by Carla Kelly
Aunt Shreve had talked of spending the spring at Royal Tunbridge Wells. Perhaps if I tease her enough, she will allow me to accompany her, Ellen thought. Tunbridge Wells was in the opposite direction from Oxford. I must not think of Oxford again, she told herself.
The wedding day dawned bitter cold, but mercifully clear.
Ellen hopped on bare feet by the icy window, gazing out at the beautiful morning until Mama stuck her head in the door and scolded her to hurry up and dress.
She did as she was told, grateful to pull on her favorite dark blue wool dress. And to think I wanted to be a bridesmaid, she recalled. I think I would rather be warm.
She sat at the dressing table for a longer minute than usual, staring into her own face. It is a pretty face, she decided, after a careful scrutiny. I have excellent pores and all my teeth. My mouth is a trifle large, but it's the only one I have. She brushed her blonde hair until it stood in little curls all over her head. Seriously, what does he see in me?
Horatia was a ravishingly lovely bride, with her blonde hair, elegant height, and enormous brown eyes. Ellen smiled at her sister as she twirled around in her satin dress with the net overskirt and the bodice studded with seed pearls. So what if she was not over bright, and Edwin Bland equally dense? They loved each other, and that seemed to be enough for them. I wonder if it would be enough for me, Ellen thought as she attached Horry's train and gave her a last hug.
The church was no warmer, but it was full of relatives and village friends, all come to see Horatia Grimsley married to Edwin Bland. Even the flowers that only last night had looked so sorely put upon by the cold had taken on new bloom for the occasion.
Aunt Shreve patted the bench beside her as Ellen looked about the chapel. She moved over to make room.
“Should we leave room for Lord Chesney?” Aunt Shreve asked. “I don't see him anywhere.”
Ellen scooted over, searching the chapel for the marquess. Perhaps he has allowed discretion to overtake valor and has fled the scene. Thank goodness for that, she thought.
Aunt Shreve nudged her and nodded with her head in the direction of the vestibule. Ellen smiled. She could see Martha, her flower basket clutched tight, sitting on the steps next to the marquess, who was whispering in her ear. Martha chewed on her lower lip and threatened tears until the marquess said something magical. She brightened and sat up straight again, allowing him to reposition her little headpiece more firmly. She leaned against him as the organist began to play, the picture of contentment.
I have leaned against him like that myself, Ellen thought. She looked down at her prayer book. And I must admit that once you have done that, it's easier to stand up on your own. Bless you, Jim Gatewood.
And then it was almost time for Mama, weeping noisily, to be led to her seat in the front. Ellen sat where she was in the back, watching the scene unfold in the vestibule, where the symmetrical bridesmaids sniffled and blew their noses one last time.
Another word and a pat, and the marquess left Martha standing in front of the line with her chin up and a determined smile on her face. He strode down the aisle, searched her out, genuflected outside the pew and slid in just as the groomsman led Mama toward the front.
There was still a little room on the other side of Aunt Shreve, but she seemed oblivious and would not move any more. The marquess was compelled to put his arm around Ellen to find space in the pew. Ellen found herself tucked in tight next to him and her head against his chest this time.
“Sorry to discommode you, James,” she whispered as Mama came down the aisle and was seated.
He merely smiled down at her. “I'm happy as a clam,” he replied. He sniffed her hair. “Lavender is my favorite, El. How did you know?”
She tried to think of something witty, but Martha was venturing down the aisle, and her little sister had Lord Chesney's full attention.
Ellen watched him keep time with his head as Martha stepped carefully in rhythm, counting out loud, her eyes straight ahead. When she saw him, he made a sowing motion with his hand. Martha looked down at her full basket, as if remembering it for the first time. In another moment, she had moved past them and was strewing rose petals like a professional.
Gatewood's ear was close to her face. She whispered in it, “However did you get her to move? She looked decidedly stubborn in the vestibule.”
