Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career

by Carla Kelly

  “No, silly! I do not run with a royal crowd! No, it was Lord Chesney.”

  “Oh?” she replied, raising her eyebrows. “And what makes you think I am interested?”

  “Well, I thought you might be.” He lay down again. “Sorry I brought it up.”

  She remained at the door. “Well, he wasn't in trouble or anything, was he?” she asked, keeping her tone casual.

  “No! He was in Tattersall's with a bunch of his friends. D'ye know, he looks different when he is not in that old student's gown. I almost did not recognize him in real clothes.”

  “Did he see you?”

  Gordon shook his head. “I thought it best not to announce myself. El, it wasn't auction day at Tat's, but they had pulled out a regular show of the most beautiful bits of bone and blood I ever saw. Lord Chesney must run with a plummy crowd, El. You'd never know it to look at him.”

  “There is a lot you'd never know about Lord Chesney by looking at him,” she replied and turned the door handle. She looked back at her brother. “How … how did he appear?”

  “Bored! I don't think I ever saw anyone looking so bored. I think if I had that line of thoroughbreds to choose from, I would at least try to appear interested.”

  “Gordon, it is not given to everyone to be horse-mad,” she reminded him.

  “Still …”

  He closed his eyes. Ellen let herself out of the library and ran straight into the arms of Thomas Cornwell.

  “Oh! Beg pardon!” she stammered and would have stepped back, but the door was closed.

  His face fiery, Cornwell leapt aside. “You … your butler said I could come on in, Ellen,” he said. He took her by the hand and swallowed several times. “We have been away for Christmas, or I would have been here sooner.”

  Wordless, she stared up at Thomas Cornwell, noting the way his ears stuck out and the way his chin and his nose seemed to be growing toward each other. This is my destiny, she thought. I am safe from my baser instincts.

  She held out her hand. “How do you find yourself, Thomas?” she asked.

  “Well, I just look down, and there I am, Ellen,” he replied, puzzled.

  He still held his hat in his hand, and he turned it around and around, worrying the brim into a shapeless mass. “I want to talk with your father,” he managed at last.

  Ellen groaned inwardly and took Thomas by the arm, leading him away from the library door and any possible encounter with Gordon, who would only tease. “Thomas, I think this is not a good time, what with Horatia to be married in two days and a houseful of guests.”

  He thought about that for a long moment, considering the pros, cons, logistics, strategy, and implications until Ellen wanted to tear her hair. “I suppose you are right,” he said at last, the words dragged out of him. “I should wait until after the wedding?”

  “I think that would be an excellent idea.”

  She guided him toward the door, and in another minute he found himself on the outside steps, almost without being aware how he got there.

  “I missed you, Ellen,” he said simply as she started to close the door. He fumbled in his pocket and handed her a folded piece of paper, his face turning scarlet. He jumped back down the steps as though they burned through the soles of his thick boots. “It's just a little something I wrote.”

  Mystified, she opened the paper as he backed into the yard and stumbled against his horse.

  “’Bye, Ellen,” he whispered as he vaulted into the saddle and tore off down the lane.

  She closed the door and leaned against it, looking at the soggy page before her. Her eyes misted over. Thomas Cornwell, sturdy yeoman, wealthy landowner, son of the soil, had written her a love poem.

  She read it through once, twice, noting the misspellings and splotches where he bore down too hard with his pen or repeated himself. She marveled at the variety of ways he found to rhyme “love,” but felt no urge to laugh at the bumbling effort she held in her hand.

  “Dear me,” was all she could say as she refolded the poem. “This will never do.”

  That afternoon, Papa took her aside and asked if she thought Lord Chesney was really coming. “For if he is not, we can use the best guest room right now.”

  “I think he is not coming, Papa,” she said. Her hand went to the poem in her pocket.

  Papa could only shake his head. “And I was so sure he would.”

  She was spared the necessity of further conversation on the painful subject when Mama called, her voice edged with hysteria.

  Papa looked up at the first-floor landing. “Ellen,” he began, his eyes on the sewing room door. “I think I should go check and see if that roan of mine has dropped her foal yet.”

