The Oxford Inheritance (7 page)

MARGARET JOANNA MADISON.

That was her mother's real name. All the time Cassie had been fruitlessly searching for Joanna Blackwell, she'd been looking for a lie. It was no wonder she hadn't found a mention of her online, in the student records or yellowed old newspaper clippings: the woman she knew as her mother had appeared from nowhere one day in April, when she booked the ticket for America, and left her old life behind in England for good.

Now that she knew her mother's true identity, avenues of research opened up to her again—all those dusty yearbooks she'd scanned were suddenly full of potential once more. Yet Cassie found herself hesitating, reluctant to delve into the tangle of lies her mother had worked so hard to keep hidden. Arriving in Oxford, Cassie's purpose had been so clear: to find out more about her mother's time here, to discover the truth about her father's identity. She had presumed the pregnancy was what sent her mother fleeing back to America, a simple case of a college freshman making a bad decision and putting an ocean between her and the source of that mistake. But now . . .

Now Cassie remembered the ominous note. Dropping out of college and leaving the country was one thing. But Joanna hadn't stopped there. She'd changed her name, casting off her former life so as to leave no trace behind. Cassie couldn't help but feel a shiver of unease.

What had her mother been running from?

As the first week passed and Michaelmas term began apace, Cassie
watched Raleigh settle into its industrious term-time routine. The eager freshmen who had spilled through the college gates at all hours of the night—their drunk and raucous cries echoing up to her attic rooms—could now be found quiet in the college library, contemplating their stacks of reading material with a panicked resignation. Upperclassmen who had sauntered around campus with an easy confidence now hurried along the pathways heads down, the reality of exams and dissertations looming large. Clubs and societies settled into their sports, and soon Cassie's early morning runs were no longer so solitary as she shared her riverside route with crew teams hunched over their oars on the icy waters. Fall took hold of the grounds, turning lush green foliage to a blazing canopy of rust; blustery downpours blurred the edges of the pristine quad muddy and wet, while the winds that whipped through the courtyard and cloisters sent students and staff alike scrambling for warm down coats and ski jackets, and lamb's-wool-lined leather gloves. Cassie learned never to leave her room without a sturdy umbrella.

After the close call in the vaults, Cassie focused on her lectures and first tutorials, which thankfully passed without event—Cassie staying mostly silent as her fellow classmates argued over their essays and dominated the professors' time. She crept around the grounds with her heart in her throat, keeping one anxious eye out for the porter who'd chased her that night. She'd been wearing nondescript dark clothing, with her hood pulled low over her face—she knew it was unlikely he'd even caught a glimpse of her face, let alone be able to recognize her in the crowd—but still she couldn't help but feel her pulse race every time she hurried past the gatehouse lodge, head down, eyes fixed on the stone ground.

Then came the test. She'd been in the mail room, sorting through the usual handful of flyers and committee invitations, when he'd stepped
through the narrow doorway with a fresh batch of mail to deliver. “Sorry,” she stuttered, heart in her throat. She quickly stepped aside for him to reach a mailbox near her, bracing herself for his eyes to widen with recognition, an outraged scowl to descend over his face.

But nothing of the sort had come. “No worries,” he smiled at her, his eyes drifting over her face. “Blackwell?” He checked the label on her box. “I think I've got something . . . Yes, here it is.” He passed her a letter and then set about distributing the rest of his stack.

It wasn't until he'd exited that she sank back against the shelf and exhaled the breath she'd been holding for days now. Reckless, that's what she'd been, stealing Evie's card and hurtling off to break into the vault without planning, without preparation. Cassie felt the ache in her ankle, fading now, and the sting of her grazed palms and knew she deserved them: punishment for risking everything she'd worked for. It had taken her years to gain entry to Raleigh's battlements, and now that she was here, she could have thrown it all away in one night.

But it had been worth it. She was closer than she'd ever been to the truth about her mother, and despite her unease, Cassie's curiosity burned too bright to be ignored. When the week had passed without incident, she gathered up her file and her newfound knowledge of Margaret Madison, and she returned to the Radcliffe Camera library in the city center.