He smiled, his eyes still on Martha. “Yes, stubbornness runs in the females of your family, doesn't it? I promised her she wouldn't have to be a flower girl at our wedding unless she really wanted to, because the aisle is twice as long and much more frightening. She said she would think about it. Which reminds me, will you marry me?”
“No,” she said forcefully and then stood up as Horatia, a vision of net and satin, floated down the aisle with Papa.
The pew was so crowded that Lord Chesney was forced to put his arm around Ellen's waist and hold her close as the bridal party passed. She should have remonstrated with him, but his hand was warm on her waist, comforting. She told herself that she leaned against him only because she had no choice.
Edwin did not faint. Horatia responded distinctly in the affirmative to each query from Father Mackey. Thomas handed over the wedding ring as though he had been performing such a delicate task with regularity on his farm. Hardly any of the bridesmaids sneezed, and Mama cried enough for everyone. It was a beautiful wedding.
The reception was Mama's crowning glory. Each little biscuit, petit four, macaroon, mint, and marchpane fruit performed to perfection and disappeared in short order.
As Ellen was returning from one of her many trips to the kitchen, Mama accosted her, glowing from the warmth of the hearth and too much rack punch. “My dear, yours will be even grander,” she beamed.
“Mama, about that …” Ellen attempted, but her mother had turned her attention to another of the guests, full of compliments and good cheer.
Cooler heads will prevail tomorrow, Ellen thought grimly, as she waved farewell and Godspeed to cousins, aunts, and uncles with a wary eye on the weather, which was turning blustery.
And here was James Gatewood, overcoat buttoned up, still hatless, descending the staircase with Ralph close by. “Have Ellen take a look at your conclusion,” he was saying. “If she makes any suggestions, I can recommend them to you.”
“Where shall I send it when it is done?” Ralph asked, waving the papers in his hand.
“Send them with Ellen when she returns to Oxford,” he replied and set down his portmanteau long enough to shake Ralph's hand. “It's been a pleasure, Ralph. Not only are you a budding Shakespeare scholar like your sister, but you don't snore.” He bent down closer to Ralph and whispered loudly. “Does she snore?”
“I don't think so, my lord.”
“Ah, better and better,” he replied.
Ellen put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Are you finally leaving, my lord?” she asked, her voice frosty.
“And not a moment too soon, from the looks of things,” he replied, the picture of good cheer. “I'll see you in Oxford inside of a week, Ellen,” he said as she opened the front door for him.
“Oh, no, you won't,” she replied. “I am going to ask Aunt Shreve if I can accompany her to Tunbridge Wells.” She held out her hand. “Good-bye.”
“Until next week,” he said again as he shook her hand and then kissed her fingers one by one.
She jerked her hand back and stamped her foot. “Don't you understand a word I have been saying?”
But he was gone then, hurrying toward the elegant chaise with the crest on the door that awaited him.
Ellen slammed the front door louder than she intended to and thought she heard laughter in the driveway. “That man is a total distraction,” she said out loud to her father, who had came into the hall with more of Mama's brothers and sisters. “Do you know, Papa, he still thinks I am returning to Oxford. Imagine!”
It was Papa's turn to look thoughtful and everywhere but at her. “Well, daughter, we did discuss this, th
e marquess and I. He has secured a place for you at St. Hilda's Hall.”
“What?”
“Exactly so, my dear, “Papa said hastily, watching the storm about to break on her face. “Says it's much more a challenge than Miss Dignam's.”
“You see, El, you can take my paper to him after all,” beamed Ralph.
“And keep an eye on Gordon, that rascal,” Papa added. “I knew you would be pleased.”
HE WAS NOT PLEASED, NOT AT ALL, BUT AS Ellen mutinously tossed her clothes back in her trunk a week later and sat upon it while Ralph strapped down the lid, she was hard pressed to understand why.
The only girl in the neighborhood who did not envy her good fortune at snaring Lord Chesney was Fanny Bland, who had discovered love of the bucolic sort with Thomas Cornwell. She dropped in, two days after Horry's nuptials, to blush and giggle and entreat Ellen to be her bridesmaid in two months’ time.