  Ellen couldn't resist. “Papa, you told me the foal wasn't due for another six weeks!”

  Mama called out again for Ellen. Papa started down the hall at a gallop. “You can't be too careful!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  She found Mama in the sewing room with two bridesmaids, who shivered in their sketchy gowns. Fanny Bland glared at her as she rubbed her arms to tame the goose bumps.

  “Hello, Fanny,” Ellen said as she hurried to Mama, who was by now sobbing helplessly into her handkerchief. “Mama! Whatever is the matter?”

  Mama leaned against her daughter and gestured feebly with her free hand. “Look you there. Maria Edgerly has grown two inches taller since she was measured for her gown.” Mama sobbed into Ellen's shoulder. “Can you think of a more beastly trick to play upon me?”

  The bridesmaid in question burst into noisy tears and fled the room. Fanny looked on in silence, her eyes ahead, her own expression stony, as Mama followed Maria down the hall, calling after her.

  Ellen turned to Fanny, waiting for a cutting remark. She dreaded the sight of that arch look that would signal to her that Fanny had been busy spreading the news of Ellen's Oxford career about the countryside. To her surprise, there was no expression on Fanny's face beyond a vague sadness.

  “Fanny, I trust you had a pleasant Christmas,” Ellen said cautiously.

  “Well enough, thank you,” Fanny said, and nothing more. Ellen looked at her in confusion. Her amazement grew as she watched tears well up in Fanny's eyes and spill down her cheeks.

  “Why, Fanny Bland, whatever is the matter?” she asked in surprise. She held up her hand to help Fanny down from the chair she stood on.

  Fanny sank into the chair and dabbed at her eyes, even as she shivered in her skimpy dress. She sniffed once or twice, not looking at Ellen.

  “Did Thomas Cornwell … did he bring a poem to you?” she asked.

  Ellen nodded. It was on her lips to relieve the tension by joking about the misspellings and primitive rhyme pattern, but something in Fanny's expression prevented her. “He did.”

  Fanny could not bring herself to look at Ellen. “I have known Thomas Cornwell for years and years, even as you. He brought that poem to my house yesterday morning and made me go over it with him. He wanted every word right. I … I couldn't bring myself to correct any of it, because it seemed perfect just the way it was.”

  Fanny's face crumpled up, and she sobbed into her handkerchief. Ellen watched in bewilderment until the truth came crashing down around her. Boring, vindictive, spiteful Fanny Bland was in love with boring, well-meaning, earnest Thomas Cornwell.

  I wonder, does this account for your unkindness to me, Ellen thought as she watched the spectacle before her. During my miserable stay at Miss Dignam's, you were jealous. Oh, Fanny. Slowly she sat down next to Fanny and touched her shoulder. Fanny did not pull away, but only sobbed harder.

  “And I know he came to propose, be … because he told me he was going to,” Fanny blubbered. “He tells me everything!”

  Ellen handed her another handkerchief. “Well, he did not,” she said. “I sent him away because it really wasn't a good time. Oh, Fanny, don't cry! Surely we can work something out!”

  “I don't know what,” Fanny sobbed. “It isn't fair, Ellen, that you should be b
rilliant and beautiful and have Thomas Cornwell too.”

  Ellen gasped. “I am not beautiful, Fanny!”

  “Thomas thinks you are!”

  “Thomas Cornwell is all about in his head,” Ellen said, only to blink in surprise when Fanny turned on her.

  “Take that back, Ellen Grimsley,” she snapped. “Thomas Cornwell is the most wonderful man in Oxfordshire.”

  She retreated into her handkerchief again and Ellen apologized, wondering if everyone within hearing distance had gone lunatic and she was the only sane person. She heard the doorbell jingle.

  “You'll have to excuse me, Fanny,” she said, eager to flee the sewing room. “Mama is having a fit somewhere, Papa has escaped, Horry is not speaking to any of us, and I don't know where the butler is.”

  She hurried down the stairs, only to stop and stare at Lord Chesney coming toward her, a certain spring in his step. Squire Grimsley trailed along behind him, smiling and bowing whenever the marquess looked his way. Ellen gulped and searched about for an avenue of retreat, but there was none.