“You're back.” Elliot was pacing at the bottom of the steps of the library, one hand jammed in the pocket of his overcoat while the other, clad in fingerless gloves, clutched a cigarette. “Going to send me running up and down to the basement another hundred times?”

“If it's any consolation, you'll have the best thighs in the city,” Cassie pointed out.

He laughed. “Small mercies.” Stubbing out his cigarette, he held the door ajar for her. “So what are we looking for tonight?”

“Same as before,” she said, passing him the request slips she'd already filled out. He looked at them and frowned.

“But you've already seen these.”

“I need to look again. Sorry.”

Elliot sighed. “I hate this job,” he said, and disappeared into the back.

Cassie made her way into the main reading room, heading for the study carrel she'd adopted in the British history room. A figure emerged from the stacks as she entered, almost knocking into her. “I'm sorry,” she apologized quickly and looked up to find her professor, Tremain, with his arms full of books.

“My fault entirely,” he said automatically, then looked closer. “Ah, Miss Blackwell. A little out of your way, aren't you? Philosophy texts are on the second floor.”

“I prefer it down here,” she explained. “Quieter.”

“Great minds think alike.” He nodded, his gaze drifting around the room absentmindedly before landing back on her again. “How are you getting on with the reading list? Any problems?”

“Only finding the books,” Cassie confessed. “They've all been checked out of the Raleigh library.”

“Ah yes.” Tremain grimaced. “It's a bad habit among some of the other students. They check them out en masse the minute I post the reading lists. You can usually find them here, though, or at the newer Social Science library. It's just a little more of a trek.”

“Thanks,” Cassie replied. “I'll remember that.”

“Have you made it to any of the mixer events yet?” Tremain continued, juggling the books in his arms. “We have a thriving international community at Raleigh, lots of other transfer and study-abroad students.”

“Maybe one day,” Cassie lied.

“You should drop by. Some excellent discussions.”

Cassie nodded and smiled, until Tremain glanced past her. “Well, I better get these back to the front desk before that stern fellow gives me another dressing-down.” Tremain shot a look toward Elliot, then nodded at Cassie. “See you on Friday.”

When Cassie returned to collect the first set of yearbooks from Elliot, she
found him mournfully gazing at his cell phone.

“What's wrong?”

“I have a date tomorrow with a delightful boy from Balliol.”

“And that's bad because . . . ?”

“The other clerk just quit on us yesterday and I have nobody to cover for me.”

Cassie paused, spying an opportunity. “I could do it,” she offered.

“Really?” Elliot narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What's in it for you?”

She paused. The thought of scanning through five years of records all over again was a daunting prospect. Working in the library, she'd get access to all their records and vaults—plus Elliot's help. And besides, she was probably being paranoid with her secrecy. It had been almost twenty-five years since her mother was a student. Whatever had sent her running was probably long gone.

She made a calculated risk. “Maybe you could help me with something. Or rather, someone. I'm trying to find out about an old student here, Margaret Madison.”

Elliot quirked an eyebrow. “This is what you've had me running around for? Who is she, anyway?”

“She's a . . . family friend,” Cassie lied. “She died a few years back. I'd love to find out more about her time here, maybe talk to some of her old classmates.”

There was a noise; Tremain was by the doors, fumbling with an umbrella. Cassie watched him finally force it open and head out, slamming the door behind him.

She turned back. “Do you think you could help?”

“Cover for me tomorrow, and the information is yours.”

“Done!” Cassie felt her spirits lift. “Do you have time to look for anything now?” she asked hopefully.

Elliot snorted. “Easy, girl. I have five thousand returns to process before closing. I'll get to this as soon as I can,” he added, tucking the slip in his pocket. “Thursday or Friday at the latest.”

Cassie bit back her disappointment. “Thanks,” she managed. She'd waited years to get the answers she needed; she could wait another few days. “I really appreciate it.”