“For had you not thrown us together, I am sure I would still be correcting those dreadful poems which he now writes to me,” Fanny exclaimed, patting her bulging reticule.
While Ellen owned that it was kind of Fanny to change her opinion, she could only wonder at the miracle love had wrought. And with Thomas Cornwell. “Love is indeed blind,” she said to the closed door after Fanny had exchanged a few more pleasantries that required little attention in return and floated out the door, intent upon other such visits about the neighborhood.
The news of Lord Chesney's intentions traveled on seven league boots about the district, even though the issue was far from resolved, at least by Ellen. Ladies who never would have come otherwise, came to visit Mama to drink tea and exclaim over the Grimsleys’ good fortune. Ellen could see no other purpose for their visits than to take a peek at her and wonder what on earth a peer of the realm saw to enamor him to Squire Grimsley's singular daughter.
I am sure they do not go away satisfied, Ellen thought, as she watched Mama lead the last gaggle out to their carriages, amid laughter behind gloved hands and heads-together communication, and more backward glances at the house.
“I mean, Aunt Shreve, he is offering me the sun, moon, and stars, a house in London, a manor in Hertfordshire, one more house in Bath, I believe, and the worship of countless modistes and mil-liners,” she said one afternoon as she took another turn around her aunt's parlor. “And I almost think I love him, although it doesn't seem to be the kind of love that Mama and Horry think best.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Aunt Shreve murmured under her breath. She poured her favorite niece another cup of tea as Ellen paused in her restless circuit. “If you wear a path in my carpet, I shall petition my brother for a new one, and won't that irritate him,” she said, smiling a little. “I believe I will do it.” She patted the sofa beside her. “Come, sit down. You begin to wear me out.”
Ellen could only continue her traverse about the room. “Try and try as I might, I cannot seem to reconcile my objections. No more do I understand them,” she admitted, sinking down at the window seat and staring out at the fast-waning afternoon. “Oh, Aunt, what is the matter with me?”
She looked at her aunt, noticing the compassion that rendered her features even more dear. “You do know what is troubling me, don't you?” she asked quietly.
“I think I do, my dear,” was all Aunt Shreve said.
“Then tell me!” Ellen demanded, leaping up.
“No, I will not,” Aunt Shreve said decisively. “You must discover this for yourself.” She rose and went to the window herself. “For I discovered it myself, when I was but a little older than you.” She touched her niece's hair. “Every woman's response is different, my dear, and you must find your own way through this particular dilemma.”
“That's no help,” Ellen declared crossly.
Aunt Shreve only embraced her, kissed her cheek, and offered her a biscuit.
I wish I could solve all my problems with biscuits and tea, she thought as she sat at her desk in St. Hilda's Hall and gazed out upon another afternoon sky.
She looked down at the sheet of problems before her and sighed with pleasure. Two problems to go, and a glance had already told her that she could do them. There would be geometry to follow the algebra, and then tomorrow, more Shakespeare. They were studying the comedies in all their ribald glory, and a paper was due.
Ellen looked around her room with undiminished pleasure, even after nearly a month in residence. The chamber was much like Gatewood's chamber at All Souls, with its narrow mullioned windows, dark wainscoting, and ample bookcases. The headmistress at St. Hilda's, an intense woman with an air of great competence about her, had said that the school had once formed part of a medieval hall that had risen to the status of college and moved closer to the main cluster on High Street.
“And so, Miss Grimsley, the women have indeed moved into Oxford,” Miss Medford had declared the afternoon of Ellen's introduction to St. Hilda's. “And we will not be easily dislodged, no matter what our current status.”
She had ushered Ellen into her quarters, hiding a smile when she opened the door upon a veritable flower shop. “I believe you have an admirer,” was all she said as she ushered Ellen into her room.
Ellen had looked about her in delight that immediately turned to chagrin. She could only shake her head and ask, “How do people like that have access to flowers in January?”
