In Love with a Gentleman (4 page)

Jens turns on the navigation system and puts the car in drive. The girls settle down after a while, but Jens has to stop once, so that one girl can throw up. Then the limo smoothly continues on its way, purring gently. Occasionally the female voice of the navigation system gives a direction. Otherwise, it’s warm and silent in the car.

At some point, the limo stops and I open my eyes. Confused, I realize that I fell asleep. My head is on Jens’s shoulder.

“End of the line, Lea,” he says gently. “You’re home.”

It takes me a second to come to my senses. Then I pick up my shoes and purse. I find my keys and get out of the car. Jens, still the perfect chauffeur, holds my door open for me.

“Is it the end of the line for us, too?” he asks quietly.

“I’m afraid so,” I mumble. I touch his stubbly chin, then hurry to my front door. Less than ten minutes later, I lie down in bed and fall asleep instantly.

Chapter 2

The following week, I’m so busy with travel planning, packing, and running errands, I hardly think of Jens at all. My room is rented immediately by a female student from Portugal. I free up space in my closet by stuffing everything in large duffel bags and dragging them all up to the attic. When I come across my black high heels, I think of Hohensyburg. I was lucky such a disastrous evening had ended so well. Unfortunately, Jens wasn’t as happy with the outcome. I know he fell for me, but I’m sure he’ll forget all about me soon enough.

I search my heart a little. Was I interested in him at all? My answer is definitely no. I’m even a little glad that I have a bona fide excuse for not seeing him again. He’s simply not my type, but he’s such a nice guy that it would have really been tough for me to tell him that.

I look at my shoes, slightly perplexed. What should I do with these things? Should I take them to England? Then I remember that I’m going to a very small English village. There won’t be any wild discos or lavish parties where I’d need them. I throw the shoes into a duffel bag and take it up to the attic with the rest of my belongings.

I’m heading to England for a year to work as an assistant teacher at a comprehensive school, the equivalent of a public high school. Although I was very diligent about studying English and got very good grades, my actual language skills are not very impressive. My hope is that a year abroad will change that. Also, I had no say in choosing a school—your assignment is always a surprise. I was assigned to a school in Gatingstone, about an hour’s drive northeast of London in Essex County. Although I’ve been assured that traveling to London is a no-brainer—many villagers commute to London daily—I figure a reputable teacher probably shouldn’t be hanging out in trendy London clubs on a regular basis. No, I’ll be better off hanging out with my books in the evenings. Anyway, over the course of the next year, I have to finish my entire required-reading list for the Cambridge exam.

I did Google Gatingstone, of course. The village has about thirty-five hundred residents, and I saw a few nice pictures of cute little houses and a red-brick mansion. I imagine the village is very old; it’s said that Queen Elizabeth I once stayed there overnight. Judging by the description of Gatingstone, it seems they roll up the sidewalks way before midnight. Oh, and the student body is quite diverse. There’s a large car factory nearby, and the factory’s international staff from Germany, France, and Spain send their children to the school where I’ll be teaching.

Instead of my torture-shoes, I pack several pairs of sensible flats as well as a few pairs of jeans. I’m not sure whether a teacher in England can wear jeans to work, but presumably I’ll have some free time. I vacillate over what else to pack. Winter boots or not? I’m bringing my luggage on the train, so my suitcase can’t be too heavy. Perhaps I can buy things I need when I’m there . . . But since assistant teachers are not well paid, it’s probably best to bring anything I need.

So much to think about! What will the accommodations be like? The headmaster made arrangements for me. He wrote in an e-mail that I’ll be staying in an older couple’s house. However, because my landlords will be on vacation when I arrive, I’ll stay with a student’s family for the first two weeks. What if it turns out to be a nightmare? What if I’m unhappy with where I’m staying?
Oh, it’ll be okay. My indomitable optimism chases away my concerns. I’m excited about my trip to England.

A few days later, I find myself on a ferry from Calais to Dover. I decided against traveling through the Chunnel. Although my friends assured me that it is the fastest and cheapest way to travel, the concept scares me. Whizzing deep into the bosom of Mother Earth in a tunnel underneath the English Channel? How scary is that? A person needs nerves of steel for that kind of thing. Alternatively, I could have booked a flight, but then I couldn’t take all the luggage I need. Besides, I like the idea of taking such a monumental journey—a whole year in another country—in a more traditional way.

