Always the Bluestocking

by Murdoch, Emily E K

And what was her opinion of him now? She could barely tell from one moment to next. Opinionated, forceful, direct, he was everything she berated in the gentlemen of the world. How then did he manage to make her heart beat quicker whenever in his presence?

  “Are you lost?”

  Mariah turned, and the youth who had spoken so rudely entered her view. He was leaning through a window and eying her up and down as though she had been offering herself on the street in the early hours.

  Mariah glared. She would not be overcome. “No. Are you?”

  Her abrupt tone removed some of the certainty from the young man’s face. “No–no, of course not, I belong here. You are the one who shouldn’t be here.”

  “Really?” Mariah allowed ice to seep into her tones, and he looked a little abashed. “I would think, if you were supposed to be here, you would deduce that a lady waiting outside the Provost’s office had an appointment. Or did you skip basic logic when a child?”

  If only she had the talents of an artist. She would have enjoyed replicating the look of irritated astonishment on the young man’s face.

  “You bluestocking,” he said dismissively and shut the window.

  “Yes,” Mariah said, heart thumping. “And you should not forget that about me. You may be about to see a great deal more of me.”

  Finally gaining the courage she had lacked, she raised a hand and knocked on the Provost’s door. For a few heart-stopping moments, nothing happened.

  “Enter.”

  The voice was low.

  Taking a deep breath, Mariah opened the door and saw before her a stern gentleman seated behind an ornate mahogany desk. Quills and paper covered the space before him, with a stack of books bound in brown leather to his left.

  As she stepped inside the office and closed the door behind her, she gasped. The room was walled, floor to ceiling, with bookcases absolutely stuffed. There was even a pile of books by a window, a few pages ruffled and uneven, just waiting for someone like her to reach out and take one.

  A globe stood in one corner, and something similar was next to it, although it appeared to be tracking not the Earth but the stars.

  “Have you quite finished?”

  Mariah jumped. The irate tones came from the gentleman watching her, and she blushed at her own rudeness. Standing there, staring around at someone else’s study without saying a word. Her mother had taught her better than that.

  Taking a step forward, she looked for a chair, but there was nothing opposite the desk.

  Heat blossomed in her chest. This was a deliberate outrage, not providing a chair, forcing her to stand during the whole appointment. What if she had been elderly, or ill, or simply tired?

  But she would not let this man dictate all the terms of their engagement. She had come to make demands, and she would not lower herself by making that first demand a chair.

  “Miss Wynn,” the Provost said delicately, picking up a piece of paper from his desk and glancing at it.

  Mariah swallowed and nodded. Why did her wits leave her just when she needed them the most? Why was it so difficult for her tongue to twist itself around words when faced with such a symbol of learning?

  “You have asked,” he continued in a deep voice, “or rather demanded, as I see in your letter, to see me. Well, here I am. What do you want?”

  This was her moment. She would not get another. It was time to speak, and not just for herself. On behalf of every woman who knew she should be permitted entrance to these hallowed halls.

  Taking a deep breath, she said, “Sir, I am grateful that you have met with me today. I wish to speak to you about…about the lectures here at Wessex College.”

  There were other words she wished to say, she knew there were. So why could she not find them? Why was it so challenging to encapsulate in a few words precisely what she wanted, and why this meant so much to her?

  I should have written it all down, she thought blindly. Why did I not prepare for this better?

  “I am sure you are aware that women, such as myself, are not permitted entry to this university,” she managed.

  The provost raised an eyebrow. “Or any university, I believe.”

  Mariah nodded, spirits already failing. This conversation was not going well—she had been foolish to think that it would. Why would this gentleman, a man who evidently benefited from his position here at Wessex College, risk his neck to challenge the status quo?

  “I think that is wrong,” she continued regardless. “I believe women should have just as much opportunity as their male counterparts to experience education. To learn, to challenge their minds, to explore the world in a different way. I see no reason why women should not be permitted this right, this joy.”

  The provost’s gaze did not waver, but he leaned back in his chair.

  “The fact remains, sir, that the university’s policy is not one I believe you have any jurisdiction over,” she said quietly. “But you have your own rules and regulations here at Wessex College, and over those you are master. You could make changes here to benefit not only myself but countless other women across the country. You would be radical, yes, but you would also be heralded as a gentleman who saw the future and saw that it must be now.”

  Her words seemed to echo in the study, bouncing from the leather tomes around them. The man said nothing, but his attention was entirely focused on her.

  “M-my idea, then,” Mariah said. When was the last time she had been permitted to speak at such length about her belief in education for women? “It is that…that bluestockings, such as myself, are permitted to attend lectures. Sitting in the room does not detract from the education that any gentleman would receive, nor cost any more. I hear that many scholars here do not attend every lecture. Sir, this would aid women’s education greatly. Just listening to the great teachers would, I am sure, help women on their way to enlightenment and learning. Just…having the chance would mean so much to me, and I am sure many others.”

  It was a long speech, and her throat was dry by the time she came to the end. The lack of a chair was suddenly felt as Mariah breathed out slowly.

