by Carla Kelly
The other students in the room gasped.
“Miss Grimsley, go to your room,” Miss Dignam ordered, her voice perfectly awful.
Ellen went, grateful to collapse in sleep upon her bed again.
She was still sleeping the next day when Becky shook her awake.
“Miss Grimsley! Gordon is below, and I have never seen him so excited!”
She sat up and stuffed her feet into her shoes, looking about for a shawl to hide the wrinkles in the dress she had slept in. “I am amazed that Miss Dignam let him in.”
“Oh, she does not know. He is belowstairs in the kitchen.” Ellen followed the maid down the servants’ stairs and into the kitchen, where Gordon strode about like a caged animal.
When he saw his sister, he ran to her, lifted her off her feet and whirled her around.
“El, I have been declared a Shakespeare prodigy!” he crowed, ignoring her request to set her down.
“How lovely for you, Gordon,” she said, when he finally stopped whirling her about like a top.
He smiled modestly. “Of course, I'm not sure what a prodigy is, El, but since everyone was standing on their feet and applauding—the ones who weren't cheering, anyway—I guess it is a good thing.”
Ellen sat down and merely regarded her brother in silence until he recalled himself and sat beside her.
“Well, tell me,” she said, when he just sat there grinning. With a laugh, he leaned back in his chair. “I was almost scared spitless when I read your conclusion about Shakespeare being written by a woman.”
“Gordon! I told you to read the paper over first!” she scolded.
He ducked his head in embarrassment. “I meant to, really I did, but the men in the next room were holding a mouse race, and when that was done, we went to the Cock and Hen, and there just wasn't time. You understand, El.”
“Of course,” she replied promptly. “Never let education interfere with the business at hand.”
“I knew you would understand. Well, when I finished my paper, you could have heard a pin drop. And then someone started applauding, and others were on their feet cheering me. It's the greatest feeling, El.”
She could think of nothing to say except hot words that she would regret later, so she had the wisdom to knot her hands in her lap, grit her teeth, and be silent.
Gordon touched her arm. “The best part, El, the best part of all! Someone had invited the Vice Chancellor of Oxford. Come to think of it, he was sitting beside Lord Chesney.” Gordon grinned at the memory. “He told me I was a credit to my family and the whole nation.”
Ellen leaned forward. “Did Lord Chesney seem to enjoy it?”
“Oh, El! He's the one who called me a Shakespeare prodigy.” He closed his eyes, a dreamy expression on his face. “Gordon Grimsley, boy genius, England's gift to the world. El, everyone should have a sister like you.”
She swallowed the tears that threatened. “Did … did you see James Gatewood?”
He frowned. “I don't know this Gatewood chap you are always going on about.” He shrugged. “Who cares? Lord Chesney was pleased, and so was my warden, and I can't think anything else matters.”
“I don't suppose it does. Did you get the copy back?”
He slapped his forehead in contrition. “Would you believe that Lord Chesney insisted upon having this one too?”
Ellen uttered an exclamation of disgust. “Gordon, I particularly told you not to let that happen! I was too tired to write out another copy, and see here, I told Becky to burn my notes and rough copy, so there is nothing left.”
He looked at her with an expression that wavered between pity at her shortcomings and brotherly condescension. “I don't see how you can possibly blame me for that, El. Besides, what can it matter? What can he possibly do with those papers?” He put his arm around her. “And what use can you have for them, sis?”
She nodded slowly. “I suppose you are right, although it does make me uneasy that I have no copies of anything.”
He laughed and tugged at her curls. “Great Godfrey, El, what were you planning? To publish a book of your collected essays?” He gave her a hug and pulled her toward the door. “Who do you think would ever read a stodgy old Shakespeare collection by the worldrenowned Ellen Grimsley?”
It did sound unlikely, put that way. Ellen felt her face grow red. Was I honestly imagining that I would ever publish those works someday, she asked herself as Gordon prattled on about inanities and finally took out his watch.
