In Love with a Gentleman (24 page)

“Yes, very much,” I say. “I’m very happy teaching at Gatingstone School.”

Ethan takes a sip from his teacup, then sets it down. “I’ve tried to make it clear to Lea that what she’s doing now is not real teaching. She’s just an assistant teacher, so it won’t always be like this. Right now, the students eat out of her hand. And the fact that she’s a foreigner has a certain exotic appeal.”

He’s doing it again. I can’t believe he’s mercilessly belittling me right in front of his mother. I clear my throat and say, “That would be nice if it were true, but I’m sorry to say I haven’t noticed that. I expect my students to be responsible. It isn’t always easy, because English schoolchildren aren’t all angels. Occasionally I must be quite strict.”

Ethan slaps his thigh and laughs. He’s not usually so open and cheerful in my presence. “What kind of nonsense are you babbling about, Lea? You, strict? Don’t make me laugh. I bet they lead you around by the nose.”

Normally I would have lowered my head and quickly changed the topic. But now I decide to put my new tactic into action. I fix my attention on Ethan coolly and say, “Really? How do you know that? Did you hear this from someone?”

Ethan looks at me sternly. He’s never seen me like this. “No,” he says with determination, “but I know you, Lea. As small and helpless as you always are, you could never hold your ground in front of a class.” He shoots me a furtive glance. He seems troubled that I can match wits with him in front of his mother.

I laugh and shake my head. “It’s so lovely that you’re always so worried about me, Ethan. But I can assure you, just because I’m small and look young doesn’t mean that I’m helpless. When the situation warrants it, I can be very self-confident.”

Ethan’s mother is moving her head back and forth, like a spectator at a tennis match, her brow furrowed. I realize that I need to talk back less; otherwise this visit could end up being quite uncomfortable.

So I say, “But what am I talking about? Of course I can’t really compete with such an experienced teacher as you, Ethan.”

“That’s better, my little mosquito,” he says, and calmly sips his tea.

Mrs. Derby quietly says to me, “I have great respect for anyone who can assert themselves in the classroom. I was the village schoolteacher here before I married Mr. Derby. At that time, it was common practice for a married woman, especially a minister’s wife, to abandon her profession. I was so happy! I hated that school. My husband literally saved me.”

Ethan places one of his large hands over hers. “My dear, sweet mother, I imagine they made mincemeat out of you.” I must agree with him. The idea of this small, delicate woman with her soft voice having to face thirty little devils makes me almost melt with compassion.

“Unfortunately, my husband died much too soon,” she continues. “Ethan was just fourteen, and Theo was twelve at the time. The boys were fantastic. Without them I would have had a much harder time of it.”

As I gaze at Ethan, I feel very touched. This is the first time I’ve heard these things about him. How nice that his mother speaks about him with such tenderness. It makes sense. Because of his father’s untimely demise, Ethan had to take on a lot of responsibility and grow up very quickly.

“It’s very chilly in this room. Wasn’t the heating repairman supposed to come?” Ethan asks. He jumps up, touches the radiator, and frowns. “It feels stone-cold.”

“Oh, I completely forgot,” his mother says. She tugs at her cardigan. “I always dress so warmly, I don’t notice the lack of heat at all. Sorry, Lea, the heater is defective. But you don’t have to freeze. Should I get one of my jackets for you?”

Ethan rolls his eyes. “Mother, I’ve talked of nothing else for weeks. You’ve got to do something. You absolutely
must
call them. The repairman only comes when you nag him.”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Derby whispers. “You’re right. I’ll call first thing on Monday.”

Ethan says angrily, “I can’t take care of everything from Gatingstone. If I come here next time and it’s still freezing, then you can freeze by yourself. You’ll only see me in the summer.”

Mrs. Derby looks at me apologetically. “You see, Lea, I’m absolutely helpless without Ethan. He can be very impatient sometimes, but I’m so glad he looks out for me.”

Hmm. Their exchange is rather disquieting. Ethan used an extremely harsh tone of voice with his mother. Doesn’t she realize that? Apparently not. She sits with her hands folded on her lap and looks at her son with admiration.

Now Ethan finds something else amiss. He bends over and looks under the radiator. “There’s a ton of dust bunnies underneath here. Tell me, Mother, doesn’t Mary Barnsley come twice a week?”

Mrs. Derby says to me, “He means the cleaning lady. A darling soul. She lives in the village.”

“And my mother loves her way too much,” Ethan explains. “She needs to be more strict with her. She didn’t even look under here. She cleans only where she thinks a person can see.”

