Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career Read online

  “Alas, yes.”

  Ellen put the bottle back in the wicker basket. “That title belongs to your friend, Lord Chesney. By the way, sir, why do you not bring him along sometime? I owe him so much and would like to thank him in person for smoothing my way here.”

  “He is a bit shy around women, Ellen,” James said.

  “Well, I would be shy too I am sure,” Ellen said. “Imagine meeting an actual marquess! I am sure that beyond expressing my thanks, I would be quite intimidated and have nothing of significance to say.”

  “Surely you could think of something,” he coaxed.

  “No,” Ellen said with a shake of her head. “I am sure I could never be comfortable around a peer.”

  “You could, Ellen, you could,” Gatewood said, his voice suddenly serious. “He's not so fearsome.”

  “Too rare for me!” she said with a wave of her hand. “Still, I would like to tell him good-bye, and thank him.”

  “Good-bye? Are you still intent upon leaving?”

  “Yes. When this paper is done, I am writing to Papa to come and get me,” she said.

  “Giving up?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded and met his eyes. “Exactly so. All I want is Oxford University, and I cannot have it. I write papers, and others get the applause.”

  “I never thought applause was your motive,” Gatewood said.

  She shook her head. “It is not. Oh, James, I fear that I would grow bitter if I stayed around Gordon and watched him squander the riches here.” She shook her head. “No, it's high time I returned home. Christmas is coming, and then there is a wedding to prepare for. I am needed at home.”

  Gatewood poled toward the bridge in silence for several moments. “I understand your bitterness,” he said at last.

  “You couldn't possibly,” she burst out. “You have this university education spread before you like a feast, and I never will!”

  “I didn't mean it that way,” he retorted. “I am saying that I know what it is to feel the weight of family responsibility.” He leaned on the pole and gazed across the river. “I am reminded in frequent letters that I should be home too.”

  Ellen looked away, embarrassed with herself for reminding him of his own meager condition. She imagined the drain of his education on his parents’ limited resources, and she was ashamed.

  “I am sorry,” she said, her voice soft.

  The sun was behind the hills now, and she shivered. “I really don't belong here.”

  “I think you do,” was all he said as he poled the boat alongside the landing.

  She could think of nothing to say as Gatewood helped her out of the punt. He held her hand and helped her up the steps, which were now sheathed in shadow. She felt disinclined to let go, even when her footing was sure.

  They walked slowly up the High Street in awkward silence.

  Finally Gatewood nudged her shoulder. “Tell me something, El.” He let go of her hand as others appeared on the street. “It's about your paper on Romeo and Juliet. Do your parents have a happy marriage?”

  She stared at him, startled at his astounding question. After a moment's thought, she smiled, her good humor restored. “You are wondering where is my authority for a paper on marriage?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Yes, they do, I think,” she said. “I have never given it much thought until lately. Ah me, perhaps I am homesick.”

  He stopped and gestured grandly toward Miss Dignam's.

  “What? You can have all this and be homesick?”

  “Silly!” She clasped his hand again when the people passed and unconsciously slowed her steps as the academy loomed closer and closer. “My parents are pretentious and silly, but they love each other. Mama will humor Papa when the weather is rainy and he cannot ride, and he will listen to her silly stories about the neighbors. But sometimes she is afraid when he storms and stomps about.”

  “Can that be love?” he asked in amazement, with a twinkle in the eyes that looked so tired.

  She smiled. “I think it is. They know each other so well, faults and all, and it does not disgust them. And that is how my Romeo and Juliet will be.”

  “Ellen, you astound me,” Gatewood said finally. “I never suspected you for a cynic, my dear.” He touched her under the chin.

  “No, sir, I am a realist,” she replied quietly. “I hope to be as fortunate as they, some day. It may not seem like much, but perhaps it is. How will I know until I am there myself?”

  Gatewood put her arm through his as he helped her down the steps leading to the servants’ entrance. “Perhaps you will be more fortunate, Hermia.”

