“We were runner-up in the conference.”

  “Excellent. I bet you’re doing your off-season conditioning—”

  Duffy sighs again. Louder.

  “Maybe we should get to the tea,” I say. “So we stay on track.”

  Nicholas looks over at me like he’s forgotten I was here. “Okay. Rules are rules, as somebody said earlier.” Nicholas undoes the lock and clasp on the briefcase. “Just trying to get to know the students.”

  “One of the students,” Emily says.

  “We’re supposed to have a wee dram of bourbon at lunch,” Nicholas says, “but I was thinking . . . well, life is short, so maybe there’s no time like the present. Would anyone care for a quick shot?”

  The students look more awkward, and their eyes trail to me, seeking guidance.

  Do I think it’s a good idea for college students to drink before an important exam?

  “Well, Nicholas,” I say, “I mean . . . maybe we should stick to the plan and drink later. We want the students sharp now. Right?”

  Nicholas freezes, his hands on the clasp of the case. For a moment, it looks as though he’s going to go ahead, ignoring my plea for sobriety. And if he does, what can I do? He holds all the cards.

  Nicholas exhales a breath and straightens. “Okay. Sure. I wouldn’t want to violate Great-Grandfather’s wishes. He clearly liked to follow the rules.”

  Nicholas moves over to the tea service, where he pours himself a cup. As he pours, his back to the room, he explains to the students why we’re all doing what we’re doing.

  “Speaking of my great-great-great-great-grandfather Major Ezekiel Hyde, the man who built this house and founded the college . . . he started every morning with a cup of black tea. He believed it was essential for his health and gave him a burst of energy early in the day. Caffeine, you know. I’m sure you all can relate to that.”

  They laugh, and some of the tension we feel eases.

  Nicholas turns with a teacup in his hand. “My mother drank Earl Grey every morning. Milk and two sugars.” Clearing his throat, he looks to his right, past Milo, who is standing closest to him. “Sydney, why don’t you pour tea for everyone? That will make everyone’s day.”

  Sydney hesitates a moment, then shrugs. “Okay, yeah, sure. I warn you—I can be kind of klutzy when I’m not on the volleyball court. My grandma won’t let me touch her nice dishes. I broke her gravy boat one Thanksgiving, and, like, she didn’t talk to me for a month. Plus, I’m kind of nervous about being locked in here. It’s . . . weird. Right?”

  “Don’t you think we can just each pour our own?” Emily says. She stands with her hands on her hips, her black dress sleek in the faint light. “I mean, why does Sydney have to do it? Why not Milo? Or Duffy?” She places an unusual emphasis on that name, and Duffy gives her an unsettled look. “Or you?”

  Nicholas laughs at Emily’s comment. “Sure. Why not? Everybody pour their own.” He winks at Sydney. “Maybe a beautiful girl like her shouldn’t bother with that kind of work, right?”

  Sydney blushes, and Emily rolls her eyes.

  “I might vomit,” Emily says.

  “Easy, dude,” Duffy says, his cheeks flushed a deeper red than Sydney’s. “Let’s be respectful.”

  Nicholas shrugs. “This isn’t bourbon, but it will do the trick, I guess. It really doesn’t matter what we drink now. . . .”

  The students shuffle forward and pour. While they do that, Nicholas’s eyes trail around the room, taking in the decor.

  “This is quite a place,” he says to no one in particular. And to everyone. His eyes are half closed now, almost like he’s about to fall asleep standing up. “Can you just imagine what it was like to live here one hundred fifty years ago? How quiet it would have been. How peaceful. Just the sound of the trees and the wind.”

  No one speaks, so I provide an answer. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”

  Nicholas nods. “A little worse for wear, if you look closely. Probably needs a roof, wiring. HVAC.”

  “Well, we try to keep the house in good repair,” I say. “But it is expensive.”

  “The past isn’t what it used to be. Probably full of termites and rodents.”

  “I’m not sure,” I say.