Miss Medford laughed and clapped her hands. “I suppose in summer he will bring you shaved ice brought from the Andes by Inca runners.” She coughed delicately. “Lord Chesney has become one of our most enthusiastic benefactors of late. Perhaps he will endow a chair of horticulture.”
Ellen laughed and sat on the bed. “Miss Medford, let me tell you this at once. Lord Chesney is of the opinion that I should marry him, but I have no such intention.”
Miss Medford only inclined her head, a smile on her face. “So he told me.”
“What?”
“He said that you regarded him with complete indifference and …”
“‘Complete indifference’?” Ellen interrupted, without even meaning to. “Well, I do not know if I would go that far … yes, yes, I would! Complete indifference. Pray excuse the interruption, Miss Medford.”
“Certainly. I assured him that we at St. Hilda's Hall would keep you sufficiently challenged so that you would never have the opportunity to repine either lost or unrequited love.”
“And what did his lordship say to that?” Ellen asked, a smile playing around her lips.
“He laughed long and hard.”
“He would! That is so entirely in character.”
“And when he was quite recovered, he offered his services here, should we ever wish an occasional lecture on Shakespeare.”
“Which you accepted?”
“Of course! My dear, in scholarly circles, Lord Chesney is renowned.” She moved to the door. “We accepted his offer gladly, and leave it to you two adults to sort out your own private difficulties.” She picked up a nosegay of tea roses by the door. “I expect he will prove difficult to argue with, but that, Miss Grimsley, is your problem.”
Ellen dealt with the distraction of Lord Chesney in womanly, time-honored fashion: she avoided him. It was an easy matter at first. Her first morning's work at St. Hilda's quickly showed her that this little hall so modestly situated on one of Oxford's more quiet streets far exceeded the mild scholarship available to the unwary of Miss Dignam's Select Female Academy.
Coming as she did in the middle of the school year meant serious catching up. To the balm of her somewhat bruised and trampled-upon scruples, it was no prevarication to send down the upstairs maid with a note stating that she could not leave her studies when Lord Chesney came to call.
It was more difficult to avoid the summons to his maiden lecture on the nature and study of Shakespeare. She tried in vain to resist when she heard he would be discussing Much Ado About Nothing, her favorite comedy. She succumbed during the middle of his lecture, sneaking in and sitting down in the back of the hall
.
He took no notice of her capitulation other than to raise his eyebrows and make more sure that his voice carried to the back of the hall where she sat.
Following the lecture, he was remarkably fleet in walking with rapid dignity to the back of the hall and bowing over her hand, which she had reluctantly extended.
“I trust you are still in harmony with Hero and Beatrice, even though I may have muddled their motives,” he commented, strolling with her from the hall.
“You did not muddle them at all,” she replied. “And you needn't fish for compliments from me. I know you too well, Lord Chesney.”
“Jim to you,” he added. “I wish you would marry me.”
“It was a masterful lecture,” she said, ignoring his little aside. She wished he would not stand so close, which made it difficult to resist the urge to straighten his neckcloth. “I took copious notes.”
“To what purpose?” he asked, holding the door for her.
She stopped walking and turned to face him. “To refute every argument,” she said, looking directly into his eyes for the first time. “I couldn't have agreed less with your conclusion.”
“Then write your own, Ellen, and let me see it when it is done.”
“I shall,” she replied.
He took her hand before she could leave. “I haven't proposed yet today,” he began when she cut him off.
“You just did, Jim! And you also sent a note with the flowers this morning.”
“I thought I did that yesterday,” he replied. “Love is making me absentminded.”
She shook her finger in his face. “It is doing nothing of the kind! You are the most calculating man I ever met! And try to deny that your lecture today was given to incite me to a response.”
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, laughing. “Am I so base, fair Hermia?”
She couldn't help but smile. “You are! But I will write your silly paper. And send Ralph's with it when I am done.”
He tucked his arm in hers and headed with her across St. Hilda's small quad. “Ah! I was wondering when you would hear from that enthusiastic young fellow. Did you make any changes in his addition to Hamlet?”
