Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career

by Carla Kelly

  Fanny remained where she was beside her bed for another pious five minutes while Ellen lay with her hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling. She was drifting off to sleep when Fanny finally crawled into her own bed, muttering something about those who don't take much time for God.

  Ellen only gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to declare that she kept her prayers economical so the Lord God Almighty could spend His valuable time helping the troops in Spain or guarding sailors on the high seas. She lay quiet, her eyes shut tight, composing another letter home in her mind, pleading with them to rescue her from her own folly. In a moment, she slept.

  The tedium of that weekend was unparalleled in Ellen's memory. Her hopes of at least a walk beyond the front door of the academy were dashed by Miss Dignam's upraised eyebrows and the assignment of one hundred more sentences, on top of the two hundred, at her suggestion of a stroll down the High Street. “‘I will remember to conduct myself with decorum at all times,’ ” Miss Dignam had pronounced, and left her to the empty classroom and the chocolates.

  The other young ladies were permitted a repairing lease around the extensive gardens behind the academy. Her head bent over the paper, Ellen smiled with unholy delight at the sudden rumble of thunder, followed by the drumming of rain and the shrieks of the select females assembled outdoors to walk about. She popped another chocolate in her mouth, raised her pen high in salute to the soggy students, and labored on, finishing each sentence with a flourish that bordered on insolence.

  Becky Speed joined her, scooting into the room and closing the door quietly almost before Ellen realized that she was not alone. She smiled and held out the chocolate box. Becky accepted with a curtsy and sat on the desk, her legs swinging, as she nibbled around the nougat center until the chocolate was gone.

  “I wish that I could write,” she said at last, shaking her head over the last chocolate in the box and then changing her mind when Ellen insisted.

  Ellen tucked the empty box behind the bookcase again. “It would be an easy matter to teach you,” she said.

  Becky shook her head and got down off the desk. “Miss Dignam says I don't have any need to learn how. She says it would put me above my station.”

  Ellen eyed her thoughtfully. “I suppose it would, but where would be the harm in that?” She perched herself on the teacher's desk. “Perhaps you could become a bookkeeper's assistant, or run your own shop. A candy shop.”

  The girls giggled together.

  “I would like that,” Becky said. “I could help my mum provide for us.”

  Ellen took out the remaining sheet of paper. “Then sit yourself down, Miss Speed,” she said, raising her eyebrows in an imitation of Miss Dignam that made Becky smile. “You could become rich at the Female Academy, writing sentences for the wicked!”

  They were part way through the alphabet when Ellen heard Miss Dignam's measured tread in the hallway. Becky leaped to her feet and began to ply the feather duster around the bookcase with such vigor that she sneezed. Ellen grabbed up the pages of the letters and words A through K, sat upon them, and continued with her sentences.

  Miss Dignam opened the door slowly. She did not hurl it open as she had the day before, intent upon surprising Ellen at some misdeed. The expression on her face as she peered over Ellen's shoulder, while grim, had not yesterday's suspicion. Ellen held her breath, too afraid to look at Becky, who continued to dust with all the energy of a troop movement.

  Miss Dignam cleared her throat and Ellen looked up, biting her lip to keep from exclaiming. Miss Dignam was smiling. She handed Ellen the essay on Ecclesiastes that had been part of yesterday's punishment.

  “Well written, Miss Grimsley, well written, indeed,” she said, “even if I do not precisely agree with your argument.”

  “Why thank you,” Ellen stammered, taking the paper in trembling fingers, amazed at Miss Dignam's sudden about-face. “I have marked a few places where it might be improved upon,” Miss Dignam continued, “but it was an excellent piece of expository writing. You are to be commended.”

  Ellen could only stare as Miss Dignam took a seat beside her.

  “I believe we can continue to expect writing of a similar quality from you, Miss Grimsley.” She paused, as if composing herself for an apology. Ellen waited, holding her breath.

  The apology did not come, but Miss Dignam continued in a voice that was almost human. “My dear, I had no idea of your family's connections here at Oxford,” she said at last, and paused, obviously waiting for some comment from Ellen.

