Sleeping Beauty by Judith Ivory Page A

or books or chatting in the quiet intonations, the round vowels, of young, well-off gentlemen. She spotted James Stoker at the back. He stood; he’d been holding a table, one under the place’s only window, the outward view being that of passing feet on the sidewalk outside.

    Coco made her way to him, laughing at how out of place he looked. For once, he didn’t look young. In fact, the students gave him a wary berth—a professor in their midst. She, though one of only two women in the room, they made way for without fuss. The regulars were apparently used to her—she had eaten here everyday for almost two weeks.
    At the table, Mr. Stoker and she exchanged hellos, then places. She sat, holding their table, while he gave their orders at the counter, then waited.
    He returned a few minutes later. As he jockeyed a tray over the head of a curly-haired fellow at the next table, he said, “So where are you staying and who are you visiting in Cambridge?”
    “I’m staying with my aunt.”
    “And who, pray tell, is your aunt?” From the tray he unloaded her tea with cream, her eggs and fried toast, tomatoes, mushrooms, bangers; breakfast was Coco’s favorite meal this side of the Channel. He set his own toast and—amazing he ordered it, amazing they had it—a cup of coffee onto the table, then put the tray into the window ledge overhead and sat.
    Unfolding her napkin, Coco told him, “You wouldn’t know her. And I didn’t mean to stay with her.” When he looked far too interested, she waved away query. “Oh, it’s a boring story, honestly. Tell me: Where were you coming from yesterday? Do you lecture here?”
    “Yes. But yesterday was a Senate meeting.” He shoveled one, two, three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, then stirred as he flashed one of his dental-perfect smiles at her. “And I have all morning. Let’s hear your boring story.”

    “I’d rather hear about you. You’re part of the governing body of the university?”
    He left a rueful pause, then allowed himself to be distracted. “The new Chairman of the Financial Board, I’m afraid. Appointed by the Vice-Chancellor. And on more ruddy committees lately than there are camels in Timbuktu.”
    “Which committees? Tell me about them.”
    “Not much to tell. A lot of stuffy old men. I’m the youngest on all the committees, the youngest deputy head of a college, and they don’t let me forget it. I’m called bumptious or headlong at least once a week.” He laughed with cheerful menace. “Which doesn’t stop me from saying what I wish to say anyway and getting what I want most of the time.”
    “And what do you want?”
    He slathered butter onto his muffin. “Besides money for more geological digs and research equipment?” He took her interested silence to mean yes. “Common sense, mostly. For instance, the two women’s colleges wanting admittance to the university should get it, and they and Girton should be allowed to grant degrees.” He laughed. “Which I’m not just saying to impress you with how forward-thinking I am.” Then he slid her a grin, wiggling his eyebrows in that blatantly self-delighted way he had. “All the same, are you impressed?”
    She laughed. “Oh, yes.” She said in half-sincerity, “The vanguard of women’s rights. And an important man. Are you really Head of College?”
    “No, no. Deputy head. Vice-Provost.”

    “Which one?”
    “All Souls.”
    She frowned, smiled, then furrowed her brow as she smiled down into her eggs. He was having her on. “All Souls? Really?” All Souls College at Cambridge was the largest, both in land and enrollment, the richest and most well endowed. One didn’t just become second-in-command there. One campaigned for the position, then used it as a seat of power.
    “Yes. Are you familiar with the college?”
    “Somewhat.” She eyed him in this new light. It had only just registered: “And the Financial Board of the Council of the Senate. You manage the money for the