  “Maybe I’m the pest,” he says, “or the big bad wolf.”

  As each student gets a cup of tea, they move away from the service and stand in a semicircle around Nicholas. Their eyes trail up and around the room, taking in the sights—the camelback sofa, the parlor chairs, the ornate mantel. And over the fireplace, a giant portrait of Major Hyde in his Union blues, sword at his hip, his hand resting on a book-littered desk, dark eyes staring back with greater intensity than I thought a painting could summon. And next to the portrait, Major Hyde’s actual sword in its scabbard, the one he wore during the Civil War. It gets polished regularly by the cleaning crew and gleams brightly in the morning light.

  A large glass-fronted bookcase sits on the left side of the room, and I know it displays books that belonged to Major Hyde, including several volumes of his own writings detailing his time in the military and the origins of the Hyde Corporation. While I’ve never read any of them, I now know he skipped over some key details, like the massacre of prisoners at Palmyra.

  I also notice the gas sconces. Over the years the other gas sconces in the house have been converted to electric and are simply decorative. But the ones in the parlor still run on natural gas, and they cast a warm yellow glow over the room.

  I’m the last to go up and get a cup of tea, and now everyone is holding one. I let the steam waft past my face as I add two lumps of sugar and brush the residue off the tips of my fingers.

  “Well, this is great,” I say.

  “Before we drink, I want to explain about the food.” Nicholas still wears a remnant of the dreamy look on his face. “There are croissants there,” he says, pointing to another table. “Does anybody know what those other items are?”

  “They look like cucumber,” Emily, our English major, says. She has one hand on her hip, and one of her tattoos is Virginia Woolf’s face. “I took a seminar on Victorian literature. Everybody was always eating cucumber sandwiches with some chopped mint. They pair it with tea. And those are biscuits.”

  “Those aren’t like any biscuits I’ve ever seen,” Duffy says.

  And everybody laughs.

  “When they say ‘biscuit,’ they mean cookie,” Sydney says. “Right? We talked about this in my British history class. I think that was the one . . . or maybe it was sociology.”

  “These aren’t the kind of biscuits you put gravy on, Duffy,” Captain Stephenson says, and everyone laughs again.

  “I’ve never had tea before,” Duffy says. “I usually throw back a Coke in the morning. But if I’m going to drink this tea, I might as well have one of these cook—biscuits. And hell . . . is it really a cucumber sandwich?”

  “It is,” Emily says, trying her best to disguise her disapproval of the philistine in our midst.

  “You only live once,” Duffy says, stepping forward and taking a cookie and a sandwich in his rough-looking hand. “We used to grow cukes, but I never liked the taste that much. Unless they were pickled.”

  The others follow Duffy’s lead, and the eating, drinking, and conversing begin, even though one or two students make faces when they bite into the food or swallow the tea. At least they’re broadening their horizons. Exactly as Major Hyde intended. I’ve glanced at the bylaws for the process—the ones Nicholas carries in his briefcase—once or twice, but only briefly, since they stay in the possession of the Hyde family. But I do know Major Hyde scheduled tea at the beginning of the process so the students who were participating would get to know one another and relax just a bit before the written exam began. Major Hyde was a big believer in fellowship and community—perhaps as an outgrowth of his military service and love of education—and the tea portion of the morning provides our little group with an opportunity to experience both.

  Sydney and Duffy begin to talk. Milo moves closer to Nicholas, who holds his teacup halfway to his mouth. He desperately wants to drink from it and enjoy the restorative effects of the caffeine, but Milo is asking him questions and preventing him. Emily wanders across the room, pressing her owlish glasses against the front of the bookcase, squinting as she tries to read the titles on the volumes inside. Natalia stands by herself, lifting a teacup to her mouth and shifting her weight from one foot to the other. I want to go talk to her, to make sure she’s not the only person in the room being left out of the conversation, but Captain Stephenson appears in front of me. And I remember he wanted to talk to me about something outside, although, for the life of me, I can’t imagine what I can do for him.

