“Sirs, the house faces the motion that ladies should be permitted into our lectures, and if I could bring myself to allow such destruction, then I would,” Mr. Gray said, still smiling. “But it is not destruction to our great colleges that I fear, but to the ladies themselves! Is it not proven that ladies’ brains are simply not designed for education? Have we not seen the delicacy of their frame, the innocence of their natures? If we fill their minds with anything more complex than running a household, we will have swooning up and down the country!”
Mariah could barely hear his words over the laughter. There were claps, and some started to stamp their feet.
Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. It was like stepping into a nightmare.
“What I asked for was a debate,” she hissed at Mr. Lawrence, “and when you agreed to it, I had expected it to be at least equitable!”
Mr. Lawrence said nothing.
Mariah sighed and rolled her eyes, turning around to ask Patrick what he thought—but her heart stopped.
Patrick was laughing at one of Mr. Gray’s foolish jokes. Then he caught her gaze. His face immediately fell.
Chapter Fourteen
All Patrick could do was look into those hazel eyes full of pain.
“I say, I have never laughed so much in my entire life!”
“Better than the theatre, I think…”
“Do you think they’ll do it again? I would pay money to see another one of those!”
Laughter still echoed around the room, but Patrick had never felt less like laughing. From the moment Mariah had caught him in the act of chuckling at Mr. Gray’s nonsense—a right and reasonable reaction to the idiocy being spouted—his stomach had lurched.
She had completely misunderstood. He had seen the agony in her eyes, the sudden thought that he, too, was just another lout who was here to mock her ideals.
“They should do it once a term—let off steam, you know?”
“Was that an actual young lady at the front? Was she supposed to come on stage for a jest?”
Mariah was still facing the front and had not said a word since she had seen him chuckle. Her shoulders were slumped, her head bowed.
Patrick’s heart twisted painfully. It was a shameful defeat: three hundred and forty-seven to one. He did not suppose it would matter much to her that the one vote in her favor had been his own. If anything, it would be an even more bitter pill to swallow. Her spokesman, if Mr. Gray could be called such a thing, had not managed to convince a single person.
Not that he had tried much. Patrick could see him laughing behind the podium with Mr. Crippley, neither much interested in even speaking to the lady who had instigated the entire thing.
Irritation boiled in his blood, and Patrick found his hands had unconsciously clenched. It was unjust, and despite his placations to Mariah just an hour before, he could well understand her frustration. Born an outsider, raised to feel one, and now, as if she did not need the indignity, it had been proven before hundreds: she did not belong here.
“Mariah,” he said quietly.
As though the word had been a gunshot starting a race, Mariah jumped to her feet and started forcing her way through the crowd. She did not look back.
“Mariah?” Patrick raised his voice, but still, she did not turn.
“Laughter truly is the best medicine, I feel years younger,” said the gentleman who was seated beside him, grinning at Patrick. “And you, Donal?”
Patrick did not respond. The woman he—well, cared for, at the very least, was walking out of this room with no idea how he felt. She believed he was laughing with the idiotic Gray instead of at him.
He had to reach her, had to explain.
Noisy conversations were still occurring all around him, but more gentlemen were leaving, and there was a crush at the door. Patrick could see Mariah unable to push through.
A gentleman beside her tugged on his companion’s sleeve. They laughed, one of them leaned toward her, his breath on her face.
Anger he had never known rushed through Patrick as he started running toward her, pushing past people rudely. “Mariah—Mariah, wait!”
But either she did not hear him or did not heed him.
“Mariah!” It was difficult to keep the panic out of his voice now. He needed to explain, needed her to understand.
“Mind out!” A gentleman glared as Patrick pushed past, but he was not interested in pacifying his ego.
God, it took him back to his own university days, when the worst thing one could do was be Irish. He had hated it then, and had thought it had changed—but it was Mariah who had changed his heart.
Elbowing his way through the crowd, he finally reached her side as the crush pushed them to the door. “Mariah, did you not hear me?”
She turned, and if Patrick could have taken a step back, he would have done so. There was such fury in her eyes, she could have set a bonfire alight.
“M-Mariah?”
The crush pushed them through the door, and she started to stride away along the corridor.
“Mariah, wait!”
He caught up with her in the entrance quad and grabbed her hand, forcing her to stop.
“Did you not hear me calling you?” He tried to keep the note of accusation from his voice, but he was hurt, nonetheless. He had done nothing wrong.
“No, Patrick, I did not hear you supporting me in there,” Mariah said, her eyes narrow as she wrenched her arm from his grip. “Did I miss something?”
“It was not my place to say anything! I was not chosen as either of the debaters, I am not even a current student. It was only thanks to Mr. Lawrence vouching for me that I was even permitted to attend and vote.”
Countless students were pouring around them, like the retreating tide around a rock in the sand.
Her gaze was fixed on him. “You were permitted to vote, how very gracious of you.”
“I voted for you,” he reminded her fiercely.
