Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career

by Carla Kelly

  She peered at Gatewood, the admiration strong in her voice. “My goodness, sir, you are so good at keeping the thread of the conversation.”

  “Jim,” he said again. “Well, of course, fair Hermia. That is what they teach us here at Oxford, don't you know. We learn to detect false argument, to build an unassailable case, and to be, above all else, objective.” He ran a lazy finger down her cheek, even as she leaned away from him. “Not in a million years could any man alive mistake you for your brother.”

  “Do you know my brother?” she asked. “I am sorry for you.”

  “I … well, I know who he is now,” he said.

  If he was evasive, she overlooked it. Her eyes were merry as she also overlooked his forward behavior. “I sat in the shadows, sir, and to tell the truth, I think the old man was remarkably shortsighted. And, sir, he was so small!”

  Jim sat up straight again, his eyes filled with remembrance.

  “You can only be describing Hemphill. No bigger than a minute, and with a funny way of hunching up his shoulders to keep his gown from dragging?”

  “The very same,” she said, as she eyed the pint pot and pushed it away from her. “He was all the characters for Midsummer Night's Dream.”

  “And his Pyramus has a lisp,” Jim continued, draining the rest of his ale. He struck a pose in the narrow booth. “‘Thuth die I, thuth, thuth thuth.’ ”

  Ellen joined in his laughter. “Yeth, you have hit it, thir,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes to match his. “And now I must go.”

  He inclined his head to her. “So you should.”

  She reached for her cloak, draping it about her shoulders again and feeling the pocket to make sure that her notes at least were dry. “I could wish for Chesney's Commentary, but I believe that I can recall enough to write Gordon's paper.”

  Gatewood edged his way out of the booth, keeping between Ellen and the other patrons while she gathered her cloak tight about her again. She had taken no more than one step toward the door when Gatewood propelled her back into the booth, put his finger to his lips, and practically sat on her.

  Mystified, she craned her neck around to see what had caused this strange behavior, spotted her brother, and ducked her head until only one eye peeked out from under Gatewood's arm.

  She held her breath as Gordon crossed the floor, listing about as though the tavern itself moved. Supporting him was another student, dressed also in black and no more able to navigate the perils of a public house. Ellen let out a gusty sigh.

  “Oh, if I could only wring his neck,” she muttered. “Do get off me, Jim.”

  Gatewood moved slightly. “Wring his neck?” he whispered. “You are much too kind.”

  She only looked at him, noting that his eyes were the warmest shade of brown and quite close to her own. They even had little gold flecks in them.

  “He is a ridiculous brother,” she whispered back.

  “I suppose he is.” He turned around and watched the two young men cross to a distant bench and throw themselves down like rag dolls. He moved over to give her more room. “And here I have just rescued him and that other young chap—he is, regrettably, a relation of mine—from the pitfalls of London. Ingratitude.”

  They looked at each other. “It appears that my brother and your relative are keeping low company.”

  Gatewood smiled. “It does. That was where I was this weekend, by the way, Hermia. I went on a rescue mission to London to wrest two rascals from the Watch. Did you wonder why I did not follow up that clandestine box of chocolates?”

  She took another glance at her brother, who leaned over the table, head resting against the wood, eyes closed. “They were delightful and you were very kind,” she said as he ushered her from the tavern and into the rain again.

  “But I do not understand why you did it,” she added as he threw an arm over her shoulders and steered her around the larger puddles.

  “I came to pay a visit, and a cheeky little maid informed me that you were suffering the indignity of Miss Dignam's personal attention. In situations like that, only chocolates will do.”

  Before she could ask any more questions, he was hurrying her across the High Street. He paused under the awning of a greengrocer's to shake the rain from his gown. He held out his hand to Ellen and she grasped it.

  “I had better leave you here,” he said. “I must return to the Bodleian where Machiavelli awaits.” He made a face. “I confess to no love for the labyrinthine mind of the politician.”

  “Then why do you study him?” she asked. “Surely you can do whatever you wish. You are a man.”

  “No, actually, I cannot,” he replied, after a moment's reflection. “I have made my own bargain with my late father.” He sighed. “And my mother, who likes to worry.” He shook her hand but did not release it. “Perhaps your brother and I are more alike than you know. Good day, my dear. Do stay dry.”