  Ellen racked her brain for an Oxford connection other than Gordon, who, if suspicion served her right, was setting no records at University College.

  But Miss Dignam expected some response. Ellen swallowed the lump in her throat, hoped fervently that no stray chocolate still clung to her teeth, and smiled. “Yes, Miss Dignam, our ties here are exemplary,” she said, crossing her fingers behind her back, totally at sea.

  Miss Dignam only nodded and smiled back. “I have never before had the honor of admitting Lord Chesney to my sitting room, but there he was this morning, for a quarter hour and more, telling me about your abilities! I could only agree with him, of course,” she said and reached out a bony hand to pat Ellen's knee. “Naughty girl! You should have told me of such an illustrious connection!”

  Ellen continued to smile, even as she searched her brain. Lord Chesney? Surely she has me confused with someone else, was her first thought. No one in our entire family knows a lord, she thought. The only titled gentleman of her acquaintance was Fanny Bland's insufferable father, and he was only a paltry baronet.

  Her own confusion was amply covered by Miss Dignam. “Goodness, child, Lord Chesney is one of All Souls’ most distinguished Fellows! Surely you are aware of that?”

  “Well, no, ma'am,” Ellen said honestly. “Lord … er … Chesney is a modest man. I have never once heard him to sound his own horn,” she finished. That, at least, was honest enough.

  “How true that is,” Miss Dignam agreed. “He is the epitome of good breeding and all that is correct.”

  In the small silence that followed, Ellen ventured a question.

  “Tell me, did he explain yesterday the nature of his visit?” she asked, hoping that any information Miss Dignam would drop would give her a clue.

  “He said that he was interested in your progress and hoped that I would have good reports to make of you.”

  “How … kind,” Ellen said faintly. “Of course, Lord Chesney has always been kind. He is probably one of the kindest gentlemen of my acquaintance,” she offered, fervently praying that a just God would not strike her dead on the spot.

  Miss Dignam managed another indulgent laugh and rose. She shook her finger at Ellen, but there was no malice in the gesture. “Naughty girl!” she said again. “We will see that you are not a disappointment to his lordship.”

  “Yes, certainly. Of course,” Ellen said, hoping for a quick and merciful end to this strange interview.

  Miss Dignam gestured toward the papers on the desk. “When you have finished those silly little sentences, bring them to me, and we will discuss your future plans here at the academy. Lord Chesney assures me that he is deeply interested in your progress.”

  Miss Dignam overlooked Ellen's openmouthed amazement and left the room in all her majesty, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Ellen stared at Becky, who stopped dusting and hurried to her side. “I get the feeling that you have no idea who Lord Chesney is,” she said, as Ellen continued to stare at the closed door.

  “You are right enough,” Ellen said finally. She frowned and drummed her fingernails on the desk. “Although I have my suspicions. I think it is my brother Gordon, up to some trick.”

  “But hasn't Miss Dignam seen Gordon?” Becky asked.

  “Then it must be a fellow student he has coerced into this little prank,” Ellen said. “Gordon, when I see you …”

  She took her time over the sentences, in no hurry to see Miss
Dignam again so soon. Lord Chesney? Father had never mentioned such a personage. Papa's cronies were other well-heeled squires like himself, men dedicated to the hunt and little else. And Aunt Shreve prided herself on her small circle of friends, all of them well-known to Ellen.

  Her interview an hour later with Miss Dignam left her shaking her head. Gone was the animosity of yesterday. The formidable headmistress might have been a different person as she informed Ellen that, beginning on Monday, she would study geography with the older students, and that perhaps a scholar could be found to tutor her in one or two of Shakespeare's more proper plays.

  Ellen hurried from the headmistress's office when the interview ended. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a brief moment, baffled by Miss Dignam's startling bonhomie. I shall ask Gordon, she thought as she hurried to her room. Surely he will be back tomorrow. Her heart warmed toward him. Can it be that he has done something that will make this dungeon tolerable for me? Gordon, you are a dear.