“And I should be grateful for that?” She stared as though attempting to comprehend him. “You are just like the rest of them, stuck in amber. No wonder nothing changes here. If everyone is waiting for someone else to give permission to do anything!”
Her voice rose to a pitch he had never heard in her before, and it was clear she was fighting to keep her temper.
“You are upset,” he began quietly but was interrupted.
“Yes, ’tis her, the lady student!” A young man jeered as he passed, cronies all laughing as they went.
“Of course I am upset!” Mariah’s voice was quiet now, but with such force, Patrick was surprised he was still able to stand. “The vote was immediately cast down, without any proper consideration whatsoever. Where is the academic merit in that? Where is the desire for rigorous debate?”
Splatters of rain started to fall.
“We should get inside,” Patrick said, glancing up at the gray sky.
But Mariah evidently had other ideas. “You will not distract me, Patrick. To think that I came here today expecting honor and virtue when all I received was mockery and deceit!”
“It was a debate, fair and square, each side had a speaker and—”
He was prevented from saying anything else by Mariah’s laughter, which cut through him. There was no mirth, no joy whatsoever. It was the laugh of a pained and exhausted woman.
“My ‘speaker,’ if you can call him such, hardly tried!” Mariah said. “It was clear he did not believe in a word he said, and most of it was said for effect. You cannot honestly tell me that he spoke with integrity?”
Patrick bit his lip. It hurt to be truthful in this moment, but he would not lie to her. “He…he did not put everything into the argument…”
His voice trailed away. The quad was almost empty now, the end of the debate and the beginning of rain driving the students into their rooms or clubs.
Being alone with Mariah had been his object for the last few weeks, but not like this. The last time they had stood in the rain, the
re had been passion and desire. Now…
Somehow, they were on two sides of an argument, and all he wanted was to pull her into his arms and kiss away her pain.
“…but both of them had the same amount of time to prepare,” he said slowly. “In that regard, at least, it was fair.”
“Fair?” Mariah was staring as though he had suggested the King of England should consider not wearing a crown. “You have no idea, do you, no understanding?”
Patrick’s pride was ruffled at these words. He may not have shone during his time at the university, but he was no dullard.
“’Tis not about the amount of time to prepare,” she continued slowly, her eyes wide, “as though that can somehow repay the ignominy of his words! It is about the amount of heart in the argument. If you genuinely, in your heart of hearts, do not agree with the motion, your ability to argue in its favor will never be good!”
Every word she said made sense, but Patrick’s shoulders slumped. He was tired of their debates, so much so that it was starting to wear him out.
“It is difficult to find anyone in this place who genuinely believes ladies should be allowed entrance into the university,” he said irritably. “Who did you expect to take that position at the podium?”
Mariah took a step away, face full of disbelief. “Why, I would have thought that would be obvious. Myself, of course.”
The mere thought of her standing up behind the podium and attempting to educate the students of Oxford University made Patrick laugh—which was a mistake.
She glared. “You do not think I could do it.”
The only route now was to backtrack. “No, that is not what I said.”
He could not believe this was all happening; today was meant to be a day of triumph for Mariah, perhaps even a day when he could, in the joy of her victory, tempt her back to his rooms for another…experiment.
True, he thought it might be a bit fairer in the debating hall. Mr. Lawrence had evidently not checked that Mariah understood the rules. Worse, a small part of him, and he had not known it before, whispered that he had never expected Mariah to win this debate—and more, that when she had been beaten, she might cease to argue for the education of ladies.
He was gravely mistaken. Mariah felt so passionately for her bluestocking ideals that this defeat had, in some ways, fired her devotion to her cause all the more.
Two students walked past, with one nudging the other and saying, “There she is, Miss Bluestocking—did you see her in the debate earlier?”
They collapsed into laughter as they left the quad, and Patrick wanted to hug her close.
A crowd of students stared at them through the mullioned glass, and a spark of embarrassment rushed through his body.
“Let us go to my rooms,” he said in a fit of inspiration. “We can discuss it further there.”
“Why should I have to leave now? This may be the last time I am ever permitted to enter the walls of Wessex College, and you want to rush me out. I want to make the most of it.”
“No, let us go,” he said insistently, taking a step forward and pulling her arm into his.
But Mariah was having none of it. “Why are you so determined that we should leave?”
She pulled her arm away, and Patrick did not want their debate to become even more entertainment for the rascals watching them.
He relented and nodded at the window. “We are being watched.”
She did not even turn around. Instead, she laughed. “Patrick, I am a bluestocking! I am accustomed to it. Always the bluestocking, and nothing else. You really think I have been considered a candidate for marriage to any of these rascals, nor any of the gentlemen who came before them?”
Patrick swallowed. The conversation had taken a turn he had not predicted.
Mariah smiled, but there was coldness there. “Even you do not think of me that way, do you?”
He had thought it impossible to catch him completely off guard, his Irish wiles only increasing with each year he aged. He hardly knew what to say. Before he could get his thoughts organized, let alone his words, Mariah spoke again.