Mrs. Derby sighs. “I’ll tell her.”

Ethan frowns and says to me, “She says that now. Of course, she won’t say anything because she doesn’t want to hurt Mary’s feelings. Next time we visit, mosquito, pay attention. The same dust bunnies will still be here.”

If I were Ethan’s mother, I would choke the living daylights out of him. But Mrs. Derby only smiles and looks at her son fondly. Then she says, “What do you want to do now? Would you like to take a walk through the village?”

“I wanted to take the car to the mechanic. I still have the winter tires on,” Ethan says. “But knowing you, you’ll probably challenge Lea to a game of Scrabble, anyway.”

She asks, “Do you like to play Scrabble, Lea?”

“It’s my life’s passion,” I reply.

“Good. Then I’ll clear the table, and we can get going.” Her eyes dance with excitement.

“Stay there, Mother,” Ethan says. “Lea can certainly take care of that.”

I gulp. That was totally unnecessary. I would have offered, anyway. And why wouldn’t Ethan offer to help as well? It’s time to give my new plan a chance again. So I say amiably but firmly, “Of course I’ll clear the table. If you help me, it’ll go even faster, Ethan.”

But my sweetheart says, “That’s not going to happen. Washing dishes is women’s work. I’m going!” He stands up and leaves the room. Shortly after, I hear his car pull away.

Mrs. Derby looks at me shyly. “It was always like that in this house. The boys didn’t have to help with household chores.”

Well, great
, I think,
welcome to the last century
. My plan to make Ethan more pleasant and less chauvinistic will take a great deal more effort and commitment than I originally imagined. The computer game comparison again leaps to mind. Ambition, commitment, and patience are key, but I have the sinking feeling that I’ll feel accomplished way more often playing a game on my smartphone than with Ethan.

In any case, Scrabble is a fun pastime for us. We play round after round. She almost always wins.

“That’s only because English is not your native language,” she comforts me. “Despite that, you play astoundingly well.”

“I could never compete with you, even if I had been born in England,” I say graciously.

Mrs. Derby blushes, overjoyed by the compliment. “I’m just crazy about the game,” she says. “It’s like an addiction. Unfortunately, neither Ethan nor Theo enjoy the game, so I play very seldom.”

As I push around the little tiles, it occurs to me that Mrs. Derby is as obsessed with Scrabble as I am with my smartphone game. Apparently, both of us hunger for a sense of achievement and validation. Playing games is a way to get both because we’re ambitious and really good at them. Where else would Mrs. Derby get such affirmation in her life? Perhaps with gardening or cooking. I have a dark notion that she doesn’t get it from her sons, at least not from Ethan. I’ve already seen him with his mother. How sad is that?

During supper I feel Ethan’s hand creep up my thigh under the table in a rather stimulating way. I blush a little and quickly look over at Mrs. Derby, but she doesn’t seem to notice. At bedtime, Ethan and I repair to our separate bedchambers, but only to keep up appearances. It doesn’t take long till I hear a soft knocking on my bedroom door.

Ethan comes in. “Mosquito, I’ve come to pick you up. My bed is much bigger, we’ll be more comfortable there.”

I don’t have to be asked twice. The thought of being under the same roof but down the hall from him, alone in my narrow guest bed, wasn’t very appealing. I follow him on tiptoe into his bedroom. Ethan’s bed really is bigger.

To Ethan, “more comfortable” apparently means naked, while he, as usual, pounces on me. But this time, I place the palms of my hands on his chest and look at him pleadingly. “Do you always have to go so fast, Ethan?” I ask. “Could we slow it down just a little? I’d love to take a little more time and not just get it over with right away.”

Ethan looks at me with irritation. “What kind of notion is that, mosquito?”

“Well, a woman likes it much better if a man takes his time.”

“Where did you get that from? Some women’s magazine?”

“No, I think it’s just common knowledge.”

He lifts an eyebrow and looks at me with amusement. “I would really like to know how you come up with these ideas. They’re new to me.”

Somehow, I come off looking like an airhead. The subject is admittedly rather delicate, so now I feel self-conscious. It’s clear that up till now, Ethan’s never been bothered by it. I’m not suffering under the delusion that I’m his first woman. On the contrary, women are all too willing to hop into bed with him. And I imagine each considered themselves lucky that he gave them the privilege, so none of them would have said a peep, even if it wasn’t a 100 percent positive experience for them. Apparently, in this sphere of his life, Ethan’s never heard a word of criticism.