  She had said her piece. Either the provost would be intrigued, discuss it further with her, look for a way to bring about this change…or he would ask her to leave. In Mariah’s experience, there was never usually a third option.

  He had folded his hands underneath his chin and was still gazing ponderously.

  Finally, he spoke. “And where does it end?”

  Mariah blinked. “End, sir?”

  “End,” he said heavily. “Yes, attending lectures is but a small change to the world of the university. I own it would require but little effort to organize, but where does it end? My students discuss our lectures in tutorials. Women will surely wish to attend those. Then what? Exams? Degrees? Graduation?”

  “I would like all of those things,” admitted Mariah quietly, “naturally I would—but I ask of you only what I believe you can give me. What you are likely to give me.”

  For the first time since she had entered the room, the provost smiled.

  “I have spoken with the University of Oxford,” she said, gaining a little confidence, “and you are correct in hinting it would never give degrees to women. Not in my lifetime,” she added, attempting to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  She had expected the man to speak, but for almost a minute, she stood in silence, until unable to hold her tongue any longer.

  “I know that as the provost of a college, you cannot overturn the decisions of the university,” she said quietly, “but you can choose who attends lectures in your own college. That is your right. Will you consider my proposal?”

  It was impossible to discern his thoughts. His heavy eyebrows were furrowed as he observed her.

  The moments ticked into minutes as Mariah held her breath. His closed expression and continued frown did not bode well. She had come all this way, forced herself to make such a petition, and all to no avail.

  Then he sighed
. “Education for women is a battlefield, you do know that?”

  She nodded. “All too well, sir. I think perhaps I could school you on that particular matter.”

  Had she gone too far? Her words had poured out before she had time to consider them, but she was pleasantly surprised to see the eyebrow furrow disappear and something like a smile crease across his face.

  “I meant,” she said hastily, “that I am willing to fight for it, sir, on the debating field at least.”

  The crease on his face broadened into a deep smile. “Please, my dear, call me Mr. Lawrence. All this ‘Provost,’ ’tis practically medieval. Where is a chair, we cannot have you standing throughout our conversation.”

  His swift movement pulled a chair from the side of a room, previously unnoticed, covered by books and a greatcoat. Mr. Lawrence tipped the entirety onto the floor, seemingly unconcerned by the cloud of dust that rose, and brought the chair forward.

  “Here, be seated.”

  “Th-thank you,” Mariah said nervously. This sudden change of temperament had wrongfooted her, and as Mr. Lawrence settled himself back behind his desk, the genial smile remained.

  “Now hear me when I say this, and hear all of it, rather than the parts you particularly agree with,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on hers. “You do not strike me as the flighty snippets I have had in here before, desperate to enter the halls of our learning because a beloved brother or suitor has come away here to improve his own education.”

  Mariah bristled. “I do not need a man to be inspired to learn, sir.”

  “Nor should you. I completely agree with you and your suggestion, Miss Wynn, but you must see that my hands are tied. The university has far more power than I do, even in my own college,” Mr. Lawrence said sadly. “If I could have allowed you to stay in the Herschel lecture a few weeks ago, I would have done.”

  Mariah’s eyes snapped to his face. “You–you would?”

  “My dear girl, who do you think recommended that I meet with you? Come now, Sir William praised you to me as one of the brightest minds he has met this century,” Mr. Lawrence said, a little irritably. “Keep up.”

  Cheeks hot, she managed, “I see. ’Tis just…I did not expect any support from someone in your position.”

  Mr. Lawrence laughed. “Why, because I am old and look crotchety and am bad-tempered?”

  Shame flowed through her. Was she any better, truly, than the gentlemen who scoffed at her desire to be where they thought she did not belong? Had she not judged him just as harshly—and as it turned out, just as falsely?

  But Mr. Lawrence did not seem offended. “You are not the only one who is judged by their appearance, and what society thinks they should do, say, feel. I myself am twice as guilty, for I am more than twice your age. It was not merely Sir William who changed my mind about you.”

  Her curiosity piqued, she asked, “Who else spoke to you on my behalf?”

  Instead of replying, the provost opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a letter covered in handwriting Mariah recognized, even at this distance.

  “My brother,” she said quietly.

  “Viscount Wynn was quite profuse in his letter,” nodded Mr. Lawrence. “I had not decided whether to even reply to yours requesting this meeting, but I was swayed by his description of you.”

  Mariah’s stomach twisted. His description of her? After years of active dislike and months of cooling tempers, they had reconciled but a few weeks ago. She could not be entirely sure whether Edward’s description of her would be entirely merited.

  “It saddens me that you require a gentleman’s opinion of me before you would even meet me,” she said coldly. “How many letters of recommendation do you require from any gentleman who wishes to meet with you?”

  Had she gone too far? Mr. Lawrence leaned back in his chair and examined her closely before laying down the letter.

  “You make an excellent point.” He smiled at her look of surprise. “Miss Wynn, I am an old man, but that does not mean I cannot be corrected. In any case, your brother’s letter was…well, not the warmest I have ever read, but it is clear he has a great deal of respect for you. Few sisters could claim as much from their brothers.”