I store my bags in the overhead bins and stay out on the deck for the duration of the crossing. I’m too excited to sit still. The sea is calm, and the sun is shining. I lean on the railing and look over to the English mainland. Chatty travel companions and parents with small children, who are all running around and playing, surround me. The wind blows my hair and clothes. Now and then I turn my head so the wind can blow against my face. The White Cliffs of Dover appear in the distance. It’s the first time that I’ve traveled by ferry to England, and I am amazed by how impressive the cliffs look. I had no idea they soar so high. Along the top of the cliffs, I can see tiny points moving up and down. Apparently, these are people looking down at us. I wonder if there’s a railing up there. I hope so.

As the ferry comes into port, I quickly pick up my bags and get in line with the other passengers who are waiting to go ashore. The tranquility that I enjoyed on the deck ends quickly once I’m off the ferry. People are scurrying everywhere, and officials stand around, wanting something from everyone. I just want to get away, find my train to London, and move on. Almost an hour later, I’m finally able to catch my train. It’s evening rush hour, and the train is full to bursting. Scraps of conversation in English swirl around me. I try to understand, but so many people are talking at once I can’t make sense of anything.

Lugging my heavy bags, I move through the packed train and find an open seat. An obese man is standing in the middle of the aisle, blocking my way like a cork in the neck of a wine bottle. We’re at a standstill. Two slim girls try to push past us. I squeeze myself into a compartment. Inside, the passengers give me dirty looks.

The fat man hisses at me, “How can you be so stupid and travel with such heavy luggage at this time of day? Completely thoughtless.”

I bite my tongue so I won’t say,
How can you be so thoughtless and bring your big, fat ass on the train during rush hour
? Of course, I resist the temptation. I don’t want people to chalk me up as just another rude German. My accent would be a dead giveaway.

Our train stops at Victoria Station and bursts open like a piece of ripe fruit. My fellow passengers and I spill out onto the platform. I pull my suitcases clumsily behind me. I also have a shoulder bag with a strap that’s constantly slipping off my shoulder. Every time it slips off, I have to stop, put down my suitcases, and fix the strap. Then I can go again. Why do English train stations smell so strange? They reek of tar and carbolic soap, a special cleaning agent probably prescribed by law for all public buildings—cheap and pungent.

The London Underground’s concourses are never ending. I walk a long distance, tired and exhausted. Finally I find the train to Colchester and an unoccupied compartment, too. I’m half dead from exhaustion. I drop into the seat and look around. In contrast to the train from Dover to London, you can’t move between compartments. Each compartment has two benches that face each other and a door on the right and left. I notice with concern that there’s no way to go from compartment to compartment. It’s locked, and you’re trapped like a rat. What do you do if somebody boards and tries to rob you or even worse? This is even scarier than whizzing along in a train under the English Channel. But I don’t want to think about it. I’m so tired. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the cushion. It’s already dark. An elderly couple boards the train, muttering very quietly and peacefully. Their voices blend in with the steady rattle of the train’s wheels.

After a while, I open my eyes. We’ve stopped. The pair gets off the train, and I’m all alone in the compartment. A glance at the clock and a station sign confirms that I’ve almost arrived at my destination in Brantwood, where my host will pick me up.

I check to make sure my luggage is within easy reach. I’m worried that I’ll forget something in the rush to get off the train. The train begins to slow down again. I look out the window and see the sign saying Brantwood. I get up and stretch, then pull the strap of my shoulder bag on. The train stops, its brakes squealing loudly. I reach for the door handle—and find nothing. There is no door handle.

It’s like a nightmare. I know the train will move on again soon, and I have no idea how to get out of the compartment! I bang on the window. Someone standing on the station platform gestures that I should open the window, which I do with lightning speed. At least that works.

The man reaches through the small open window. He finds a tiny lever—I swear it’s really tiny—and pushes it to one side. The door swings open, and I’m free. Trembling, I reach for my suitcases, but he picks them up with his strong hands and swings them on down to the platform. He stands in front of me. He is big and broad shouldered with dark hair.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice quivering.

He raises a hand to his forehead and salutes. There is something like amusement in his dark eyes.
You must be stupid not to be able to open a compartment door
,
his
look seems to say. Then he turns around and disappears into the darkness.

I stand on the platform. I’m all alone. The station is deserted, and there is no one to ask for help. Where are my hosts? What do I do if no one arrives to pick me up? I drag my suitcases in front of the small railway station and sit on one of them. There’s a red telephone box. I wonder whether I should try to call the Seafields, my provisional hosts.

While I’m rummaging through my purse for their phone number, a large Volvo stops in front of the station. Its doors burst open. A tall, slender woman with short red hair and a teenage girl with long hair and dark eyebrows rush toward me.

“You’re Lea?” the woman asks breathlessly.