“I'm off, El,” he declared finally. “Some of the chaps are hosting a dinner for me.” He puffed out his chest. “I've become a credit to University College, don't you know.”
“Gordon, what you are is a fool,” she said, not mincing her words and softening none of the sting.
He only looked at her fondly and kissed her cheek. “Yes, ain't I?” he agreed, all amiable complacency. “Maybe it will be enough to get me sprung early from this pile.”
“Either that, or it will make you so valuable that University College—and Papa—will never let you go.”
He stopped and looked at her with an expression close to horror. “I never thought of that, El!” he squeaked, his voice suddenly raised into the upper registers by the prospect of a life of study. “Whatever you do, sister, do not make the next essay so brilliant, will you?”
He opened the door. She put her hand out and closed it again. “What essay, Gordon?” she asked, her voice quiet. “I am writing no more essays for you.”
His face lost its usual healthy glow, and he swallowed several times. “See here, El. You must,” he managed, when he could speak.
“I don't have to do anything of the sort,” she retorted. “And I am thinking of applying to Papa to spring me from this pile.”
He gripped her arm. “El, you must help me.”
“Oh, must I? I suppose you will tell me that Lord Chesney insists upon another essay,” she said, opening the door for him.
He closed it this time. “As a matter of fact, he did, El, and he wants this one to be about …” He paused to reflect, rolling his eyes. “Dash it all, something about a storm, and more of them foolish fairies, or sprites. Lord C. went on and on about ‘brave new world,’ whatever the devil that means.”
“The Tempest, you block,” she said and opened the door again. “Very well, but no more after this one, Gordon. I have done enough for you.”
He only smiled, but she did not like that smile.
F SHE EXPECTED A VISIT FROM JIM GATEWOOD that afternoon, she was mistaken. For someone who seemed so interested in her progress, for someone so willing to help, he was notable by his absence.
Even Ellen's first official expedition outside the academy in the company of a maid, footman, and other select females failed to rouse her from her disappointment.
What is it that I expect? Ellen thought as she walked along the High Street with the other students. With a blush, she looked away from her own reflection in a shop window. I want his approbation, she thought. I want him to tell me what a fine job I did on this essay. She looked down the street to the spires of All Souls.
It could be that I just want to see him.
The thought made her pause in the middle of the street. The other Christmas shoppers hurried around her, looking back in irritation.
“Ellen! Hurry up!” called one of the girls. “You are becoming a trial!”
The afternoon was cold, the kind of blue-gray cold that she was familiar with from her own corner of the Cotswolds, the cold that burrowed in between the shoulder blades and never let go until spring. Ellen tugged her woolen scarf tighter about her neck and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her pelisse. Dutifully she followed the others from store to store along the High, exclaiming over ribbons and fancies until she was heartily bored.
A reminder from one of the other students about the closeness of Christmas inspired her to find a doll for Martha, a strand of coral beads for Horry, and gray kid gloves for Mama. Papa would content himself w
ith his favorite pipe tobacco. She felt disinclined to buy anything for Gordon and turned her interests to Ralph.
“We must go to the bookstore,” she said as the others were starting back. “I think it is not far,” she coaxed when the girls groaned and began a litany of complaints about their feet, the weather, and the weight of their packages, at least the ones that the footman, burdened as he was, was unable to carry.
“I have to find something for my brother,” Ellen declared. She gave her scarf another yank. “Just … go on,” she ordered, “and leave Becky Speed with me. Surely that's proper enough.”
Grateful not to have to surrender their footman, the others agreed. In a moment they were hurrying toward the warmth of Miss Dignam's asylum.
Ellen tucked her arm in Becky's. “I'm sorry,” she apologized, “but suppose I am punished next week for some misdeed or another and cannot escape to finish my Christmas obligations? I would hate to disappoint Ralph.”
Becky only smiled, even though her nose was red from the cold. “If we cut through the alleys, we will be there quicker.”