  Sunday came, but no Gordon. Marching in ranks of two, the students traveled at a slow and decorous pace down the High Street to St. Mary's for church at eleven of the clock. It was the parish church at Oxford's center, and there were many students in attendance. Ellen looked them over, wondering which man was Lord Chesney. Miss Dignam had mentioned All Souls College. “Rare air, indeed,” Ellen murmured as she listened to the priest's responses. “What does it all mean?”

  Surely Gordon would return on Monday. The next morning she sat politely through a lecture on geography, her mind wandering about, as the instructor, a spinsterly don with a permanent blush, spoke at length on the products of the Low Countries and What It All Meant to England.

  Evening came and still Gordon did not make his appearance.

  Ellen stood at her bedroom window, looking down into the street, willing him to appear. Her uneasiness grew until her head began to ache. What kind of trouble had Gordon gotten himself into in the middle of London? She had heard tales of Newgate, and Bow Street Runners, and flats and cheats and gaming hells, and assorted lowlife on the prowl for young men less wise in the ways of the world than they thought themselves.

  She thought too of James Gatewood. Already she was having difficulty remembering his face, seen only briefly that afternoon of her entrance into Oxford. He had not returned after delivering the candy. She had told herself that she would not think about him anymore, but she did, as she stood at the window and chafed after Gordon.

  “And what would you do if James Gatewood were here?” she asked herself. “Tumble all your troubles into his lap?”

  She would never do that, but as she considered the matter, she had a feeling that his lap was big enough to carry them all. How she had come by this knowledge, she could not tell, but it was the one warm thought in an evening of fret and worry.

  She was walking from geography next morning, chewing on her lip and wondering where she had misplaced her pathetic bit of embroidery for the afternoon's class, when she heard someone hissing at her.

  Startled, Ellen looked around. There was no one but Becky Speed, watering the plants by the stairwell. She came closer.

  “Thank goodness, miss,” Becky said. “There's someone here who wants to see you in the worst way.”

  The maid set down the watering can, looked both ways, and darted for the door that led belowstairs. Ellen followed, after a careful look of her own.

  And there was Gordon, sitting at the servant's dining table, rubbing his head as though it hurt. He looked up when Ellen came clattering down the stairs, and winced as she shrieked, “Gordon!” and threw her arms around him.

  “Have a care, sister,” he pleaded, holding his head with both hands. “My head is screwed on upside down.”

  Flashing a grateful look at Becky, Ellen sat down close to her brother. She sniffed the air around him and drew back slightly. He smelled as though he had not changed his linen since their last meeting. His face was a rough field of whiskery stubble and he smelled of gin, sweat, and stale tobacco.

  He acknowledged her presence with a gusty sigh and then rested his head on the table again. “Ellen,” he croaked, “you don't know what I have been through.”

  His eyes were red puddles in his pale face. Ellen waited for him to speak, waited for some explanation.

  The realization of what had happened dawned on her. “Gordon,” she said, her voice overloud. She shook his arm. “You didn't lose all your money?”

  “Softly, softly,” he pleaded, clutching his hair this time. “Every farthing, El. And then there I was in the gutter, looking up at this huge watchman.” He sat up at the memory and groaned.

  Ellen stared at him, her eyes wide. “Papa would be aghast,” she said.

  The look he fixed on her had nothing in it of exhaustion or alcoholic muddle. “He's not going to hear about it from me or you,” he said, clipping his words off and then sinking his head to the table again, as though gathering strength for his next thought.

  She waited for him to speak. Becky plunked a cup of tea on the table and pushed it close to his nose. “I found him out by the back door,” she whispered to Ellen. “I thought he was your brother.”

  Ellen gave her a grateful look. “Becky, you're a wonder.”

  Becky only smiled. “I … had a brother once, miss.” Ellen pushed the cup closer. In another moment, the odor reached Gordon's nostrils. He sat up and took a sip. “You're as bad as Mama,” he grumbled. “El, tea doesn't cure everything.”

