Page 53 of The Spy Who Loved Her
“Don’t apologize,” Emma instructed. “It’s not in the least necessary. I only want you to be comfortable.” But was he? He had thrust one hand intohis pocket and closed his hand into a fist, holding tight to—something. “What have you got there?” she asked.
“It’s nothing,” he said sheepishly, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Only a note.” But he pulled it out of his pocket and passed it over to her anyway.
The paper was worn, as if it had been opened and folded closed time and again, read and re-read dozens upon dozens of times. The ink was somewhat blurred from the constant touch of fingers.
But still, even absent a signature, she recognized the tidy script that flourished across the paper.
Hold your head high and keep your shoulders straight. It is just as important to be perceived as confident as it is to be confident.
Speak slowly, clearly, and calmly. Give yourself as much time to formulate your thoughts as you would give your listener to digest them.
Be firm in your convictions. Disagreement is not in itself disrespect.
Above all, stand tall upon your accomplishments. Where you have come from will never matter half so much as where you are going.
Somehow, in just a few well-chosen words, Rafe had given Josiah the courage to stand upon his own two feet. To brave the interview that had once had him so very terrified alone, without even Emma’s support. All the reassurances in the world could not have come close to offering Josiah what Rafe had: clear, direct instructions on how to navigate perhaps the most daunting experience of his young life.
“Could I—could I have it back?” Josiah asked, a swallow bobbing in his throat. At his side, his fingers flexed in a little nervous gesture, as if waiting for the comfort of the paper placed back into them. It had become a talisman, she thought, to a boy who had desperately needed more than platitudes and reassurances. Rafe hadn’t told him whatwouldhappen—he had told the boy how to secure his future for himself, by himself.
“It’s…it’s good advice,” she heard herself saying. “Do you know who sent it?”
Josiah shook his head. “Neil delivered it a few days past,” he said. “Said it had come for me.”
Because she had told him, Emma realized. She had told Rafe of Josiah’s unfortunate struggle with nerves, and he had taken a few moments out of his day to provide the boy with some desperately-needed advice. Not because he had hadto. But because he had wantedto.
What was she meant to make of that? Nothing sent to her for over a week now, not even so much as a single word of explanation. But he had delivered this to Josiah, because the boy had been in need of it.
“I’m ready,” Josiah said, firming his shoulders. “Would you wait for me, ma’am?”
“Of course,” Emma said. “Of course. I’ll be just outside.” Ready to celebrate him as he deserved, when he had been admitted.
Straightening his shoulders and holding his head high, just as Rafe had instructed, Josiah took a deep breath and walked through the door at last. That first crucial step toward the bright future that lay before him.
Emma blew out a breath and pressed her back against the wall outside the drawing room. “Josiah,” she heard the affable Mr. Rutledge say. “I’ve heard much about you. A true scholar, to my understanding. If you don’t mind, I thought we would conduct your interview in Classical Greek.”
She heard Josiah respond in kind, something in Greek—which she had never studied—but by Mr. Rutledge’s delighted chortle, she assumed it had been enough to impress. It took only a few moments for their discourse to begin in truth, turning animated, vibrant, sprightly. Moments sped into minutes; a quarter of an hour elapsing in the blink of an eye. A half hour. Three quarters.
She had never known an interview take quite so long before. A fresh pot of tea came, and more biscuits, and still Emma waited there in the hallway.
At long last, Mr. Rutledge said, “Good heavens. Is it so late already?” A startled laugh followed, and in its wake a rueful sigh. “I do beg your pardon; I’ve found myself entirely diverted from my purpose. The time has quite gotten away from me.”
That was good. She was certain of it.
“My apologies, Professor. I hope I have not wasted your time,” Josiah said, though to his credit it sounded less contrite and more hopeful.
“Dear boy, never say so.” There was the clink of china as Mr. Rutledge set aside his teacup. “It has been a very long time indeed since I have had the pleasure of so robust a conversation with a prospective student. It is my very great honor to welcome you to Oxford.”
Emma had never been worried, not really. But Josiah hadbeen, and now—now he had secured a place for himself, all on his own. That confidence that he had gained was a gift she had not quite been able to give him. But somehow, Rafe had known exactly what he had needed to hear in order to find it for himself.
Chapter Eighteen
As much as Emma would have liked to believe that Kit had bullied his way past Neil—given the esteem in which she presently held him—in fact, she knew that it was only her own fault that he was now waiting for her within the green salon. She had not, after all, informed Neil that he was not to be admitted. He always had been before.
This was, however, the first time he’d risked a visit by light of day. Always he had constrained himself to the hours well after nightfall, when he was less likely to be noticed or recognized. Often she had felt like a secret he concealed from the world, as if he did not wish to be publicly associated with her. It offered the same sting as that wretchedhalf, which he forced beforesister, with a snide curl of his lip that she had taken as the incontrovertible proof that he thought of her as nothing but an obligation. His only living family, owed some manner of duty.
It was that thought in her head when she swept into the green salon, and said without any concession to even the most minor of pleasantries another visitor might have expected of her, “I believe I was quite clear upon our last meeting. You are no longer welcome in my home.”
His hat dangled from the clasp of his fingers as he dropped his head, and for a moment she was struck only by how…presentable he appeared. For some unknowable reason, he had made the effort to come dressed appropriately, clean-shaven and neat, with a properly tied cravat and clothes that looked well-tailored instead of as if they might have been stripped and stolen from a recently-deceased cadaver.