“That is what I thought.”
“My rooms,” he said desperately, hoping this conversation could be not only moved but halted in its tracks. “We can talk more about this, and if you want, continue with that experiment.”
He smiled and allowed just a hint of the old country lilt to seep through.
Instead of falling at his feet, melting at his words, Mariah frowned. “No, I was wrong. It is not that you do not think I could have won the debate. You do not even believe I could have made the speeches before all those gentlemen, do you?”
“Why are we going over the same old ground?” Patrick said irritably. “You never let go of an argument, do you?”
“No,” she quipped smugly. “Which is just another example of why I would have been perfect for that debate.”
“No, you would not!” The words were out of his mouth before he could think, but it was done now.
Mariah’s mouth fell open, drips of rain now falling from the rim of her bonnet. “What?”
Evidently, she would not leave before they had discussed this fully. Patrick relented against his better judgment. If she wanted the truth, then by God, she would have the truth.
“Mariah, to be an excellent debater anywhere, let alone here, one must have years of practice, and you do not! One cannot just stand up on the stage at the Oxford Union, the second greatest debating chamber in the country after Parliament, and expect to be able to turn the crowd!”
His words were honest, but his temper was frayed, and he did not couch his frustration with anything near the gentleness he had intended.
Mariah blinked. “You do not know what I have studied. You do not know how I was taught, how much practice I have.”
“It will be nothing compared to them!” Patrick pointed at the faces at the window, who vanished quickly.
“You do not know that!”
He looked to the heavens. “Mariah, by definition, it will be naught compared to the education here!”
“I do not think you were ever supportive of this debate,” Mariah said, her eyes narrowed. “I think the only education you are interested in is what you can teach me! I think all you care about is this…this experiment, in me, in my body!”
Patrick let out a groan of frustration. How could she be so obtuse, misunderstanding him with such alacrity! “It is not that at all!”
“What is it then?”
“You said yourself you have not received the education a gentleman has!” Patrick said, desperately trying to bring their conversation back to reason as the heavens opened. “For goodness’ sake, Mariah, let us go inside—my rooms, your rooms, anywhere that isn’t this damned rain!”
But she was not listening. “All this time, I thought—I believed you were actually interested in getting acquainted with me. To help me in championing my cause. But your interest was purely in seduction.”
“That is not true,” he said hastily.
Mariah took a step back, her boot squelching on the grass. “I was so easily convinced,” she said softly. “Well, that says more about my pride than your talents as a seducer.”
Patrick’s heart pounded. “I am not a seducer!”
“I may be a bluestocking, my lord, but at least I am an honest one,” she said quietly, her voice just discernable above the pounding rain. “Every time I think I am starting to comprehend you better, I realize I know you even less.”
“No—Mariah, you have misunderstood!”
“Really?” Her eyes were sharp, and she moved forward, so they were but inches from each other. “Are you trying to tell me that you did not, in this very conversation, consider inviting me back to your rooms with the express hope that it would lead to us making love?”
Patrick hesitated.
“Exactly.”
If he just reached out…
“I thought you were more than that,” she said. “More than
the others. More than you thought you could be.”
Damn, think, man!
“Well, I do not believe today could have been any worse,” she said. “Good day, Lord Donal.”
Patrick reached out for her hand but did not catch her in time. She strode away, leaving the quad within seconds. He was left alone in the pouring rain, biting his lip.
At least they agreed on one thing. Today could not have been any worse.
Chapter Fifteen
“Show me where it is written!”
But her shouts were being ignored. Mariah attempted to pull her arms from the grip of the gentlemen, but they were stronger, dragging her to the door.
“I demand to see that in writing!” she shouted. Heads were turning, students gawping in genuine astonishment, but she would not relent. “Unless I see something written down, sir, I will be forced to conclude you are simply creating this rule because of boredom!”
She glared at the Bodleian librarian who was standing before her, two leather-bound books in his arms. His narrow eyes glared, and with a jerk of his head, she was released—but the two which had held her did not step away.
“Foolish girl,” spat the librarian, Mr. Mitchell. “You have no rights here, no right to demand anything from me. You think you can step into the Bodleian—the Bodleian, the greatest library in the world—and demand to read books?”
His voice was incredulous, as though she had requested to sit on the throne of England.
Mariah did not look away. “I see no reason why a lady cannot enter and request to—”
“I have the responsibility to deny you,” Mr. Mitchell cut across her. “There is no requirement to show a woman any sort of manuscript, book, or pamphlet. You are out of order, miss.”
“This library should be open to everyone!” Mariah had raised her voice to ensure all could hear her. She knew she had succeeded thanks to the horrified looks of the students. “How dare you restrict the knowledge of this country to only those who are gentlemen!”
Her blood boiled, righteous anger pouring through her. Whispers moved around the room, but she did not care. What did it matter if she was gawked at by these students who had no comprehension of the value of the place where they were standing?
Always the Bluestocking Page 15
