by Carla Kelly
Tears started in Ellen's eyes. They don't even know what they have here, she thought as she dashed the tears away and made herself small in her corner pew.
She saw Gordon in the circle of his friends, his back straight, his eyes triumphant, as he clutched her paper. She peered closer. Just as she had thought. Becky had taken both essays from the drawer, and thank goodness for that. There was nothing left in her room to connect her with the papers. Whatever else there was had gone up the chimney hours before when she burned her notes. With any luck at all, she could get the Romeo and Juliet paper back from Gordon and tuck it away, to be hauled out and looked at in years to come.
Not that I will ever need a reminder of this day, she thought, with a slight smile. To her relief, Gordon sat far up front. Her smile broadened. In all her memory, Gordon Grimsley had never sat up front for any event requiring his attention.
The students all rose as the warden, dean, and fellows entered the hall in stately fashion and settled themselves behind the rostrum. Ellen nearly laughed out loud. His hair combed, and his shirt points reasonably starched, James Gatewood sat with them. He crossed his legs in that careless way that she so envied and looked out across the audience.
She wondered why he was there. Sitting next to him was a distinguished gentleman, with deep creases etched in his face like sculpted marble. As she watched, the two men put their heads together and exchanged a pleasantry that set them both laughing.
Ellen looked back at the open door. If there were time, she would get that Romeo and Juliet paper from Gordon and share it with James Gatewood. It was the least she could do for him. Dear James, without your help, I would never have had the books I needed. Someday I will find a way to repay you, she thought, as the chaplain asked them all to kneel for prayer.
The prayer was long and in Latin. When it ended, the students seated themselves, coughed, and shuffled papers until the warden called them all to order.
“Young masters,” he began, “you all know why we are here.” He looked around and beamed at the faculty seated behind him. “We applaud your eagerness to rise at this disgraceful hour on a Saturday, and contribute to the stamping out of ignorance.”
The scholars laughed; it was the polite, appreciative mirth for a joke heard often. Some of them sat up straighter in anticipation of their own ordeal to come.
The readings began in no discernible order that Ellen could make out. She jumped in fright as the massive doors were closed behind her. The student sitting closest to her looked at her in surprise, and then looked away, bored, as the next student rose to speak.
The hour dragged along. Some of the papers were witty, brilliant even, and Ellen applauded along with the other students in appreciation. Others were pedestrian and stilted– the kind of paper that Gordon would have written, had he been compelled to do his own work, she thought. The reminder of her own iniquity in the matter of Gordon's success came back again as she shivered and drew her gown tighter about her slight shoulders.
“Gordon Grimsley.”
At the warden's announcement, the students whispered to each and then were silent, expectant, as her brother rose and walked slowly to the podium, papers in hand.
Ellen smiled, forgetting her own discomfort at the sight of her handsome brother mounting the podium, his back so straight, his head upright. I should be so jealous, she thought as he arranged the papers in front of him. He has caused me considerable anxiety and anguish over this. She shook her head. It was enough to be there.
“‘The Tempest,’ ” he announced in carrying tones. “‘A Travel Guide to the New World of English Literature.’ ”
Ellen beamed at the sounds of appreciation from Gordon's audience. It was a good title. She had labored over it when her stomach ached and she was so exhausted she had to lay her head on her books to rest for a few minutes each hour.
His voice carried well in the medieval hall. She listened, tears gleaming on her cheeks, as her useless brother made her happier than she could ever remember. No, she thought, I was this happy once before, and that was in James Gatewood's chambers at All Souls, eating toasted bread and cheese and talking about Great Ideas.
The thought of Gatewood turned her attention to him. She looked at his face, pleased to see the delight in his animated eyes, even from this distance. She only wished that he did not still look so tired, as though he slept no more than she did. What can be troubling you, sir? she thought, her mind miles away from Gordon. Did you truly give away all your quarterly allowance to buy me books, and now you are hungry?
She turned her attention to Gordon again. The door opened behind her, but she was caught up all over again in the magic of Shakespeare and did not feel the puff of colder air until it spread over the hall and then diminished as the door closed again.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the porter, note in hand, hurrying toward the podium. Ellen watched in mounting uneasiness as the man handed it to the college warden and then stepped back respectfully, his hands behind his back.
She sucked in her breath as the warden rose behind Gordon and put a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Surprised, Gordon stopped in midsentence. “Stand to one side, lad,” the warden said.
The students looked at each other and began to whisper among themselves. Ellen swallowed several times and felt the blood drain from her face.
The warden looked down at the paper in his hand and shook his head over it. He looked out across the audience, his eyes searching as the silence deepened and filled the hall. “Ellen Grimsley, come forward at once.”
She did not move.
The warden continued his search of the hall, his lips set in a firmer line. His voice was softer but carried with it command.
“Miss Grimsley, we will find you in this hall, of this you can have no doubt.”
The students burst into excited chatter, looking about them. Someone laughed. Gatewood had uncrossed his legs. His hands were on the arms of his chair, as though he were about to rise himself.
You cannot do that, she thought suddenly. Any connection between us would be worse than my discovery in the Bodleian. It would ruin you.
