The Thorn and the Blossom: A Two-Sided Love Story by Theodora Goss Page A
Authors: Theodora Goss
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to stay for a week.”
No more surprised than Evelyn had been to make the telephone call. It had been right after the conference with Professor Lambert. She’d gone back to the dorm room, lain down on the bed without taking off her jacket, and stared up at the ceiling.
“What in the world happened to you?” her roommate Chloe had asked. Chloe was actually Lady Chloe Spencer-Morecott, although she was the least ladylike person Evelyn had ever met.
“He said I should write about something other than fairies.” She could still hear Professor Lambert’s words.
Poetry is about what’s real, Miss Morgan. Not this fanciful nonsense
.
“Idiot,” Chloe had said. “Even Shakespeare wrote about fairies.”
“Yeah, but he’s an idiot who’s also poet laureate. Maybe my dad’s right, and I should go to law school.”
You’re so imaginative, Evie
, her mother always said, and not approvingly, either. It seemed as though no one wanted her to be imaginative, not her mother, not Dr. Birnbaum, not Professor Lambert.
“You know what you need?” Chloe said. “To get away from Oxford. You have another week before you fly home, right? Pick someplace and just go. It’ll be good for you.”
The thing about Chloe was, she was usually right. So Evelyn had picked a place and just gone.
Why had she chosen Cornwall? Perhaps it was as simple as the fact that her father’s family had come from Clews. Later, she would go to the graveyard to see if any Morgans were buried there. But this morning she wanted to walk anywhere her feet would take her.
She borrowed a map of the town from Mr. Davies and started out, first down to the harbor to watch the water lap against the sides of the boats that had not gone out that day, the men making repairs or shouting to one another about things she couldn’t understand, things that no doubt had to do with fishing. Then she walked up the main street, past the pub and the shops selling tobacco, knitting wool, antiques. She stopped to look into the window of the antiques store, at the china dogs and silver spoons and a collection of walking sticks. That was when she saw it, reflected in the window: THORNE & SON, BOOKSELLERS .
When she opened the door of the bookshop, a bell rang, but no one appeared. All she could see were shelves from floor to ceiling, old wooden shelves that looked as though they’d stood there for at least a century, filled with books. Not modern best sellers or the latest cookbooks or decorating manuals. These had leather spines, with the titles stamped in gilt, or the sorts of cardboard covers that had once been popular, with the illustrations embossed right on the surface. Even the few paperbacks on the shelves looked old, their covers decorated in art deco style.
She picked one of the leather-covered volumes off a shelf andheld it up to her nose. Yes, there it was. The intoxicating smell of old books. It was one of the reasons she’d wanted to study literature rather than attend law school.
“Were you looking for something specific?” He was tall, wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans, more like a fisherman than someone she would have expected to find working in a bookstore. She noticed thick brown hair that was overdue for a cut and rather nice eyes.
Evelyn stepped back, startled. “I’m sorry. Here.” She handed the book to him. “I was just looking at it.”
He grinned. “You’re allowed to look at the books, you know. This is a bookstore.” He gestured toward the shelves, then said, “I gather you’re not from around here.”
She laughed, partly with relief. “What gave me away, the accent?”
“Yes, and I already know all the pretty girls in Clews. Where are you from, then?” She could feel herself start to blush. How embarrassing. It wasn’t as though she never got compliments. Although they were rare. The boys she’d dated at Harvard hadn’t exactly been romantic types. But she wasn’t about to let him know that.
“Boston. And no, I don’t
No more surprised than Evelyn had been to make the telephone call. It had been right after the conference with Professor Lambert. She’d gone back to the dorm room, lain down on the bed without taking off her jacket, and stared up at the ceiling.
“What in the world happened to you?” her roommate Chloe had asked. Chloe was actually Lady Chloe Spencer-Morecott, although she was the least ladylike person Evelyn had ever met.
“He said I should write about something other than fairies.” She could still hear Professor Lambert’s words.
Poetry is about what’s real, Miss Morgan. Not this fanciful nonsense
.
“Idiot,” Chloe had said. “Even Shakespeare wrote about fairies.”
“Yeah, but he’s an idiot who’s also poet laureate. Maybe my dad’s right, and I should go to law school.”
You’re so imaginative, Evie
, her mother always said, and not approvingly, either. It seemed as though no one wanted her to be imaginative, not her mother, not Dr. Birnbaum, not Professor Lambert.
“You know what you need?” Chloe said. “To get away from Oxford. You have another week before you fly home, right? Pick someplace and just go. It’ll be good for you.”
The thing about Chloe was, she was usually right. So Evelyn had picked a place and just gone.
Why had she chosen Cornwall? Perhaps it was as simple as the fact that her father’s family had come from Clews. Later, she would go to the graveyard to see if any Morgans were buried there. But this morning she wanted to walk anywhere her feet would take her.
She borrowed a map of the town from Mr. Davies and started out, first down to the harbor to watch the water lap against the sides of the boats that had not gone out that day, the men making repairs or shouting to one another about things she couldn’t understand, things that no doubt had to do with fishing. Then she walked up the main street, past the pub and the shops selling tobacco, knitting wool, antiques. She stopped to look into the window of the antiques store, at the china dogs and silver spoons and a collection of walking sticks. That was when she saw it, reflected in the window: THORNE & SON, BOOKSELLERS .
When she opened the door of the bookshop, a bell rang, but no one appeared. All she could see were shelves from floor to ceiling, old wooden shelves that looked as though they’d stood there for at least a century, filled with books. Not modern best sellers or the latest cookbooks or decorating manuals. These had leather spines, with the titles stamped in gilt, or the sorts of cardboard covers that had once been popular, with the illustrations embossed right on the surface. Even the few paperbacks on the shelves looked old, their covers decorated in art deco style.
She picked one of the leather-covered volumes off a shelf andheld it up to her nose. Yes, there it was. The intoxicating smell of old books. It was one of the reasons she’d wanted to study literature rather than attend law school.
“Were you looking for something specific?” He was tall, wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans, more like a fisherman than someone she would have expected to find working in a bookstore. She noticed thick brown hair that was overdue for a cut and rather nice eyes.
Evelyn stepped back, startled. “I’m sorry. Here.” She handed the book to him. “I was just looking at it.”
He grinned. “You’re allowed to look at the books, you know. This is a bookstore.” He gestured toward the shelves, then said, “I gather you’re not from around here.”
She laughed, partly with relief. “What gave me away, the accent?”
“Yes, and I already know all the pretty girls in Clews. Where are you from, then?” She could feel herself start to blush. How embarrassing. It wasn’t as though she never got compliments. Although they were rare. The boys she’d dated at Harvard hadn’t exactly been romantic types. But she wasn’t about to let him know that.
“Boston. And no, I don’t
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