  “Look who has arrived,” Papa was saying, as though he had gone personally to fetch the marquess. He wagged a playful finger at his daughter. “And you thought he would not come!”

  Ellen blushed. Papa, stop! she wanted to shout. Do not play the mushroom to this man. You demean yourself and embarrass me.

  Lord Chesney only smiled. “You thought I would not come? After that fond farewell in Oxford?”

  “Silly me,” was all she could manage as Lord Chesney took full advantage of her confusion, wrapped his arms about her, and kissed her thoroughly.

  He was still cold, but he smelled of woodsmoke and the outdoors, two of her favorite things. She had no intention of kissing him back, but there he stood with his arms around her, his lips upon hers. What was she to do?

  “Merry Christmas,” he murmured a moment later, his lips in her hair. “I was hoping you had not forgotten me entirely.”

  “No, no,” she stammered, out of sorts with herself again, and recalling with painful clarity the result of their last kiss. She turned her head slightly to stare at the fading bruise of greenish-yellow on his cheekbone. “However did you explain that to your relatives?” she asked.

  “I occasionally tell the truth when it suits me,” he replied, touching his cheek. “I told them that a young woman I rescued from the Bodleian library slapped me silly for proposing marriage. They laughed for days and dismissed it as one of my more harebrained eccentricities.” He bowed. “Your secret is safe. No one believes me.”

  She laughed in spite of herself, just as the front door slammed open and rapid footsteps pounded toward them. Surprised, she peeked around the marquess's arm in time to see Thomas Cornwell, face white, eyes ablaze, grab Gatewood by the shoulder.

  “Oh horrors,” she said, freeing herself from the marquess. “Thomas, if you …”

  He did. Without a word, and to the vast amazement of the squire and the marquess, Thomas Cornwell stripped off his glove, slapped Lord Chesney hard across the face with it, and dropped it in front of him.

  LLEN GASPED, AS THE MARQUESS REELED FROM the force of the blow. The squire staggered to a chair and clutched his head in both hands. His fist clenched, Thomas Cornwell struck a pose.

  Gingerly, Lord Chesney put his hand to his eye, which had caught a finger of the glove and was starting to water. He looked down at the glove in front of him. “My dear sir, you have dropped your glove.”

  Thomas frowned and stared down too, as if seeing the glove for the first time.

  “Isn't that how it is done?” he asked, whatever fire raging in him banked by Gatewood's calm.

  “I wouldn't know,” Gatewood said. His hand still to his face, he bent down to retrieve the glove.

  “It is a challenge, my lord, a challenge to a duel to the death for the hand of Ellen!” declared Cornwell as though he had just recalled a phrase read in a bad novel and memorized it over too much brandy.

  “Her hand?” Gatewood inquired. He dabbed at his eye. “My intentions go far beyond her hand, sir. Tell me, you must be Thomas Cornwell.”

  Cornwell nodded and accepted the glove. “Yes, my lord. I have loved Ellen for years and years.”

  “A tedious business, indeed,” the marquess said. “I congratulate you on your stamina.”

  Cornwell grinned.

  “Well, I like that!” Ellen declared.

  Her bracing words recalled Cornwell to the matter at hand.

  “Sir, I demand satisfaction!”

  The marquess pursed his lips as though engaged in deep thought and shook his head. “I've never dueled before, sir. I wouldn't begin to know how to go about it.”

  It was Cornwell's turn to stare. “But I thought … I assumed … don't you marquesses and dukes and earls and such know all about that sort of thing?”

  Gatewood shook his head with vigor and quickly put his hand to his eye again. “It's not one of the rules for membership in the peer-age, Mr. Cornwell. I really haven't a clue, and would rather not fight at a wedding. Bad form, don't you know.”

  By now, the hall was filled with spectators. Fanny Bland, her eyes red and rabbity from weeping, had heard the commotion and come out on the second-floor landing.

  Ellen looked from Thomas Cornwell to Lord Chesney. She took a deep breath. “Alas, Thomas, you wouldn't want to kill this helpless man who is much more at home in libraries.”