  She watched him cross the street again and ran after him. “Oh, wait!” she called.

  He turned. “If you get a putrid sore throat or a racking cough, I will refuse to claim any responsibility beyond a posy or two on your grave.”

  She stopped in front of him, shy suddenly, wondering why she had pursued him. She held out her hand this time. “I just wanted to thank you again for the nicest afternoon I have ever spent,” she said, her voice low. “Thank you for not betraying me in the library.”

  He bowed over her hand, and the rain from his hood dripped onto her wrist. “I will advise the librarian to engage the services of a good mouser. I will even return poor Chesney's Commentary to the stacks for you.”

  A cart rumbled by, splattering them both. Without a word, he lifted her onto the sidewalk and closer to him. “I can think of no greater misfortune to a father than that his dear daughter Ellen be struck and killed by a passing poultry cart when he thought her safe and bored at Miss Dignam's. It is not the sort of news that parents thrive on, I suspect,” Gatewood said, his voice lively with amusement. “I suppose I must pay a visit to Miss Dignam's horrible sitting room when we are both dry and you do not look like a heroine out of a bad novel!”

  “Promise?” she asked, releasing her grip on his hand.

  “If I am able. I wish to read your paper before that ungrateful brother of yours acquires it.”

  “I will begin it tonight,” she said and looked both ways before stepping into the street. “I have other questions, sir, many others! Who is Lord Chesney? I have something perfectly diverting to tell you about him, and I don't even know who he is.” She leaned forward for one last confidence. “I think he is my benefactor. Imagine that!”

  “I cannot. Of course, Chesney is a raving eccentric.” Gatewood held up his hand to stop her flood of questions. “Even Chesney can wait, fair Hermia. Good day, for the second or third time.”

  Ellen laughed and waved her hand to him as she splashed across the street again and hurried to the shallow steps that led to the servants’ entrance. When she looked back across the High, he was still standing there, watching her. He blew her a kiss as she ran down the stairs.

  Becky Speed was watching for her at the window. When Ellen clambered down the stairs, the maid flung the door open wide and pulled her into the pantry. She thrust a bundle of clothes at Ellen and whispered at her to hurry and change.

  “It is almost dinner time, Miss,” she said as she closed the door to the pantry and helped Ellen off with her soaking wet cloak.

  Without a word, Ellen hurried out of her clothes. She gathered them into a sodden bundle and tiptoed up the back stairs. She just had time to throw them under her bed and rearrange herself and the pillows before Fanny opened the door.

  Ellen snapped her eyes shut, wishing that she could look pale and interesting, instead of rosy from her exertions. She was mindful of her damp hair that curled so outrageously around her face. My heart is pounding loud enough for Fanny to hear it, she thought. She patted the lump of papers under her pillow, grateful that her notes were dry.

 
She made no comment as Fanny came closer to the bed. Even with her eyes shut tight, Ellen could almost see Fanny peering at her down the length of her long Bland nose. And probably regarding me with vast suspicion, Ellen thought. For a small moment she considered her years of diligent honesty and cast them aside.

  She opened her eyes slowly. “Fanny, is that you?” she asked, her voice cracking as she sought for just the right tone between mere discomfort and Fatal Illness.

  “Of course it is,” Fanny snapped. “Who else would it be?” she said, her voice still harsh, but troubled now with a faint uncertainty. “Ellen?”

  Ellen sighed and tugged at her damp hair. “Fanny, ’tis laudable perspiration. Thank heavens the fever has broke,” she said.

  Fanny took it all in. She gaped at Ellen's damp hair, and the red spots of color in each cheek. “I had no idea,” she said, lowering her voice. Her tones took on a reverent quality that almost made Ellen choke. “Are you feeling more the thing now, Ellen?”

  Ellen nodded. With a gesture that she hoped was casual, she tugged the blankets up higher around her throat, covering her day dress. “Thank you for your concern, Fanny dear,” she replied. “Please assure Miss Dignam that I will be right as a trivet by morning.”