“Yes,” I say.

“Oh, I hope you’re not too upset that we’re late! I had to pick up my daughter, Linda, from sports practice.” She nods in the direction of the girl, then holds out her hand. “I’m Melissa Seafield.”

I shake her hand and say, “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Seafield.”

She has a warm, sparkly laugh. “For God’s sake, please don’t call me that! Call me Melissa. Get in. We’re going to Powlands Farm. I’m sure you’re completely exhausted and hungry, you poor thing!”

We stow my bags in the trunk and drive off. About half an hour later, we stop in front of a Low Country house. The windows are lit, and it looks warm and inviting. The front door opens, and a small dog with delicate limbs dashes out and dances around us, barking happily. Melissa and Linda roll my suitcases into the house, and inside I see sturdy furniture, dark oak floors, fine Persian rugs, and antique-looking oil paintings. Before I know it, I’m nestled on an extremely soft sofa, spooning warm soup into my mouth between bites of crispy toast. Melissa and Linda each sit in a chair and admire me, as though they’ve never met someone from another country.

“Do you like it?” Melissa asks.

I nod. The green soup tastes delicious, even though I have no idea what’s in it.

“Is this pea soup?” I guess.

Melissa laughs her sparkly laugh. “No, it’s not pea soup. It’s watercress!”

Watercress. Aha. Which tree does that grow on? I decide not to ask, not wanting to appear foolish.

A man enters the living room. He has the same dark eyebrows as Linda.

“This is Morris, my husband,” Melissa says. “Morris, this is Lea, our guest from Germany.”

Morris shakes my hand. “How was your trip?” he asks.

I say truthfully, “Extremely exhausting. The worst part was that I almost missed my stop.” I tell them about my futile search for the door handle and how a stranger helped me at the last minute.

“Oh, how terrible,” Melissa says sympathetically. “It’s true—the door handles are actually very hard to find. Don’t you think, Morris?”

Morris mumbles something unintelligible. He’s bent over the fireplace, stoking the cozy fire. I feel pleasantly warm. Though I try hard not to be rude, I can’t keep my eyes open.

“You should go to bed,” Melissa says resolutely, noticing my exhaustion. “Come on. Let me show you the guest room.”

I get up and shuffle up the creaky wooden stairs behind her. She opens the door to the guest room. It’s decorated with tasteful green-ivy wallpaper, and there’s a large four-poster bed. Melissa shows me the bathroom, then goes back downstairs. Within ten minutes, I am fast asleep.

The next morning, the sunlight shining through the white tulle curtains wakes me up. I stretch and get out of bed. I want to look out the window and see where I am in the daylight. What’s out there, anyway? I take a step—and almost fall on my face.

I realize that the floor in my room is sharply slanted toward the window. If I were to put a ball on the wooden planks, it would definitely roll down. Carefully, I step forward, push aside the curtains, and look out. I see a pristine landscape: stubbly yellow fields scattered among groups of small dark trees and in the distance a picturesque windmill, its blades turning gently in the wind. I sigh. It’s so beautiful!

I get dressed quickly and hurry downstairs. It’s Sunday, and I wonder whether my hosts are already up. Indeed. In the country kitchen, Melissa’s cooking on a huge cast-iron stove. Morris is at the breakfast table, rustling through his newspaper.

“Good morning,” Melissa says. “Do you like goat yogurt?”

Do I like goat yogurt? Hmm. Good question. I’ve never had it.

Two minutes later, I’m sitting at the breakfast table, eating goat yogurt. It’s the best yogurt I’ve ever tasted. It’s light, creamy, and smooth—and tastes a little like it has a hint of amaretto in it.

I tell this to Melissa, who laughs and says, “That’s because the yogurt is so fresh. I only made it yesterday.”

I suppose that this amazing woman, with her infectious laugh and quiet husband, keeps a goat, which she cares for and milks. This is astounding to me. The house is so elegant and dignified a goat doesn’t fit into the picture. What other surprises await me here?

For starters, there is the family’s younger son, Edwin. He’s ten years old and attends a so-called prep school—a preparatory school for one of the most expensive and prestigious private boarding schools in the country. His seventeen-year-old brother, Andrew, already attends that boarding school and will graduate soon. Linda, on the other hand, attends the comprehensive school, where I’m going to start teaching tomorrow. I ask Linda why she doesn’t also go to the boarding school. Melissa replies, with some embarrassment, that because boarding schools are insanely expensive, it’s not unusual to send only the family’s male offspring. The girls go to a regular school because it’s more affordable. I think to myself,
That’s understandable, but by no means fair
. But I say nothing.