With nothing to distract her any longer, Cassie spent the rest of the after
noon working on her essay for Tremain's class. His tips about the reading lists paid off, and Cassie was able to gather most of the resources before settling in back at the attic, deep in theories of corporeal existence and proof of their own existence.

In a way, Cassie could relate to Descartes, and his philosophical kin. They were men in search of certainty and truth, desperate for a system by which to view the world and make sense of all its contradictions and falsehoods. They were enemies of assumption, soldiers for fact, willing to dismantle brick by brick everything they had once believed about themselves—and the world around them—in order to rebuild a more solid foundation. Descartes was asking not just what made him himself, but what, if any, of the external world could really be proven to exist.

Cassie knew his frustration. The story of her life, her mother's life, had always been a fixed point on a shifting horizon—the basic frame of reference for everything she thought she knew about herself. If it was all a lie, then who was her mother? Who was Margaret Madison?

And more important, who then did that make Cassie?

“What are you working on, your first essay?” Evie's voice interrupted
Cassie's thoughts. She looked up to find her roommate digging through the laundry hamper, wearing a long, floating black dress with tangles of gold chain necklaces falling from her throat.

“Yup.” Cassie sighed. “My first philosophy tute is tomorrow. I think I'm done, but I don't know . . .”

“Don't worry about it,” Evie reassured her. “They always make a big deal about the essays, but the truth is as long as you show up ready to discuss the reading material you'll be fine.”

“I hope so.” Cassie thought of Professor Tremain. He'd seemed encouraging, but that was only because she'd barely said a word so far in class.

“You need a break!” Evie decided. “You've been hiding away for weeks now. Come out and have a drink with me.”

“That's kind, but I'm not really in the mood for a night out.”

“It's not ‘out,' not really,” Evie argued. “The Senior Common Room is having a mixer. It's barely across campus.”

“Would I have to put on pants?” Cassie countered.

Evie grinned. “C'mon. I'm not taking no for an answer, not this time. One drink,” she proposed. “All this work isn't healthy. You need to pace yourself, otherwise you'll crack before we get to Christmas break.”

Cassie smiled. “Fine,” she reluctantly agreed. It might not be a bad idea to go out with Evie, to take a break from her mother's ghost and all the studying she still had left to do. “One drink.”

They arrived to find the room already hot, full of people talking loudly
over music, clutching wineglasses and small china plates of crackers and cheese. Cassie looked around, curious. As an undergraduate, she was officially a member of the Junior Common Room. Undergrads had their rooms on the other side of cloisters: a large TV room filled with old couches, and a general room with a pool table and vending machines. Cassie had peeked her head around the door once to find a riot of noise and activity, the teenagers gathering to play loud music on the entertainment system and watch Australian soaps all evening.

The SCR was smaller, but more lavishly appointed, with views over the back lawns, leather seating, and a small bar area with polished countertops and rows of liquor bottles that glittered in the evening lights.

“Let me see who's here . . .” Evie scanned the room as her cell phone let out a buzz. She glanced down, her expression dropping. “Oh shit,
Paige got dumped. Listen, will you be okay if I run out for a sec? I promise I won't be long!”

Cassie opened her mouth to object, but Evie was already gone, her handset pressed to her ear. “The bastard!” Cassie heard her say. “I'm on my way.”

Cassie was tempted to turn right back around again, but she'd changed into real clothes at Evie's urging, and even run a brush through her hair. Her roommate had said she wouldn't be gone long. Cassie could wait fifteen minutes, at least.

The room was packed, so she took a glass of red wine from the full table by the bar and slipped through the crowd, listening to snatches of conversation about European tax policy and South Pacific biological research. For the first time since arriving at Raleigh, she was mixing with people her own age, but now a new tremor of insecurity rose in her chest. These were the real Oxford students: brilliant scholars from all over the world. She couldn't help but feel like an impostor next to their sincere dedication to their studies.