Page 25 of Cross My Heart
I shake my head. “I mean, I’m not a total nun,” I tell them, rolling my eyes. “I had a few relationships after college that kind of fizzled out. Then I had some family stuff I was dealing with,” I say vaguely. “So I wasn’t in the right headspace to get close with anyone.”
That’s an understatement. Emotional intimacy hasn’t exactly been my strong point, and after Wren died, it was just about impossible to think about opening up—not when it was taking everything I had not to fall apart. It was only deciding to come to Oxford and hunt down the truth that lifted me out of my fog of grief. A welcome ray of clarity cutting through the pain.
Now, men should be the last thing on my mind.
“Well, if you change your mind, poetry guy isn’t that unfortunate looking,” Jia offers. “And OK, he has this weird sneeze, but he’s really very sweet!”
“Thanks,” I smile. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
We finish up with breakfast,and they head off to the library, while I make my way back to Ashford College in plenty of time for my next seminar.
It’s Saint’s class.
I climb the narrow stone staircase to his office, my nerves and anticipation skittering in my chest. I have no idea what to expect this time around—especially considering everything that happened over the weekend. But no matter what, I won’t let him lord it over me and exclude me from class again.
I’ve done all the reading, submitted my essay last night with plenty of time to spare, and now I’m so early, that when I step into the room, I find it totally empty: I’m the first one here.
OK then.
I take a seat on the most comfortable-looking battered armchair, pull out my notes, and wait. It’s a charming old room, packed with bookcases and mismatched furniture. Sunlight falls through the iron-paned windows, and the sound of birdsong and passing student voices filters in from outside. It would be relaxing, if I wasn’t already on edge, wondering what’s about to go down.
Does he know it was me?
There’s a clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and then the other students arrive, followed by Saint himself. His hair is damp from the shower, and the sleeves of his cashmere sweater are rolled up to reveal lightly-tanned forearms with a dusting of hair.
He sets down a coffee cup, and a battered leather satchel. “Ms. Peterson, I see you’re on time today,” he says, giving me an inscrutable smile.
“And you’re all of three minutes late,” I reply lightly, flashing a smile. “How about that? I guess you won’t ask yourself to leave.”
He smiles wider, amused. “Not unless you’d like to lead the group in discussion today?”
“Thanks, but I’m here to learn.” I sit back, playing it cool even though my heart is racing.
Is there a glint of recognition in his eyes? Or is this just his usual enigmatic charm?
I’m not sure, but as the session gets underway, I’m on high alert, watching him for any sign—and trying my best to keep pace.
“A common misconception of the libertine writers is that they were focused solely on pleasure,” Saint is saying, discussing the essay topic he posed. “But in that era, to even publish works depicting explicit or sexual content was a truly radical act. We can read these works not just as explorations of desire, but as political statements, too. Standing against all established social conventions and challenging the moral authority of the church.”
He pauses, looking around the room. The other students are rapt, scribbling notes from his every word, but I’m sitting back, listening carefully. Saint’s gaze lands on me. “Thoughts, Ms. Peterson?”
“On…?” I prompt him.
“The topic at hand. Your essay was certainly interesting,” he adds, flipping through the papers beside him to find it. “Why don’t you share your ideas with the group?”
Shit.
I feel a bolt of insecurity, as everyone turns to me. The other students in the group are all serious scholars who deserve to be here. I’m the imposter, trying to cover my ass for as long as I can.
“Well… I…” I stammer, checking my notes. “I guess I just find it interesting that these are all accounts of male pleasure. What we think of as libertine philosophy—what your reading list, and all the critics cover—is just men writing about their own desires and fantasies. I understand that women were rarely published in the era, or even able to access education enough to write, but it’s still a limited framework. Theses authors are seen as revolutionary and provocative, but what would be really revolutionary is a woman’s account of the same thing.”
“There’s plenty of discussion of female pleasure, too,” Saint corrects me. “Fanny Hill, for example.La Nouvelle Justine…”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “All written by men. Their perspective, their fantasies. They’re not the same thing.”
“Are they not?” Saint arches an eyebrow at me. “I would guess there are common themes. Shared ideas that both sexes enjoy.Shared experiences…”
He lingers on the words, just long enough. Our eyes meet, and there’s no mistaking the smug recognition in his eyes.