  Fanny Bland was all solicitation. “Can I get you a tisane?” she offered. “May I bathe your temples with lavender water?”

  Ellen shook her head and touched Fanny's hand. “Just let me rest in peace,” she said, careful not to look Fanny in the eye. She coughed for good effect and closed her eyes again.

  She could hear Fanny by the bed. She heard the rustle of skirts, a sudden sniffling, and was thoroughly ashamed. In another moment, Fanny closed the door quietly behind her.

  Ellen, how can you stoop so low, she thought as she sat up in bed. Depressing, boring, vindictive old Fanny Bland is actually worried about you.

  After a moment spent in minor repentance, Ellen stripped off her dress and leaped into her nightgown. She retrieved the notes from under her pillow and smoothed them out. She toweled her hair dry, felt pangs of hunger, and decided that her penance would include no dinner that night.

  Besides, she considered as she flopped back on the bed with her arms flung wide, I have such food for thought. She lay there in the semidarkness, her mind busy on Midsummer Night's Dream and the whimsy of love.

  Morning brought Miss Dignam to her bedside. Dutifully, Ellen—her fingers crossed under the covers—stuck out her tongue upon command and coughed as directed.

  “You seem to be recovering nicely,” Miss Dignam assured her. “Goodness, but you certainly gave our dear Fanny a start yesterday!” She shook her finger playfully in Ellen's face. “Now, you rest today. I am sure you can catch up with your embroidery tomorrow. We are exploring the variety of the French knot today. I feel that one of your mental acuity can easily conquer that subject tomorrow while we go on to daisy chains.” She held up her hand when Ellen tried to speak. “No protests, my dear!”

  “No, Miss Dignam,” Ellen said.

  After Miss Dignam left the room, Fanny followed in her wake with her bag of neatly arranged embroidery threads. When the door closed, Ellen sat cross-legged on her bed and spread out the closely written notes she had taken during the tutorial and in the library. Pages in hand, she bit back her disappointment about the Commentary. Her notes were thorough, as far as they went, but the page was blank after the mouse scare, when her pencil drew a line like a startled eyebrow across the rest of the sheet.

  “I suppose Vicar Snead would tell me that is what comes of spurious scholarship,” she muttered.

  As she sat wondering what course to take now, a servant scratched at the door.

  Becky Speed opened the door, a parcel in her hands. Her eyes danced with excitement as she held out the package to Ellen.

  “Here you are, Miss Grimsley,” she said, her voice breathless as though she had run up three flights of stairs. “You cannot imagine who this is from!”

  “Lord Chesney?” Ellen asked.

  Becky shook her head. “Oh, I do not think so. He didn't look much like a lord. No, it was that student who brought you the chocolates last week. There I was, beating out the hall rug over the front railing, when he runs across the High, saying something about being late for a tutorial, and tossed me this package.”

  Ellen pushed aside her notes. “It must be James Gatewood.” She leaned toward Becky. “He is an original item, Becky, and heavens, I caused him such monstrous trouble yesterday.”

  Becky frowned and backed toward the door. “Perhaps it is some sort of incendiary device, ma'am. Perhaps you should not open it.”

  Ellen tugged off the brown paper. “Goose! He wasn't that angry!” She paused, the wrapping in her hands. “Goodness knows he could have been. No, he was rather sweet about the whole thing. Heavens knows why. When I think …”

  She stopped, embarrassed, and looked at the books that came spilling from the wrapping. “Becky, it is Chesney's Commentary!” She opened the slim volume. “And look, it hasn't even been cut yet!”

  A note fell from the book. “‘Fair Hermia, if Miss Dignam's Select Female Academy is as disapproving of mice as it is of all forms of scholarship and original thought, you will not be interrupted as you study this work,’ ” she read. “‘The other book should provide further insight.’ ”

  “What a kind man,” Ellen said as she opened the other volume in her lap. “Becky, I do not think he can afford to give me books. He does not appear entirely prosperous.”

  “There is more writing on the back of that note,” Becky said. Ellen turned it over. “‘I hope you have not discarded your breeches and student gown. The larger volume must be returned to me at All Souls. Behave yourself. Jim.’ ”

  Becky sucked in her breath. “Cheeky sort, Miss Grimsley.”