He lies next to me and stares at the blanket. Then he says, “Okay, little mosquito, come on. I want to make everything right for you.”

What follows is pretty disappointing. I sense that Ethan’s not really into it. Besides, even if his tenderness were more rewarding, I would have still suffered from the knowledge that he would have never dreamed this up himself. Rather, it seems like a nuisance to him. In the end, the sex is great as always, fulfilling and beautiful, but he still could have done a lot better.

Afterward, I lie there awhile, staring at the ceiling.
Oh boy
, I lament.
There’s still so much work to do to make our relationship viable, much less perfect. I’m hung up on level 5 with Ethan
. If this were a game, I would be genuinely frustrated. But it’s worth the effort so I can spend the rest of my life with my dream man. What more could I want?

Chapter 12

The weekend flew by. Of course, it could have been nicer and more relaxing. Ethan looked at me pensively sometimes, as if wondering what was going on with me. As we drive back to Gatingstone on Sunday evening, I know that my new plan is to blame for the lack of harmony. But I want to try to stay with Ethan, this time on my terms.

The way Ethan interacted with his mother gave me a picture of where I would be in a few years if we were to marry and I stayed submissive, compliant, and self-sacrificing. The whole situation reminds me of Edwin’s digging up remnants of the past in his parents’ garden. Buried somewhere deep inside me are the remnants of the old, self-confident Lea. They are too precious to just fall into oblivion forever. It’s a matter of digging them out, dusting them off, and allowing them to shine once again. But it’s ridiculously tiring and gives me a headache. I’m walking a dangerous tightrope. If I proceed too brazenly, I risk losing Ethan.

By the time I’m back at Alice’s, I’m truly exhausted. Of course, Alice, like most women, is enthralled by Ethan. “He’s so incredibly handsome,” she gushes. “Lea, tell me your secret—what does a person have to do to win such a man’s affection? I would kill to be that lucky. You must be so happy.”

“Yes, I am,” I reply listlessly. I turn away quickly, so she can’t see my face.

That night I play the game on my smartphone until I’m practically comatose. I make my way slowly up, level by level. If my parents had known this gift would awaken such an alarming game addiction within me, would they have still given it to me? Sometimes I surf Facebook to see what’s going on back home. The posts my friends share seem so unimportant and banal to me. Most of the time, I log off quickly to play my game again. Jens continues to initiate contact. He wants to know what I’m doing, whether anything exciting is going on, if I’m happy. He doesn’t give up easily. Sometimes I find his perseverance quite touching. Generally, I try to ignore him. Only very occasionally do I write him back a short message, nothing more.

The weather’s getting warmer and the days longer. Alice tells me she would be thrilled if I could do a little yard work. I agree immediately—now that the Cambridge exam is behind me, I don’t have to study so hard, plus the yard is so small and manageable. I carefully mow and edge the lawn, until Alice says it looks like Priory Park’s monastery gardens. I hoe the flower beds until there’s not a weed to be found. One flower bed is right next to the brick wall, which borders a neighboring cottage. I remove all the dry undergrowth I can find, gather it in a pile, and throw it in the yard waste.

That evening Alice and I are sitting inside, looking out at the garden and enjoying the fruits of my labor. The yard looks really neat and manicured. Alice suddenly squints and stares at the wall, where a trellis is overgrown with lush vegetation. Well, the vegetation
was
lush; now the branches hang down listlessly.

“What in heavens happened to my clematis?” says Alice. “It’s grown so beautifully this spring.”

I feel hot and cold all over. I remember the undergrowth I removed this afternoon. The shoots were a strange brown color. “Maybe my yard work didn’t agree with it,” I say sheepishly.

Alice goes to the window and looks at the mess a little more closely. “I’ll be damned,” she says. “You practically pulled the whole plant up by the roots.”

I follow her gaze and realize that by clearing the undergrowth, the clematis was no longer planted in the ground. Crap. I went overboard with my mania for neatness. I’m completely devastated. “Alice, I’m so terribly sorry. How can I make it up to you? Should I get you a new one?”

But Alice is quiet, and her whole body is shaking. I realize that she’s laughing so hard she can’t speak. “I call that a really good job,” she finally says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

I sigh in relief.
How wonderful
, I think,
that someone like Alice can so easily laugh at my mishap
. I confess that I laugh with her for a while, too.