She leaped to her feet, propelled there by sheer nerves, and stood clutching the pew in front of her.
“Ellen!” Gordon gasped. “What the devil are you doing here?”
She stood as tall as she could and drew the cloak tighter around her as the hall fell immediately silent. “I wanted to hear the paper, Gordon. That is all.”
The voices buzzed again as she forced herself to walk into the center aisle and stand there, her back straight.
The warden was shaking his head. “No, that is not all, Miss Grimsley. I have it on good authority that you are the author of these papers that Master Grimsley has been favoring us with week after week.”
The talk rose to a roar that hushed with a wave of the warden's hand.
Ellen clasped her hands in front of her, marveling how cold they felt. She waited for the warden to speak.
“Did you write these papers, Miss Grimsley? Speak up now.” The full knowledge of what she had done descended with a thump on her shoulders. As she watched the warden leave the podium and start toward her, she realized that admission of the truth would mean Gordon's immediate dismissal from University College. And no cavalry regiment would ever allow him to buy a pair of colors.
She lowered her eyes to the stone floor as the warden approached. Isn't that what you want, Ellen Grimsley? she asked herself calmly. It's Gordon's fault and blame entirely. He was lazy and he ought to be made to suffer for his sins.
She looked up at Gordon, his face as white as hers, his mouth open to speak, his hands tight around the papers. The look in his eyes was naked, pleading.
James Gatewood had not stood up yet, but he was perched on the edge of the chair, his eyes on her face. She managed a smile at him, which the warden misinterpreted as he came closer.
“This is hardly a smiling matter, Miss Grimsley,” he thundered. “
Did you or did you not write those papers?”
Ellen closed her eyes for an instant and then raised her chin higher.
“Of course I did, sir.”
It took the warden several moments to quiet the lecture hall. Gatewood was on his feet now, starting toward her. She shook her head and he stopped. Gordon clutched the podium and bowed his head.
The warden was directly in front of her. He towered over her like a bird of prey in his long robe with the velvet bands on the sleeves. He waved the note under her nose.
“You wrote them?” he asked again, the incredulity in his voice unmistakable. “Impossible! Females cannot do such work!”
It stung worse than she had imagined it would. How dare this man think that because she was a woman, she was incapable of scholarship? But so he would have to think, she decided. One last glance at Gordon convinced her. She managed a slight smile.
“Yes, sir, I did. If you knew my brother's wretched handwriting, you would understand why he came to me and begged me to make fair copies of his Saturday talks. I did not think it would hurt. I came only because I wanted to hear him read one.”
Several students began to laugh. The scholar closest to her nudged another and remarked how he wished he had a beautiful sister with good handwriting so conveniently at hand.
The warden did not smile. His agate eyes remained unreadable, even as his lips relaxed slightly. He shook his head.
“I have knowledge from Miss Aloysia Dignam of her Select Female Academy that you are the author of these papers, Miss Grimsley.”
Ellen swallowed again and took a step toward the warden.
“Prove it,” she said, her voice loud and clear, even as her legs trembled and would scarcely hold her up.
The warden stared at her, his mouth open. He looked over his shoulder at the podium. This time, the tall man next to James Gatewood rose to his feet.
Everyone rose. Ellen blinked in surprise. Who was this man?
Majestically, he strode down the aisle. The warden bowed as he approached and stood in front of Ellen Grimsley, whose knees had begun to shake by now.
He looked at her long and hard, and then turned his attention to the warden.
“She has admitted to no guilt. This ends the matter, sir, as far as the scholarship is concerned.” He looked back up at the aisle at Gordon, who had not relaxed his grip on the podium. “An Oxford man would never lie about such a thing. If Gordon Grimsley makes no disclaimer, then we will not question you further. Sir?”
Wordlessly, Gordon shook his head and then bowed it again.
“Then here the matter rests, Warden.” The man turned his attention to Ellen again. “Miss Grimsley, I am Vice Chancellor of Oxford University. It is my duty, in very deed it is my heartfelt pleasure, to expel you from these premises. Please go and do not return.”
Without a word, or another glance at the podium, Ellen turned and fled the hall. The door was heavy, and she thought she would never get it open, but in another moment, she was in the quadrangle of University College. Miss Dignam, nostrils flaring, eyes blazing, took her by the arm and hurried her across what seemed like acres and acres of wintry stubble. Ellen looked back once at the entrance hall. Some of the students had opened the narrow medieval windows and stared out at her. Someone waved.
She turned away in shame as tears of rage ran down her face. Miss Dignam gave her arm a good shake. “It's very well that you feel humiliated, Ellen Grimsley,” she exclaimed. “I don't know what this will do to the reputation of my school!”
Ellen shook herself free, sobbing out loud in frustration and anger. She looked back once more. “I am better than all of you foolish scholars who waste your time,” she shouted. “Some day this will change!”
The wind carried her words away over the walls of the quadrangle as though she had not spoken them.
Fanny said nothing to her as Miss Dignam escorted her to her room. She sat at her desk, cool and tidy as usual, looking down her long nose at Ellen's rumpled gown and her tear-streaked face. She met the rebellion in Ellen's eyes for one brief moment, then looked away, her face pale.
