lines to a loose page on the desk, casually ignoring him. Peter noticed that she hunched her shoulders when she wrote. He listened to the scratch of her quill, drank his tea, and ate two more sweet rolls. When there was nothing left on his plate but sticky crumbs, Peter pushed it aside and put his chin in his hand.

"Perhaps you'd better tell me what your interests are," he suggested.

His student looked up from her writing and regarded him with a raised brow. "As you mention it, there is a subject I am most eager to explore."

"Wonderful!" Peter exhaled in relief.

"I've outlined a series of empirical research studies. I have a list somewhere…". His student riffled through an untidy stack of papers. "A-ha." She extracted a sheet from the middle of the pile and handed it to Peter. It read:

1.Handholding

2.Kissing

a.Lips

b.Other

3.Disrobing

4.Sexual Congress

5.Aftermath

Peter looked at his student. Her expression was bland. He glanced over his shoulder. Perhaps Mr. Fulbert was crouched behind a bookshelf, waiting to leap out and catch Peter with this indecent lesson plan. But the library was empty. Peter put down the list and covered his face with his hands. When he looked up, his student's forehead was creased with concern.

"Have I left something out?" She leaned over the table, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of her own writing. "There is shockingly little practical information about this sort of thing. It's either skipped over entirely or couched in flowery euphemisms. You see, now, why I require a tutor."

Peter's mouth was as dry as chalk. "You wish to discuss these activities?"

"I wish to perform them. With you."

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Peter was speechless. His student waited, head tilted in innocent expectation.

"No." Peter slid the paper back across the table.

She tucked it calmly into the pile. "You asked what you could teach me."

"Is this a condition of my employment?" Peter felt as if he were in a bizarre, unpleasant dream. "Will I be dismissed if I refuse?"

She looked hurt. "Of course not. If you decline, we can discuss Homer, or Plato, or whatever you wish."

"Subjects which you will find simplistic and tiresome."

She shrugged. Peter pushed away from the table and stood up. He did not consider himself particularly shy, nor prudish. He certainly had personal experience with all the entries on her list. But nothing since he had entered this library had been as expected, and he didn't feel up to the task of spending even one more minute in it.

"I wish to conclude this meeting and return to my room." Peter's voice was pinched and reedy in his own ears.

His student nodded. "Back the way you came, then up the stairs. Second door on the right."

Peter felt dazed; he would have to be careful not to wander into a closet or break his neck on the landing. His student rose politely to see him off. Their eyes met, and he felt a hot, nervous energy race over his skin.

"Good morning, then, Miss…" He hesitated. "Do you go by your parents' surname? I'm afraid I don't know it."

She gave him a sweet smile. "Just call me Heloise."