Page 42 of The Tartan Thesis

My head swivels to look at him, and Maeve’s pen clatters to the floor. She’s digging under our table to retrieve it as Torin goes on.

“It’s true that the fight between Presbyterianism and the other emerging denominations was ongoing and at times, deadly, especially in Scotland. Still, the fear and intolerance of Catholicism was alive and well during the time of Charles II. Also, the xenophobic attacks Beau mentioned weren’t only levied against clergy and peasantry. Nobles and their retinue experienced them, too. There’s a humorous account of Nell Gwynn, one of Charles’s mistresses, whose carriage was attacked by a stone-throwing mob in Oxford, who believed she was one of his French mistresses. She opened the carriage window and shouted to the crowd: ‘Pray, good people, be civil. I am the Protestant whore.’”

Laughter ripples through the room, and even Professor Drummond chuckles. Torin looks over at me and smiles. I give a small nod of gratitude, my chest relaxing, my belly warming.

Maeve brushes her elbow against mine, the movement subtle enough that anyone watching might think she’d simply shifted in her seat. She keeps her eyes on the professor, though the corner of her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. The moment was not lost on her. Judging by the sideways looks drifting our way from a few classmates, I doubt it was lost on anyone.

Professor Drummond seems pleased as he continues to move the discussion. He strolls slowly across the front of the room, hands clasped behind his back, guiding us through the final threads of the topic. Every now and then he pauses to challenge someone’s interpretation or gently redirect a point that’s wandered too far from the source material.

At the end of the hour the professor thanks us for our contributions, then says, “Just one final item before we conclude our studies together: I hope to see all of you at the end-of-term gathering that Maeve put together. We’ll meet in the department boardroom at four o’clock for a spot of revelry before you all rush off on holiday. That gives you a couple of hours to put on something festive.” He gives the desk a light tap with his palm. “Class dismissed.”

Maeve pipes up, “Be there, or be square!” her voice bright with theatrical enthusiasm. Then she pauses like she’s reconsidering her marketing strategy. “Actually, just be there.”

Laughter echoes through the room again as chairs scrape, bags unzip, and people pack up books and laptops, the usual end-of-class shuffle. As I slide my notebook into my bag I look over and see Torin watching me. When our eyes meet, he glances away, suddenly becoming very interested in the papers in front of him, gathering them into an orderly stack with far more care than necessary. He blushes, and my heart gives a small traitorous flutter. Maybe I was wrong about his reaction to our almost-kiss. Maybe he’s just as interested in me as I am in him.

There’s only one way to find out.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk over to him. “Are you going to be at Maeve’s mixer?”

He looks up, seeming surprised and—maybe this is wishful thinking—pleased. “Aye,” he says, too loud, then brings his voice down. “I’ll be there. I just need to change.”

I lean casually against the edge of a nearby desk, letting a grin tug at the corner of my mouth. “No need to change, Torin. I like you just the way you are.”

“I mean my clothes. I—I need to change my clothes,” he says, but his correction isn’t pedantic like in the past. He seems flustered, fingers fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves, reminding me of the first time we met.

“Right, of course,” I say, pushing myself upright and holding back a smile. “I guess I’ll do the same and see you there?”

“See you there,” he repeats, his face flushing.

When I arrive at the department’s holiday mixer, most of the faculty are already gathered and seem like they’ve been at it for a while. They’re louder than I generally hear them, and laughter bursts out from different corners as clusters of professors linger around tables covered with platters of biscuits and cheese. They’re still dressed in their business attire, blazers, wool skirts, crisp button-downs, so I feel a little foolish in my—artfully—tacky Rudolph Christmas sweater, complete with flashing red bulb for a nose that’s blinking merrily away.

Luckily, Maeve sees me from the other side of the room and yells, “Beau!” as she waves one arm high over her head. I stride over and kiss her cheek.

“Nice jumper!” She must have been enjoying herself for a while, too, because there’s a blush in her cheeks.

“Thanks. I like yours, too.” Hers is forest green with white snowflakes and the words Nollaig Shona in bold print, which I assume is Irish for “Merry Christmas”.

“Thank you, my dear,” she says and turns to the punch bowl. “Now, you have to try this, but be careful. It’s dangerous.”

I peer into the bronzed bowl as she dips the ladle inside. The punch is a rich, jewel-toned crimson with cinnamon sticks, orange slices, and frozen cranberries bobbing on the surface. She makes sure my cup has a bit of everything and hands it to me before holding up her own for a toast.

“To surviving your first term,” she says and clinks her plastic cup against mine.

“To surviving,” I say back, feeling the truth of the sentiment, and we drink. “Mm, Maeve. This is incredible. What did you put in here?” I always hear folks say that things “taste like Christmas,” but this really does. It’s cranberry and citrus and every Christmas spice I can think of. I take another swig.

“Slow down there,” she says, tugging my drinking arm away from my face. “I meant it when I said it’s dangerous. I call it ‘Ho Ho Ho-ly Shit Punch’ for a reason!”

“Now I’m actually worried,” I say with a laugh.

“Good, it’s better to be cautious. When you finish that, wait fifteen minutes before you refill. There’s enough rum in there to give even the most seasoned pirate a hangover. It also has the delightful side effect of turning the drinker’s cheeks rosy.”

“Really? Is that why you’re flushed?” I ask.

“It’s not just me. Look around,” she says and nods at the faculty behind us.

Sure enough, everyone in the room is blushing with holiday spirit, and that spirit turns out to be rum. There are smiles on every face, even before Professor Drummond arrives with a box of Santa hats, which he passes around. I expect some to decline, but every single professor pops one on their head.

Then he mingles with the students, who’ve started to fill the room. Maeve and I thank him as he hands us ours and tells us, “Happy Christmas.” Torin appears at the door then. “Mr. Ramsay,” the professor calls out, striding toward him with festive intent. For a split second it looks like Torin might try to sidestep the encounter, but Professor Drummond is too quick for that. A red felt hat with fluffy trim is already being pressed into Torin’s hands. “Can’t have you standing about unseasonably dressed,” Drummond declares.