  The tension in her shoulders finally started to fall away. “Siblings can be very different people and yet still recognize the virtues of the other.”

  Mr. Lawrence nodded. “Miss Wynn, I have made inquiries ahead of our consultation, and so I speak advisedly when I say there is little I can do for you with regard to your request. Even permitting ladies inside the boundaries of Wessex College at all has come after many months of debate. I am sorry.”

  She had expected this response, and so Mariah did not know why the rush of disappointment was so bitter. The idea that a woman could enter into the halls of learning had been a wild one. So why did Mr. Lawrence’s confirmation of her suspicion hurt so?

  “So I will do the one thing I can. I will call a debate at the student’s union.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Mr. Lawrence nodded. “If my granddaughters ever wish to attend a noble institution such as this, I will need to start doing something to make it happen, and start doing it now. Who knows? Perhaps in ten years’ time or so, when it is time for them to consider marriage, they may have an alternative. Perhaps this college could welcome them.”

  Mariah’s face broke into a smile. “You are a true ally, are you not, Mr. Lawrence?”

  His smile was a little mischievous now. “Please do not tell anyone, Miss Wynn. This must be a secret between us.”

  She left his office on a cloud, absolutely exhilarated. Sunlight was still streaming through into the corridor, but the whole world seemed brighter, more welcoming.

  Her expectations for the meeting had been utterly surpassed. A debate with the students’ union—a provost who wanted his own granddaughters to attend university!

  He was on her side, and she would do her utmost to use him to her advantage as much as possible. And her brother…Edward had written in her support! It would have been unbelievable just a few weeks ago, and now, thanks to his intervention, she finally seemed to be getting somewhere.

  What should she do now? Mariah laughed aloud as her mind rushed through all the places she wanted to go, all the people she wanted to tell the good news. Her feet started taking her down the corridor toward the gate, paying so little attention, she collided with someone.

  “Have a care, miss—Miss Wynn?”

  Mariah’s mouth fell open. It was Lord Donal. “My–my lord.”

  Mariah shivered. Something was different between them, now that she knew the warmth and power of his lips on hers. He was not looking at her as though she was a fool, or someone to be ignored, or who was trespassing on hallowed ground.

  On the contrary, he seemed to be…nervous?

  “Well, it is good to see you again, Miss Wynn,” he was saying, and she forced herself to focus. “How did your meeting with the provost go? Was he as fiery a lion as they say?”

  Something of her surprise must have been evident on her face, for Lord Donal laughed. “One cannot keep anything secret in this town, Miss Wynn,” he said jovially.

  Mariah nodded and tried to smile naturally. How was it possible she had forgotten how to smile? “I suppose so. Yes, I enjoyed speaking with Mr. Lawrence. He was far more persuadable than I had considered.”

  Her words hung in the air between them as they stood in the corridor. Mariah almost wished someone else would walk past to remind them that the rest of the world was out there—but at the same time, it was pleasant standing here alone. The last time they had been alone, his hands had swept around her waist and…

  “I must be going,” she said hastily, pushing the memories of that heady kiss from her mind. If she were not careful, she would lose all concentration. “Good day, Lord Donal.”

  She had curtseyed and already taken a few steps away before a hand caught hers.

  “Unless you would enjoy a tour of th
e college…as my guest?”

  Mariah turned around to look into his face. There was no teasing there, just earnestness and emotions she did not recognize.

  “Is…is that even allowed?” Once again, she spoke instinctively, flushing at the sound of her own words. Permission? She was a bluestocking, was she not? She had marched into the provost’s office and demanded that women be given the same rights to education as gentlemen.

  And now she was requesting permission to look at Wessex College?

  Lord Donal snorted. “You are my guest, Mariah. No one will argue with me.”

  “Well, then. Thank you, my lord.”

  She flushed as he pulled her arm in his. He was strong and warm, leading her along with him as he started striding down a corridor.

  “Now, this is interesting,” he said, pointing at a window. “That glass is over three hundred years old, and if you look carefully here, you will notice a student from 1625 has scratched his initials. Come, see.”

  He pulled her so close, she was almost in his arms. Mariah tried to focus on the slight scratches made in the corner of the window, but she was too conscious of his arms around her, the heady smell of musk and spice that was Patrick O’Leary.

  What was she doing? She had come here to fight for education, and now she was being schooled in a very different way.

  “This is the corridor new students must walk on their first day,” he said eagerly, pulling her away from the window, his arm still interlinked in hers. “I can remember being forced to walk down it myself.”

  “Forced?” Mariah looked around, taking in the carefully carved ceiling, the paintings of elderly gentleman along the corridor, the spires she could just make out through the windows.

  Lord Donal grinned, and her stomach curled. “The older boys would throw things at you. You had to make it all the way along the corridor without tripping.”

  “Throw things?”

  He nodded. “Paper, books, a few stones. The year after me, some of the rascals got some ropes, and four boys fell.”

  “What happened to them?”

  He shrugged. “You know, I do not remember. Look, down here—one of the rooms named after Henry.”