“Don’t worry about it,” Alice says generously. “Clematis is a robust plant. It will recover and grow even more beautifully and prolifically than before—unless, of course, you pull it up by the roots again.” She starts laughing once more.

“I swear I won’t,” I say, smiling. Something’s nagging at me. How would Ethan have reacted to what just happened? He wouldn’t have found it nearly so funny. Presumably, I would have been given a little lecture.

The Easter holidays arrive, and Catherine asks me whether I’ve decided to come with them to Cornwall. I would love to see Cornwall, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be doing something with Ethan. I look forward to the holidays with mixed feelings. I know that I won’t feel as excited about traveling with him as in the past. Instead, I’ll be tense because I’ll be thinking so much about our relationship. Sometimes I feel like he’s responding positively to my new plan. It’s probably not much fun to hang out with a little gray mouse all the time. But when things are going well, a feeling comes over me that it’s only because I’m acting invisible and shutting the real Lea up. I feel like I’m on a long hike, and for every two steps forward, I take one step back.

One night we get into a real fight—our first one ever. Ethan picks me up at Alice’s to go out to eat. I wear something especially nice—something a little sexy (but not too sexy), makeup, the whole deal, just the way Ethan likes it. We drive into the country and pull up to an old, beautiful inn, the type found everywhere in England.

As we’re sitting at the table studying the menu, Ethan asks me suddenly, “Have you packed yet?”

I look up from the menu in confusion. I was just thinking whether I’d rather have lamb with spring vegetables and mint sauce or a shrimp omelet. “Packed?” I ask.

“Yes, for Wales.”

“Wales?” I repeat.

“We’re driving to Wales over the Easter holidays. I’ve already booked a hotel room.”

This is news to me. I lay my menu down and look at him quietly. Wales. A few months ago, I would have leapt to my feet and hugged him, but
A
, he’s forbidden that kind of “attack,” and
B
, I feel like my wishes have been completely disregarded. I would have loved if he’d consulted me first about whether I want to travel over Easter and, if so, where.

I say carefully, “This is the first time that you’ve mentioned any plan of our traveling together over the holidays.”

Ethan looks at me indulgently. “I might have forgotten to mention it to you, but it could also very well be that I did, and, once again, you just weren’t listening.”

I feel revulsion rising inside me. “Ethan,” I say. My voice is shaking, although I try to control it. “You simply can’t do that to me. You can’t make decisions for me, and you can’t always assume I’ll be at your disposal. You simply can’t take my freedom of choice away from me.”

“And why not, little mosquito?” he says, leaning forward with a look of amusement on his face. “Somebody’s got to make decisions for you. Somebody’s got to take care of things so you don’t do something stupid.”

So this is what it’s come to
, I think. Next thing I know, I will be deprived of my rights altogether. “That’s not okay. I’m not just some cute insect. I’m an independent adult, and you must treat me like one.”

“On the contrary, you
are
cute,” Ethan murmurs. “You’re so cute, in fact, I have half a mind to give the menus back and get a room upstairs.”

This is the last straw. I slam the menu down on the table and snarl, “Great. Let’s give the menus back. But then we’ll go outside to the car and you’ll drive back home to Gatingstone.”

Ethan is completely shocked. “What is the matter with you, Lea?”
Now
he calls me Lea.

“I’m sick and tired of you steamrolling me and forcing me to do only what you want to do. I’m sick and tired of you acting as though I’m some troublesome crumb that’s fallen on your shirt.” My voice is shrill. The guests at a neighboring table turn and stare at us. Ethan doesn’t like this at all, but at the moment I could care less what Ethan likes or doesn’t like. I have to release my pent-up frustration; otherwise, I might explode. “Something’s got to give. Either I have to change, or you, or we both do. But one thing is clear: the way things are between us now cannot continue.”

Ethan looks me directly in the eye and says, unmoved, “Good, then I suggest we start with you. We probably don’t need to do anything else after that.”

That’s it. I’ve heard enough. I spring to my feet and storm out of the restaurant, leaving Ethan sitting at the table. In front of the inn, I pull my cell phone from my purse. My hands shaking, I call a taxi; less than five minutes later, it arrives and takes me back to Gatingstone. As I sit in the back, I replay the scene at the inn over and over again in my mind, like a defective DVD. I can’t believe what Ethan said. His words still ring in my ears: “Good, then I suggest we start with you. We probably don’t need to do anything else after that.” Does Ethan not realize how much I’ve changed since I’ve been with him? That I’ve bent over backward to please him? I can barely recognize myself. I cry quietly. I pull out a handkerchief, awkwardly trying to hide it from the taxi driver. Can somebody please tell me how much more I can possibly change? I don’t have the energy or the imagination for it.

