For Farah

[Jesús de Torres y Pineda]

The advertisement made by the Professor of History at London College University had been simple, sent to the newspaper along with a poster hung on the notice board of the University itself, Jesús had put out a request for a well educated woman who could act as the guardian and tutor to his ten (nearly eleven) year old daughter.

The unconditional points were that she must be tolerant of culture and religion, kind yet firm and an intellectual to a point. His daughter’s name was reserved for when Jesús met the one who sought the position, along with a conversation of payment and duties. Prior to that year, his daughter had been under the care of a kind woman who had somewhat faltered to keep a regimented routine and yet, had become a quasi-part of the family to the household. Unfortunately, she had got engaged, and had left her post at the turn of the year, leaving Jesús to find someone before the second term of the school year began.

He had met several younger women at his office at the University to discuss the post in question. Some were quite fine, and even beautiful. But Jesús took his daughter’s future with the utmost seriousness, and had in fact overlooked superficial means to dig a little deeper. Some had been overtly rude to the idea of Farah’s heritage, and had been hushed out of his rooms as soon as Jesús could execute the manoeuvre. For Farah Isabella María was half-Catalan half-Egyptian, raised to honour both the Catholic and Muslim books alongside the two cultures that had made her. If a governess, a tutor and role model was to be met, they would have to appreciate and aid Farah in her own self discoveries.

After a day of unsuccessful interviews, Jesús had nearly found cause to give up. In fact, he had had half a mind to leave his offices in order to return home when a secretary announced one more recipient to the advertisement. Jesús paused, and gave the last visitor the benefit of his patience as he got up from his chair and told the other to let them in. Straightening his coat, Jesús waited, trying his best not to get his hopes up.

[Amira St. Clair]

The timing of the listing had been serendipitous. Amira had been putting out feelers for weeks in the vain attempt to reconnect with any whom still held her late father in positive regard, searching for employment opportunities with the trades of old and new. With the Stainer once more in her possession, she was possessed of a mind to sell it, but that would only suffice as a short-term solution to her impending financial disaster. It had thus been decided that she would seek out a position with a respectable family to maintain her nom de guerre, but truthfully this path was not one she had set her heart to very stringently. In fact, she had all but abandoned the ruse before the antique violin had presented itself at her door, and a host of new opportunities presented themselves with it.

The notice in the newspaper had been curious. Intriguing. Tolerant of culture and religion? In a city as intolerant as London? Why, she could not resist the wonderings that threatened to carry her away to fantastical adventures. Her fingers had traced the printed letters as some semblance of hope welled up inside her, yet once any name and address and title had been committed to memory, she crumpled up the newspaper and burned it in the fireplace.

Her landlady was too friendly for her own good, Amira had realized shortly after arriving in London. Generous, doting, and always up in Amira's business as if she had none of her own to attend to. She seemed displeased, however, when Amira informed her that she would be gone a few hours and would not be around in time for supper on account of the interview she would be pursuing. The genial demeanor of the gray-haired woman visibly shifted, and Amira was certain that greed had darkened the other woman's gaze.

It was a look that Amira was all-too-familiar with. A look, a feeling, a drive. It drove her now to University College in the back of a hansom cab, wrapped in her cleanest cut of deep blue cotton, the day dress modest but well-fitting. The fabricated letters of recommendation and reference were carefully folded and tucked away lest they flutter in her trembling hands; it had been one thing to plot out this plan for months, another to put it to the test for the first time.

She had had to seek out some help upon arriving, being turned this way and that between the offices and halls of the academic estate, and at last, she found her way to the History department and announced her intent. The secretary was pleased to escort her to the professor's office, while Amira kept her gloved hands anxiously linked ahead of her, her thumbs twitching and fidgeting. One step, two step. Keep moving. It's just a few more paces.

Amira's hazel eyes stumbled over Jesús, and a smile hesitantly, then more confidently, spread across her mouth. "Please forgive me," she began, her vowels broad and round and as American as she desired to sound. "I hope I am not too late; the interviews were today, yes?"

[Jesús de Torres y Pineda]

When Jesús had travelled back to England with his daughter in his arms, he had made some solemn promise that his daughter would grow up enriched by her mother’s heritage and religion. It was quite the curious premise, for London was not the world of tolerance that it may later become, and though most of their hate was directed to the Irish as of late, they held very little love for anyone who differed from their strict rules and identities. It had been a blessing, then, to have had a governess who was quite willing to play her role till her head was turned by a wanting lover. So, he counted his blessings, and went forth with the various interviewees with haste.

Some were quite fine, but most were lacking in decorum, seriousness or even the tolerance that he had plainly stated as a certain. Scribbling in his journal, he wrote each name out in cursive, taking notes as he did in Catalan rather than English, using his mother-tongue more like a secret language or code for those co-workers who sought to dampen Jesús place within the University — for no one approved of a ‘foreigner’ teaching their histories, as if Jesús was not trained to do so.

Jesús waited behind that closed door in muted anticipation, by fate’s chance it was probably more likely to find himself in front of someone who sought the job for nothing more than the money — someone who had skim-read the advertisement before running by the tips of their toes toward the office to make themselves heard. Running his tongue along the back of his teeth, Jesús waited before his secretary opened the door to reveal who had hoped to see him.

Jesús watched carefully as the woman looked over him, his own dark eyes flickering behind his spectacles as he quietly made his unintentional judgements. Still, he smiled, the need to make anyone and everyone feel at home all too important to such a meeting as he gestured for her to take the seat opposite his behind the desk.

“You’re just in time, Ma’am. Please, take a seat… I’m Jesús de Torres y Pineda,” the Professor announced, his hand put to his chest with honest intention and prose before he took to his own seat, settling to pick up his pen before dipping it into a vial of ink. “And your name is…?”