They hurried through Oxford University's alleys. Soon Ellen saw Fletcher's sign, swaying in the stiffening breeze. They ducked inside, and Ellen sighed with pleasure. The walls from floor to ceiling bulged with books of all types and sizes. Clerks scurried like sailors up and down the ladders that moved on tracks the length of the narrow store.
A clerk appeared at her side.
“I say, can you show me a copy of Shakespeare's complete works?” Ellen asked, when her mouth had thawed sufficiently to permit the formation of words again.
He disappeared, climbed a ladder, and retrieved a duplicate of the copy James Gatewood had sent to Miss Dignam's last week. He quoted her a price that made her eyes open wide.
“Mercy on us,” she exclaimed. “I haven't near enough!”
Disappointed, the clerk whisked the book away before she could sully it with one more glance. Ellen whispered to Becky, “Oh, I am so embarrassed! James Gatewood paid a small fortune for that book he sent me. I had no idea it was so dear. Becky, that was probably all his money in the world!”
The maid eyed her doubtfully. “Surely not, miss. Surely Mr. Gatewood has other resources.” She thought a moment. “Well, perhaps he does not, considering the state he is always in when we see him.” She giggled behind her well-darned mittens. “He always looks like he came backward through the shrubbery, doesn't he?”
“And I am afraid he has gone to awful expense for me,” Ellen said mournfully, thinking of the beautiful book on her desk with “Good luck!” scrawled across both inside pages.
After another moment spent in real discomfort, Ellen settled on a more modest volume of Shakespeare's histories and let the clerk carry it away to be wrapped in brown paper.
“I must remember never to petition James Gatewood for books,” she said out loud and then glanced at Becky. “I feel that for my penance I should write that sentence one hundred times. Oh, dear!”
Becky took the package from the clerk. “Well, it can't be helped now, Miss Grimsley.”
“I suppose it cannot,” Ellen said.
The wind outside Fletcher's staggered them backward. Snow was falling. Ellen linked arms with the maid and they turned, heads down, into the wind.
It fairly carried them along, swooping and dodging through Oxford's warren of alleys and hidden streets. Ellen's dress whirled up around her knees, and she could only be grateful that no one else was abroad on such a chilly afternoon to witness such a brazen display.
Almost no one. She was turning to attempt some remark to Becky as they struggled along, when suddenly James Gatewood separated them and put his arms through theirs.
“What a duo of silly chits you are,” he said mildly, as the wind ruffled through his already untidy hair. “I expected that England's next preeminent Shakespeare scholar would have the wit to keep warm.”
Ellen giggled despite her misery. “We are on Christmas errands,” she shouted above the wind.
“You'll only get a lump of coal from me, if you do not seek shelter soon,” he shouted back, still cheerful.
Becky tugged at his other arm. “Please, sir, I live only one street over. We could duck in there for a moment to get warm.”
Gatewood smiled at the maid. “Capital notion, my dear!” he declared. “How glad I am to know that one of you has a particle of sense.” He laughed out loud when Ellen dug him in the ribs. “My dear, if the shoe fits …”
He had to duck his head to get through the low doorway into the Speed house, a narrow set of quarters built along the same lines as the bookstore. A woman who looked very much like Becky Speed was sitting beside a thin, sunken-faced man with no expression who lay on a daybed close to the fire. She blew a kiss to Becky and took in the situation at a glance, rising to her feet.
“Come close to the fire,” she said, gesturing toward the small mound of coal that glowed in the grate. After a slight hesitation, she hurried to the cupboard on the dark side of the little room and took out two china cups.
In another moment, Ellen was sipping the weak tea. She smiled her appreciation. The woman beamed back as Becky put her arm around her.
“Mr. Gatewood, Miss Grimsley, this is my mother,” Becky said and then tilted her head toward the man on the daybed. “And my father. He was a stone mason and fell from the walls of Magdalen while making repairs last year.” Her voice faltered and she tightened her grip on her mother. “We think he can understand us.”
Gatewood hesitated not a moment. He walked to the daybed and sat down in the spot Mrs. Speed had vacated. “Then we thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Speed,” he said, his voice gentle.