  “Sir,” he says, “would you have a moment now that teatime is underway?”

  “Sure, Captain.”

  But I look past him to Natalia. I want to find a way to encourage her to talk to somebody else. Maybe Emily, who is continuing to stare inside the bookcase?

  Natalia’s brown eyes are boring in on Milo and Nicholas, and I remember her veiled comments outside about the honors seminar and research. Was she just fumbling to make conversation with a fellow student who is obviously more confident and popular than she is? Or was she implying something?

  Milo remains close to Nicholas, explaining something to him in great detail and gesturing with both of his hands, which are empty. Nicholas places his cup down and begins to mimic Milo’s hand gestures. Is Milo teaching Nicholas some new dance?

  It seems like they might have known each other already. Or they’re developing the world’s fastest friendship.

  Then I hear what Milo is saying. “This is what they call a crimp grip, with your hand like this. Dude, you’re seriously going to spend two weeks doing nothing but climbing in Mexico and Central America?”

  “That’s the plan,” Nicholas says. “I know a guy with a guide—”

  “Sir?”

  I turn my attention back to the captain. “Okay, right. Why don’t we step out into the foyer?”

  We leave as Milo is demonstrating something called a pocket grip to Nicholas, and Natalia eases my mind a little by making a move toward the two of them. She says something I can’t hear, and the captain looks in her direction but keeps walking out of the room.

  A tinge of regret passes through me. As an administrator, I don’t get to know the students anymore, and I miss having the kind of conversation Milo and Nicholas and Natalia are having. I’ve learned about a lot of things from my students over the years—music, movies, social media. That part of my life evaporated with my promotion.

  The captain and I stand close to the front door. He holds his teacup, which shrinks like a child’s toy in his massive hand. I hold mine as well, and since I left the house in a rush—and spent most of the morning talking with Rachel—I missed my coffee. So the small shot of caffeine from the tea gives me a pleasurable rush. Major Hyde was right about that.

  “What’s on your mind, Captain?”

  “It’s this, sir, and I’m only speaking to you now because I have a lot of respect for your high position in the college. I have a lot of respect for achievement and authority.”

  “I appreciate that, but my authority here is limited.”

  “It’s this, sir—the political winds in our country have shifted. I feel as though a guy like me—a little older, a military veteran, a family man—doesn’t quite fit in around here. And then that demonstration outside, the disrespect for Major Hyde’s military service in a war that saved our country—well, it just confirmed what I already feared. The deck may be stacked against me here.”

  “I’m trying to understand, Captain. Maybe I’m slow. Are you saying you think you can’t win the scholarship because . . . because of something about who you are?”

  “That’s right. There aren’t a whole bunch of students who look like me. In so many ways.”

  “We’re always trying to recruit more nontraditional students. And military veterans. And students of color.”

  I’m surprised by what the captain is telling me. He seems overeager, like most nontraditional students. I can picture him sitting in the front row of every class he attends, raising his hand to answer every question. But faculty love having those students in their classes—it’s such a pleasant change from undergraduates who can’t be bothered to buy a textbook, let alone bring one to class or read it.

  “I know the college is trying to do its best,” he says.

  “I’m sorry you feel uncomfortable, Captain.”

  “Thank you. I know some things are stacked against me. I’ve paid the Black tax before.”

  “What happened outside is unfortunate, but in no way does it reflect the way the college or our students as a whole feel about military veterans. As a matter of fact, my grandfather went to Penn State on the GI Bill.”

  “Was he an army man?”

  “Yes. Europe. World War Two. He fought in the Battle of the Bulge as a tank commander.”

  “God bless him, sir.”

  “Thank you. He’s been dead for fifteen years.”

  “May he rest in peace. Look, sir, I hope it doesn’t seem like I’m grade grubbing or working the refs here.”

  It does. But I continue to listen.

  “People assume because I’m a veteran that my tuition is completely paid for by Uncle Sam, and that’s just not true.”