  “Not at all,” Ellen protested. “I would say that he is more like a big brother.” She considered Gordon in all his drunken splendor, sprawled across the table in the tavern. “At least, the kind of big brother that does one some good.”

  The servant came closer again and looked about the room. “Do you still have …?”

  “The breeches and cloak? Oh, my, yes. I hung them in the dressing room far in the back. Fanny will only find them if she pokes her long nose amongst my possessions, and why should she?”

  Ellen put the books on the desk and turned back to her notes. She rested her cheek on her hand. “I will return the book, Becky, but then I will be done with this business. It can only get me in trouble of the worst kind. Then I would be dragged home to a purgatory of addressing wedding invitations and listening to Horry moan and groan each time some piddling little detail went awry.”

  Becky's face fell. “But don't you love weddings, Miss Grimsley?”

  “I daresay I might someday, but Horatia's is rather a trial.” She opened the book, but her mind was far away. It was more than just foolish, brainless Horatia. The trial was also Mama, looking her over so carefully when she thought Ellen was not aware, wondering if there was such an advantageous alliance in her younger daughter's future.

  “Bother it,” she muttered as she pulled out her letter opener and slit the pages of Chesney's Commentary. In another moment, she was deep in Shakespeare's enchanted Athenian forest, smiling over Lord Chesney's wise remarks and wondering about the man who wrote them. By the end of the day, when Gordon's essay had become a rough reality, she had created in her mind a picture of her benefactor.

  He must be a kindly older man, probably someone with children of his own that he had seen through the trials of love, she thought as she lit the lamp and continued copying her draft onto better paper. He can only be one of Aunt Shreve's friends. Papa doesn't know anyone this intelligent.

  She put down her pen. James Gatewood says that Lord Chesney is a fellow at All Souls, so how can he be old? It is all too strange, she decided.

  She sat in her room, waiting for Gordon to announce his presence below. James Gatewood had promised he would visit her
and read the paper, so she waited for him, too. No Gordon, no Gatewood.

  “Men are selfish beasts,” she decided as she tied on her sleeping cap and blew out the candle.

  Chesney's Commentary lay on the desk beside her bed. Moonglow streaked across it, setting the gold lettering on the spine shimmering. Ellen picked it up, settling the book on her stomach. “But for this excellent bit of insight, I forgive you, Jim Gatewood.”

  Gatewood did not darken Miss Grimsley's door the next day. Ellen's mind wandered through her geography teacher's tightlipped description of the French countryside. During the interminable lecture, which dealt more on the evils of Napoleon than on the geography of France, she was tempted to ask why it was necessary to be so censorious about flora and fauna. Surely one cannot blame flowering shrubs for the rise of That Beast From Corsica, she thought.

  She fared no better in embroidery, tangling her threads until Fanny was forced to desert her own neat sampler and help her. Ellen gritted her teeth, smiled sweetly at Fanny, and edged her chair closer to the window. She could see the spire of All Souls, located as it was just across the street. She was no wiser about the whereabouts of James Gatewood.

  His gown rumpled as though he had slept in it, his eyes bulging from the exertion of running, Gordon darkened her door that evening. She met him in the sitting room under the agate eyes and wooden countenance of Miss Dignam. Without a word of greeting, he snatched the manuscript from her lap. He rifled through the pages and then sighed with relief, flinging himself into a chair.

  “Ten pages! Thank the Almighty!” he exclaimed. “I had forgotten to tell you that the paper had to be between eight and ten pages.” He counted the pages again, smiled, and stuffed them in his pocket.

  Ellen started forward in her chair, mindful of Miss Dignam's eyes on her. “But don't you wish to read what I have written, Gordon?”

  “Heavens no,” he said and shook his bead. “I am sure I could not understand one word, anyway. All that matters is that it is ten pages long.” He leaned forward then and tugged at the short curls framing her face, curls she had spent all afternoon taming, in the hopes that someone would arrive to appreciate them. “Someday, I will do you a great favor, sister,” he said and then laughed. “I'll start by telling you that your curls make you look like a poodle! Really, El.”