  “Well, I like that!” exclaimed the marquess in turn, a smile playing around his lips.

  She ignored him and stepped between the two men. “It was a lovely thought, Thomas,” she said, resting her hand lightly on his coat lapel. Fanny burst into noisy tears. “There are times when I think a duel would greatly improve the marquess.”

  “Daughter!” the squire exclaimed. “She doesn't mean a word of it, your worship.”

  Ellen colored with embarrassment. She patted Thomas Cornwell's lapel one last time and stepped in closer to the marquess, crossing her fingers behind her back where he could definitely see them. “Thomas, I have promised myself to Lord Chesney.”

  Fanny stopped sniffling. The squire sighed with relief.

  “I mean, if you have any regard for me, you wouldn't want to kill the object of my affection, now, would you?”

  “Not a convincing argument, Ellen,” the marquess whispered in her ear. “Think of the temptation.”

  It was Thomas's turn to frown and purse his lips. “I suppose I do not.”

  The marquess stuck out his hand. “I like your style, Cornwell, I really do.”

  Cornwell grinned and shook hands. He turned suddenly serious. “But you had better be good to her, my lord.”

  “I aim to make her happiness my sole object in life.” There was a commotion on the upstairs landing. Fanny Bland, prosaic old Fanny, had fainted and was draped over the railing.

  Ellen took Thomas by the arm again. “Thomas, be a dear and see Fanny home,” she whispered.

  He nodded, his eyes on the second-floor landing. He took the steps two at a time. In another moment, he had picked up Fanny—a substantial handful—as though she were a bag of feathers. He came down the stairs carefully with his burden.

  “If you should ever change your mind, Ellen,” he said, “I'd be happy to shoot this fribble.”

  Lord Chesney raised his eyebrows as Thomas stalked away, Fanny lolling in his arms. “I've never been accused of being a fribble,” he complained. “Come to think of it, I've never been challenged to a duel before. And I thought the country would be slow. Ellen, you have made me a happy man.”

  She could tell by the twinkle in his eyes that he was about to burst into sustained and uncontrolled merriment that would be difficult to explain to Papa, who was eyeing them both with an expression bordering on ecstasy. She took the marquess by the arm and marched him into the book room.

  He tried to take her in his arms again, but she warded him off. “I didn't mean a word of it, Jim,” she protested.

  He didn't take th
e news badly. “Ellen, do you mean to ruin my new year entirely?” he asked.

  “I hadn't planned on it.”

  “You won't mind then, if I propose to you occasionally during the coming year?”

  “Well, I …”

  “Just to keep in practice?”

  “Be serious, Jim!”

  “I am!”

  “You are not!”

  “Oh, yes I am!”

  Ellen opened her mouth and then closed it again, embarrassed. Here I am, worrying about the impression my family is going to make on this man, and I sound like Martha brangling with Ralph. Her chin went up. “Very well, sir, you may do as you choose. As I am not returning to Oxford, I doubt our acquaintance will extend much beyond this wedding.”

  Lord Chesney only nodded and looked thoughtful. Ellen watched him with suspicion.

  “You are scheming something, I know it!” she declared flatly.

  He merely bowed and opened the bookroom door. “My dear, let me set the record straight. The Marquess of Chesney never schemes. As a matter of fact, he hardly ever gets angry.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” she retorted, preceding him through the door.

  “What he does do is get even.”

  She couldn't even be sure he had said that.

  The house was crammed with relatives and it was easy to avoid the marquess, especially as her father kept dragging that obliging man from uncle to cousin to aunt, introducing him as “His Worship, Ellen's future husband, even though we are to keep it under the hatches.”

  She cringed at her Papa's bad manners with one part of her mind and heart, while the other part applauded his vulgarity, convinced that a steady application would soon send the marquess screaming into the night.

  But James Gatewood was made of sterner stuff. He bore the toadying and vulgar stares with aplomb. To her amazement, he even seemed to enjoy himself with the younger cousins in a bloody duel to the death with jackstraws, while the older members of the family yawned over cards.

  “I like him, Ellen,” Horatia ventured to say, when she could tear herself away from Edwin and his slack-jawed devotion.