  “I know that. It wouldn’t be enough to pay the tuition at a private school like Hyde.”

  The captain snaps his fingers. “Exactly. And, see, I can’t leave this area to attend a public university due to certain family obligations, so I have to attend Hyde. It’s the only four-year college within eighty miles of here. Therefore I do have financial need.”

  “No one’s questioning that.”

  “I know you’re involved with the selection process here. And making the final decision about who gets the scholarship—”

  Now I hold up my hand. I want no misunderstanding.

  “I’m sorry, Captain, but I have to stop you there. The Hyde family selects the Hyde fellows based on academic ability and need. That’s the six of you who are here today. And it’s Nicholas Hyde in there who will select the winner of the scholarship after today’s events. I’m just here as a liaison for the college. And to try my best to make the trains run on time. If I can.”

  “So you’re saying you think I have as good a chance as anybody? I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth like these kids.”

  “None of them were. We’re never exactly sure how the Hyde family selects the fellows to participate, but we do know that every student who comes in here on the third Saturday in April has significant financial need. And student loans. That’s the only real criterion I can suss out.”

  Captain Stephenson lowers his voice. “And that joker in there is going to wield all that power and make such a big decision?”

  “That’s a little harsh,” I say.

  “Okay, you’re right, sir. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions about others if I don’t want others to do that to me. I learned that in Sunday school. But I saw the look on your face when he was late. And when he rolled up in that Bimmer and barely acknowledged you. Very disrespectful, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so. You might be too polite to say it, but I will.”

  “Nobody’s perfect, Captain. And I’m going to give Nicholas a chance.”

  “You’re right, of course. But I’ve been reading up on the Hyde Corporation. Some of their subsidiaries have outsourced a lot of jobs. Do you want to be involved with a company like that? I’m all for free enterprise, but that practice rips the heart right out of our communities.”

  A faint sound reaches us from the parlor. A clinking. Over and over.

  “What’s that?” Captain Stephenson asks.

  “You’re married, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember your wedding reception? I think somebody is about to make a speech. And I think it’s your friend Nicholas Hyde.”

  9

  WE STEP BACK INTO the parlor, where the students are moving closer to Nicholas, who still stands by the tea service.

  Milo is by Nicholas’s side, and for all I know, the two of them will be departing on a climbing trip together as soon as the process is complete.

  I’m relieved that Natalia has now joined Emily at the bookcase. They are both pointing inside the case and having a spirited conversation about something. They walk over to Nicholas side by side and even appear reluctant to stop talking. Emily is shaking her head, and Natalia glances at Milo like he’s something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

  It’s some sort of victory for Major Hyde’s process, even if they’ve bonded over disdain for the Hyde family. I expect to see his portrait smile, but it maintains its stoic reserve.

  Nicholas is holding his leather book again, his teacup set aside. I let the students go close, and I stand back, happy to see the Hyde heir taking the reins and apparently enjoying himself. The tea appears to have perked him up and taken the edge off his hangover.

  He clears his throat.

  “Good morning, Hyde Fellows, and welcome to your day. It is my great honor to welcome you to Hyde House for the . . .”

  Nicholas pauses, brow furrowed. For a moment, I become indispensable.

  “One hundred fifty-second,” I say, knowing the exact piece of information he is scrambling for.

  “One hundred fifty-second awarding of the Hyde Scholarship,” he says, brow unfurrowing as he returns to the ceremonial welcome originally drafted by the major himself, revised over the years, and meant to be read by succeeding generations as they oversee the process. “One hundred fifty-two years ago, Ezekiel Hyde founded this college on this very spot. My great-great-”—his lips move as he counts—“great-great-grandfather believed in education as the key to a life well lived. He also believed in a love of country and service to others. The six of you men—” Nicholas lifts a fist to his mouth, and his cheeks puff as he stifles a burp. “I’m sorry. When were women admitted to the college?”