  She took her arm from his and opened the door, her mind on Thomas Cornwell. “Who can tell? I suspect that one must work at success in marriage, as in any other venture. Good night, Jim. Take care.”

  He kissed her fingers and hurried up the steps without a backward glance.

  She watched him go, listening to his footsteps as he crossed the empty street, and then went into the servants’ quarters.

  Becky met her at the door of the scullery, her eyes wide.

  “Miss Grimsley, do you know what time it is?”

  “Why, no,” she said, startled.

  “Miss Dignam has already summoned all the young ladies for Psalms in the sitting room,” Becky said as she hurried Ellen toward the stairs.

  Ellen stared at her. “It is that late?”

  “Oh, hurry, Miss Grimsley!”

  Ellen gathered her robe about her and took the steps two at a time. She opened the door into the main hallway and looked about. Young ladies, armed with needlework, were headed toward the parlor. Ellen closed the door to a crack. When the last girl had passed, she opened the door and ran to the back stairs.

  To her relief, the upper hall was deserted. She tiptoed down the corridor to her room and threw open the door. Fanny was seated at her desk. She looked up in surprise at Ellen, who stood before her in shirt, breeches, and scholar's gown. The only sounds in the room were Fanny's sharp intake of breath and Ellen's gasp of dismay.

  Her whole body numb, Ellen closed the door. She clasped her hands in front of her.

  “Well, say something,” she said at last, when Fanny continued to regard her in silence.

  Still Fanny said nothing. After a moment's observation, she rose from her chair and walked around Ellen, who followed her with her eyes.

  “Charming,” she ventured at last.

  Ellen felt the tears start in her eyes. “Are you going to tell Miss Dignam?”

  “Of course I am,” Fanny replied, unable to keep the triumph from her voice.

  Ellen closed her eyes and thought of the papers yet to be written, and Lord Chesney's disappointment.

  “When?” she croaked.

  Fanny laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. “When I am good and ready, Ellen Grimsley.”

  LLEN UNDRESSED IN MISERABLE SILENCE WHILE Fanny busied herself at her desk. Shivering in her chemise and drawers, Ellen balled up the breeches, shirt, and cloak and threw them in a corner of the dressing room. Her face set, wooden, she pulled on a dress and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. She followed Fanny downstairs to the sitting room, where she bowed her head and waited for the ax to fall.

  It did not. Fanny said nothing to the headmistress then. Other than peering at them over the top of her spectacles for being late, Miss Dignam addressed herself to the Psalms and then dismissed the girls to their rooms.

  Ellen got slowly to her feet. She glanced back to see Fanny and Miss Dignam in earnest conversation. Her heart plummeted to her shoes and stayed there between her toes, as her stomach began to ache. She pressed her hand against her middle, wondering what would happen next.

  As she slowly mounted the steps, she heard Fanny and Miss Dignam laughing. In another moment, Fanny was beside her.

  “You look so pale, Ellen,” Fanny observed with a smirk.

  “Did … did you tell?”

  “Not yet,” Fanny said. “
I will just let you stew and fret this week. Let us see if you choose to make any more cutting remarks about my brother. I advise you to hold your tongue, Ellen, if it isn't too much trouble.”

  She stopped on the landing and grasped Ellen by the arm. “Do you know, Ellen, I had not thought … When my father gets wind of this, I wonder if he will be so happy to see a connection between our two families.”

  “No, Fanny!” Ellen pleaded, her voice low.

  It was as though Fanny had not heard. She released Ellen and gave her a little push. “And, Ellen, Edwin always does what Papa asks.”

  Ellen held her tongue, silently taking back every spiteful remark she had ever made to Fanny, following Fanny with her eyes. The ache in her stomach did not go away. Soon her head throbbed in sympathy.

  Nothing escaped Fanny's sharp eyes during the endless week. She was watching when Ellen, with trembling fingers, opened the package from James Gatewood and took out Chesney's volume of Hakluyt's Navigations and Voyages.

