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       Chapter Seven

      President Paul Ellison put down the last security report on Mary Ashley and said, ‘Not a blemish, Stan.’

      ‘I know. I think she’s the perfect candidate. Of course, State isn’t going to be happy.’

      ‘We’ll send them a crying towel. Now let’s hope the Senate will back us up.’

      Mary Ashley’s office in Kedzie Hall was a small, pleasant room lined with bookcases crammed with reference books on Middle European countries. The furniture was sparse, consisting of a battered desk with a swivel chair, a small table at the window, piled with examination papers, a ladder-back chair, and a reading lamp. On the wall behind the desk was a map of the Balkans. An ancient photograph of Mary’s grandfather hung on the wall. It had been taken around the turn of the century, and the figure in the photograph was standing in a stiff, unnatural pose, dressed in the clothes of the period. The picture was one of Mary’s treasures. It had been her grandfather who had instilled in her a deep curiosity about Romania. He had told her romantic stories of Queen Marie, and baronesses and princesses; tales of Albert, the Prince Consort of England, and Alexander II, Tsar of Russia, and dozens of other thrilling characters.

       Somewhere in our background there is royal blood. If the revolution had not come, you would have been a princess.

      She used to have dreams about it.

      Mary was in the middle of grading examination papers when the door opened and Dean Hunter walked in.

      ‘Good morning, Mrs Ashley. Do you have a moment?’ It was the first time the Dean had ever visited her office.

      Mary felt a sudden sense of elation. There could be only one reason for the Dean coming here himself: He was going to tell her that the University was giving her tenure.

      ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

      He sat down on the ladder-back chair. ‘How are your classes going?’

      ‘Very well, I think.’ She could not wait to relay the news to Edward. He would be so proud. It was seldom that someone her age received tenure from a university.

      Dean Hunter seemed ill at ease. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble, Mrs Ashley?’

      The question caught her completely off guard. ‘Trouble? I – No. Why?’

      ‘Some men from Washington have been to see me, asking questions about you.’

      Mary Ashley heard the echo of Florence Schiffer’s words: Some federal agent from Washington … He was asking all kinds of questions about Mary. He made her sound like some kind of international spy … Was she a loyal American? Was she a good wife and a good mother …?

      So it had not been about her tenure, after all. She suddenly found it difficult to speak. ‘What – what did they want to know, Dean Hunter?’

      ‘They inquired about your reputation as a professor, and they asked questions about your personal life.’

      ‘I can’t explain it. I really don’t know what’s going on. I’m in no kind of trouble at all. As far as I know,’ she added lamely.

      He was watching her with obvious scepticism.

      ‘Didn’t they tell you why they were asking questions about me?’

      ‘No. As a matter of fact, I was asked to keep the conversation in strict confidence. But I have a loyalty to my staff, and I felt it only fair that you should be informed about this. If there is something I should know, I would prefer to hear it from you. Any scandal involving one of our professors would reflect badly on the University.’

      She shook her head, helplessly. ‘I – I really can’t think of anything.’

      He looked at her a moment, as though about to say something else, then nodded. ‘So be it, Mrs Ashley.’

      She watched him walk out of her office and wondered: What in God’s name could I have done?

      Mary was very quiet during dinner. She wanted to wait until Edward finished eating before she broke the news of this latest development. They would try to figure out the problem together. The children were being impossible again. Beth refused to touch her dinner.

      ‘No one eats meat any more. It’s a barbaric custom carried over from the caveman. Civilized people don’t eat live animals.’

      ‘It’s not alive,’ Tim argued. ‘It’s dead, so you might as well eat it.’

      ‘Children!’ Mary’s nerves were on edge. ‘Not another word. Beth, go make yourself a salad.’

      ‘She could go graze in the field,’ Tim offered.

      ‘Tim! You finish your dinner.’ Her head was beginning to pound. ‘Edward –’

      The telephone rang.

      ‘That’s for me,’ Beth said. She leaped out of her chair and raced towards the telephone. She picked it up and said seductively, ‘Virgil?’ She listened a moment, and her expression changed. ‘Oh, sure,’ she said disgustedly. She slammed down the receiver and returned to the table.

      ‘What was that all about?’ Edward asked.

      ‘Some practical joker. He said it was the White House calling Mom.’

      ‘The White House?’ Edward asked.

      The telephone rang again.

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