  Ellen touched his arm. “It helps, Gordon. Now you have merely to tighten your belt until the next quarter rolls around and …”

  Gordon let out a sound between a wail and a moan and turned his face away. “El, you don't know the half of it,” he said. “I needed that money to pay the student who has been writing my essays for me. He won't continue without more blunt, and I lost it all!”

  Ellen stared at him as the words sank into her brain. “Good heavens, brother, do you mean …?”

  Wearily, Gordon propped his head on his hand. “Every week he writes the essay that I read on Saturday mornings. He wrote the last one on credit, and said he wouldn't write any more until I coughed up the guineas.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled letter. “And what do I find under my door but this note from the warden himself! I missed last Saturday's essay, and if I do not produce an acceptable essay this Saturday, he will write Father.”

  The silence stretched between them. Gordon took another sip of tea. “Then Papa will summon me home and I will never be any closer to Spain than I am right now!”

  Ellen sat in silence, thinking to herself that it was no time to trot out her childhood scolds and remind him that it was only what he deserved. She touched his hair, matted and dirty from the London gutter. “Can you not write your essay now? It is only Tuesday. Surely …”

  He groaned again and drained the rest of the tea. “El, you dolt,” he said. “I am trying to tell you that I have never written an essay in my life!”

  As tears filled his eyes, she realized it was also not the time to vent her own anger at his good fortune in an Oxford career. For he will not see it that way, she thought.

  “You have attended the lectures,” she began. “That ought to be some help in writing an essay.”

  “Yes, I attend the lectures,” he said. “I take notes while that dreary don drones on about this or that, and then I turn my notes over to my friend and he writes the essay.”

  He eyed his sister, and as she stared back, the look in his face changed and became more thoughtful. He brushed the hair back from his eyes but his glance did not waver from her face.

  Ellen had seen that expression before, but not in years. She shook her head. “I don't care what you are thinking, but the answer is no, you provoking brother.”

  He did not appear to hear her words. A grim smile played about his lips. “I have just had a brilliant idea, El. It's a real hayburner, and I am astounded that I could think of it, considering how I feel right no
w.”

  She knew better than to say anything but pursed her lips into a thin line.

  When she made no comment, he took her by the arm. “Ellen, you're going to attend that lecture in my place and write my essay.”

  “I am not!” she declared. “You can go to your lecture and …”

  He shook his head. “Not like this, El. It starts in half an hour, and I can't even hold up my head. Can you fathom the trouble I would get into from the warden if he saw me like this? No, Ellen, you'll be as safe as houses.”

  “You can't possibly be serious,” she said, her voice soaring into the upper registers.

  He winced. “Trust me, El.”

  WOULDN'T TRUST YOU IF YOU WERE THE LAST Grimsley alive,” she declared indignantly, even as Becky Speed put her finger to her lips and Gordon flinched at her bracing tones. “Especially if you were the last Grimsley alive.”

  She moved closer to her brother, her face inches from his. “We are not children in the nursery anymore, and I cannot be coerced! You must think I am fearful stupid,” she hissed.

  To his credit, Gordon shook his head vigorously, which only caused him to moan and clutch it in both hands, as though he wished to wrench it off. “No, never that,” he gasped. “I ask you to help because I am fearful stupid,” he continued, changing his tack as he watched the suspicion grow in her eyes. “You owe me no favors. And I am certain you can think of countless injustices that would render such sisterly goodwill impossible.”

  “I can,” she agreed, with feeling. “If you give me leave of twenty seconds or so, I will name ten or twelve, brother.”

  He shook his head more carefully this time and took her by the hand before she could get out of his vicinity. “Ellen, I am desperate,” he said, his voice soft, pleading.

  “Well, I suppose you are,” she replied, at a momentary loss over his apparent abandonment of the argument. She regarded him in silence for a long moment.

  That they did resemble one another, she would not deny. Her fingers strayed to her own blond hair, cut almost as short as his, and just as curly. She sighed. Even this similarity would fool no one.