Beyond a slight movement of his head, Mr. Speed lay still.
With increased appreciation, Ellen watched James Gatewood as he sat where he was, addressing pleasantries to the man who could not answer him. She turned away and found herself looking at Mrs. Speed, who was watching Gatewood.
Becky kissed her mother's cheek as Mrs. Speed began to dab at her eyes with her apron. “I think he reminds Mama of Tommy, who went to Spain to war and never came home.”
“Becky, I am so sorry,” Ellen said. Her throat felt scratchy and her eyelids burned. She sipped her tea-flavored hot water, her heart troubled. And Spain is where Gordon thinks he must go, she thought. I was so unkind to him this afternoon.
In another moment, Mrs. Speed directed her attention to the fireplace. Carefully she took out two more lumps of coal from the nearly empty pasteboard box that served as a coal scuttle and arranged them on the little fire with all the skill of a bricklayer. Ellen's eyes clouded over as she remembered the maids at home tumbling coal into the grate, careless of it.
Gatewood remained by Becky's father until the man closed his eyes and relaxed in sleep. He looked at Ellen then, who had removed her pelisse and was sitting close to the fire, her hands extended to it.
“You look so nice in a dress,” he whispered, so none of the Speeds could hear him. “Much more flattering than a scholar's gown.”
She raised her eyes from her contemplation of the struggling little fire, as though she had not heard his small compliment. “James, I think they intend to have us for supper.”
He sat close beside her. “We can't put them to that embarrassment,” he said softly, “even though I would like to sit with you by the fire a little longer.”
“Well, you cannot,” she said and then glanced at his face. “You could come to Miss Dignam's parlor some evening.”
“No, I could not,” he replied enigmatically and then changed the subject by wrapping his scarf about his neck again and pulling on his gloves. “Mrs. Speed, Becky, thank you so much for rescuing us from the storm, but I must return this waif to Miss Dragon's.”
Becky giggled. Ellen couldn't help but notice the look of relief on Mrs. Speed's face.
“If you must,” Mrs. Speed began.
James held out his hand. “We must. Miss Grimsley is so often in and out o
f trouble that it would not be wise to tempt the Fates. Good day to you all. Here, Ellen, let me help you.”
Becky reached for her cloak again. James shook his head.
“I can see Miss Grimsley home. After all, I am going in that direction too.”
Ellen buttoned her pelisse and stood still while James wrapped the muffler about her neck. She held out her hand to Becky. “I am sure I will be fine.” She frowned. “Becky, wasn't this your half-day, anyway?”
Becky nodded. “I didn't mind the shopping this afternoon. I love to look in shop windows, even if I do not buy.”
“Mind you hurry then, Miss Grimsley,” Mrs. Speed said as she opened the door. The snow blew in and nearly extinguished the exhausted fire. “I wouldn't want your cold or sore throat laid at my door!”
Ellen smiled and touched the woman's arm. “I am never sick,” she declared. “It is a sore trial to my mother, who thinks I would be more interesting if I could languish a bit, like my sister.”
They said good-bye and set out, arm in arm, through the alleys. It was too cold to talk. Ellen clutched Ralph's present to her, grateful that the footman had taken the others on ahead.
After walking in silence through the winter twilight, James stopped, pulling Ellen up short. “I, for one, am grateful you are never sick,” he said, speaking distinctly to be heard above the wind. He started walking again.
She looked up at him in amusement “Well, thank you, sir!” she declared.
“Seriously, El,” he replied, “think how handy that will be when you are slogging through the malarial rain forests of Brazil, or the frozen steppes—Heaven help us—of Siberia. The world was never explored by weak people.”
Ellen stopped this time. “You don't think I am foolish, like all my relatives do, and Miss Dignam, and Fanny Bland, and Vicar Snead?”
He tugged her into motion again. “I don't think you are foolish,” he said quietly. “Not at all, Ellen Grimsley. You may be a little ahead of your time, but so was Galileo.”
“You put me in august company,” she shouted over the wind.