At the same time, a feeling of resistance comes over me. Damn it, I don’t want to change any more. If I want to change anything at all, I want to go back to the old joyful, exuberant Lea that I was before I met Ethan. I make a quick decision and pull out my smartphone. I write two texts. One goes to Ethan:
Need a time-out. I’m definitely not going with you to Wales
. The other goes to Catherine:
I’ve made my decision. I’d love to go with you to Cornwall. I look forward to it
! I’ve just barely sent the two texts when I suddenly feel I made a mistake and would like to take them back. But the old Lea stops me. I distract myself by playing a bit of my favorite game. I’m interrupted twice. One text says:
Hurray! Cornwall is going to be so much fun with you. So happy
! The other one says:
Okay, if you say so
.
Nothing more. Great. That is a definitive answer.

The taxi stops at Weaver’s Mews. I pay the fare and go inside the house. I feel miserable. Maybe I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life. Actually, I’ve
definitely
just made the worst mistake of my life. I’ve done exactly what I’ve desperately wanted to avoid for months. I’ve turned Ethan against me. Have we arrived at the game-over phase of our relationship? Hopefully not. I love him. No—I’m totally
addicted
to him. Cornwall is going to be horrible. I’ll crawl around like a junkie who’s had to go cold turkey. I grimly pack my suitcase for the trip. Now and then I have the urge to burst into tears, but all I have to do is recall our fight, then pull myself together and think,
This was the right decision.

The paradox with Ethan is that he systematically eliminated everything in me that was childish, funny, and easygoing. He wanted me to grow up and be serious as quickly as possible. But now, although he’s fairly happy with the results, he still treats me like a little kid, condescendingly and disrespectfully.

I wish Ethan had liked me the way I was from the very beginning and treated me with respect and admiration. This time-out is absolutely the right move. During the weeklong excursion to Cornwall, I’ll have time to think about ways I can improve our relationship. Once the trip is over, I’ll have a new plan. Everything’s going to be okay.

Three days later, a red Citroën pulls in front of Alice’s house. I throw my suitcase in the trunk and sit in the backseat. Catherine is in the passenger seat, and a girl with the same light skin as Catherine and flaming red hair is sitting in the driver’s seat. She turns around and says, “Hi, Lea. I’m Catherine’s sister, Denise. It’s so wonderful you’re coming with us.”

“Thank you for inviting me. Where’s Inez?”

“We’re picking her up in Brantwood. Then we’ll go through London and head toward the coast.”

Despite my sorrow, I start to feel happy about the upcoming week with my friends. Hearing the word “coast” lifts my spirits. I love the sea. Tonight I’ll probably be on the beach in Cornwall, dipping my feet in the water.

“Where are we going to stay?” I ask.

Catherine says, “I found a place on the Internet. It’s a vacation house in Polperro, an old harbor on the bay.”

It sounds heavenly. Wales would also have been great, but all I want to do is relax, not stress out over my relationship.

It’s a long drive to Cornwall. Luckily, it’s Sunday, so we can go straight through London. Otherwise, the drive would be even longer. Denise drives her little Citroën along streets that would otherwise be bumper-to-bumper during rush hour traffic. We marvel as we pass the huge white dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, where Prince Charles married Lady Di. It’s surrounded by tall bank buildings. We’re soon on the outskirts of London again, but still have four long hours until we arrive at our destination.

After driving for a while, Denise admits she’s tired, so I get behind the wheel. I love to drive. In all modesty, I’m pretty good at it. It doesn’t take long before I’m used to driving on the left side. I sit up straight and proud.
Ethan doesn’t know anything about my strengths
, I think. When we’re together, he always drives. I’m not sure he even knows I have a driver’s license. Would he ever allow me to drive if we were married? I have a hunch he wouldn’t be crazy about the idea at all.

After resting, Denise takes over the wheel again, and I go back to my old seat. I pick up my smartphone and amuse myself with my game.

“What are you doing on your phone?” Inez asks.

Catherine winks, then says, “I think I know. She has to keep in constant contact with her boyfriend.”

“How is the irresistible Ethan, anyway?” Inez asks. “What’s he doing over the holiday?”

“I have no idea,” I murmur as I concentrate on my game.

Catherine and Inez exchange looks. “Does that mean what I think it means?” Catherine asks.