Miss Dignam marched Ellen over to her desk and plumped her down. “You will remain in this room until your father comes to get you, Miss Grimsley. I have already sent for him. I do not doubt that he will be here soon.” The headmistress rolled her eyes and fanned herself with her hand. “I cannot imagine what possessed you to dress so indecently and parade yourself in front of all those students.”
Ellen sighed. Thank heavens Miss Dignam had made no mention of the papers. “I wanted to hear Gordon read,” she repeated stubbornly.
Fanny was turning around now and frowning. “But Ellen wrote those papers!” she exclaimed.
“Absurd!” Miss Dignam snapped. She slammed the door behind her.
“You wrote those papers, Ellen Grimsley,” Fanny said quietly as Miss Dignam's footsteps retreated down the hall.
“You will have to prove it, Fanny,” she replied, her eyes boring into the view of Oxford before her.
Fanny jumped up and crossed the room to Ellen's desk, jerking open the drawer. It was empty. She ran her hands over the books on Ellen's desk, searching for stray papers, going at last in frustration to the fireplace, where she stood, her fists clenched, looking down at the piles of ashes.
“You burned your notes. All of them. Didn't you?” she asked.
“I have nothing to say,” Ellen said. After one last look, she tugged at the curtain pull and removed the panorama of Oxford from her sight. She changed clothes and lay down on her bed, her face to the wall. In another moment, she slept.
QUIRE GRIMSLEY, EVEN MORE RED-FACED and pop-eyed than usual, was there by morning. He was standing over her bed, his riding crop twitching against his leg, when she woke.
White-faced, Ellen sat up. The squire pulled a chair to the bed and sank into it as he unbuttoned his mud-flecked coat. He looked over his shoulder at Fanny Bland, who sat at her desk, studiously ignoring them both.
“Fanny, find someplace else to sit,” he said and stared at her until she gathered up her embroidery and swept out of the room, shutting the door with a decisive click that bordered on the insolent.
The squire turned back to his daughter. He said nothing for several minutes, until Ellen wanted to dig her toes into the mattress.
He sighed finally and leaned back in the chair. “I can be grateful, I suppose, that you did not tease me with one of those ‘But Papa, you don't understand,’ arguments that Horatia favors.”
“I really don't have anything to say, Papa,” Ellen managed at last. Her tongue felt too large for her mouth, as though it would impede her very speech and breath.
“Well, I do, Ellen,” he replied and glanced around to make sure that the door was shut.
When he finished a half hour later, his face was as white as hers. He was looking out the window at the view she had renounced the day before, and from the way his knuckles were stretched so tight against the draperies, it obviously brought him little pleasure.
“A scandal like this could ruin a family, Ellen,” he was saying, almost more to himself than to her. “A man's daughter parades herself around a university in breeches? What does this tell about her parents, her upbringing?”
Ellen could only stare, dry-eyed at last, at his broad back. Why is it so wrong to want to learn, she wanted to cry out. Why must I sneak around to study? Why can I not use the library and the study halls, listen to the lectures and ask questions of dons and fellows?
“Well, what do you think of that?” Papa was asking her.
“I am sorry, I was not listening,” she stammered.
The riding crop crashed on the desk. “Have you even heard a word I have said, daughter?” he raged.
Ellen burst into tears again.
Papa snorted in frustration and dragged his damp handkerchief back out of his pocket.
“Come on, Ellen, perhaps in time Thomas will get over this unfortunate bit of high spirits,” he said. �
�Goodness knows he would still be in the dark, if someone had not send an anonymous letter from Oxford.”
“What!” Ellen gasped, clutching the handkerchief. She sank back down in the bed, resisting the urge to pull the blankets over her head and retreat. “Who could have done that?” she asked, only to know the answer already. Fanny must have told him—meddling, jealous Fanny.
But Papa was talking. She forced herself to listen.
“… and he almost insisted that I let him come along, daughter. I told him it was still a family matter.” The squire sat down again, this time not meeting her eyes. “He said, ‘All the more reason I should be there.’ ”
Ellen was silent, digesting this oblique bit of information. “What has Thomas Cornwell to do with our family?” she asked finally, knowing the squire's answer before he spoke and dreading it.
“Well, we have been talking, these past few weeks,” was all he said, his voice unsure for the first time since their grueling interview began.
“Did you tell him I would marry him?” she asked quietly.
The squire nodded, taking in the distress on her face that she did not try to hide. “Ah, daughter, we all have to do things in life that we don't relish!” he burst out, when she did not speak.
“Not marriage!” she exclaimed, sitting up straight. “You don't need the money, do you, Papa?”
He shook his head and then looked at her. “Think of the land, Ellen! He may not have a title like Horry's future father-in-law, or that Bland prestige, but he has land.” He threw up his hands. “We can join the farms for twice the profit, and I'll get that little parcel of land over by Lowerby that I have had my eyes on for years.”
“You would do that to me?” was all she said. “Papa, I don't love Thomas Cornwell. I don't even like him.”
“What does love have to do with our discussion?” the squire said after several long moments dragged by in silence. “What indeed? Get your clothes on, Ellen. We're going home.”