  “It is for geography,” Ellen lied as she tried to make the book disappear on her cluttered desk.

  “Silly me,” Fanny said calmly. “I had thought we were studying Portugal and Spain this week.”

  Ellen swallowed her misery in The Tempest, working on it by the light of a single candle after Fanny snored in her bed. She could not sleep; the evils of the situation she had placed herself in revolved around and around in her head until sleep was out of the question. She drowned her own uneasiness in the misfortunes of the Duke of Venice, turning his adventures into a travel guide to the New World that was witty, urbane, and written in the middle of her own despair.

  Several frantic notes to Gordon, delivered on the sly by Becky or the footman, evoked no response. As she sat, numb, through geography or struggled through embroidery, all she could think was that Gordon, safe in the knowledge that she would do his work for him, had gone to London again. Wretched brother, more stupid sister, she thought over and over as she sat at her desk, hand pressed to her forehead, as the words poured from her like nervous perspiration.

  She did not know if Fanny had truly made the connection between her writings and Gordon's university triumphs. She shuddered to think of the scandal that would erupt if Gordon were dismissed for cheating. She blamed him for putting her in this delicate situation and blamed herself more for succumbing to her own vanity and writing those clever imaginings that now threatened to choke them both.

  Each day dragged past and still Fanny said nothing. Ellen found herself existing in an unfamiliar world of perpetual fright as she waited for Fanny to take Miss Dignam aside and tattle to the headmistress about the student clothes and gown that were still balled up into a corner of the dressing room. She would be sent home, her reputation in tatters. Ellen knew Fanny Bland well enough to know that, once home, Fanny would continue her malicious work, spreading tales about girls who go away to school and turn into fast pieces who dress in trousers so they can follow men about.

  Only one note of brightness illuminated the grim picture: Thomas Cornwell would be so disgusted that Ellen need never fear again that he would offer for her.

  It was little consolation. As the hounds of her imagination snapped at her heels, Ellen kept them at bay by plunging into the second paper, on Romeo and Juliet. While she kept busy writing, she could almost dismiss her own miseries. Late at night, when her stomach ached and her eyes burned with unshed tears, Ellen wove a fanciful comedy about a young couple, miraculously spared, who are too young and gradually find themselves wondering what they saw in each other in the first place. As the candle guttered out early Saturday morning, she penned the last word, blotted it dry, and then rested her face against the warm wood of the desk.

  With a sigh, she put the paper in the desk drawer with the one on The Tempest that Gordon wanted. She frowned as she closed the drawer. It was Saturday morning, and Gordon had not made an effort to retrieve his paper.

  It will serve you right if you miss the reading, Gordon Grimsley, she thought as she quietly stood up, rubbed the small of her back, and carried her notes and rough drafts of both papers to the fireplace. Fanny stirred as the paper flamed up and crackled, but did not waken. When her scholarship was nothing but ashes, Ellen crawled into bed. Once Gordon's paper was gone from her desk drawer, there was nothing to connect her with the writing of it.

  She woke an hour later to the sound of knocking. Fanny opened the door to let in Becky Speed, who carried a brass can of hot water, which she set down at the dressing table.

  “It's about time,” Fanny said as Becky poured the water into a ceramic basin.

  “Sorry, miss,” Becky said and bobbed a curtsy.

  Fanny turned to the washbasin. The maid came closer to Ellen's bed. “Gordon,” she mouthed, so Fanny would not hear, and pointed down toward the lower reaches of the academy.

  Ellen rose up on one elbow and looked Becky in the eye. She pointed to the desk and pantomimed opening the drawer. Becky nodded and tiptoed across the floor. Quietly, her eyes on Fanny, the maid opened the drawer and took out its contents.

  She had almost reached the door when Fanny, her face soapy, turned around to watch her progress. Fanny's head came up and her eyes narrowed as she stared at the papers in the maid's hand. She looked at Ellen and then back at Becky, a smile spreading slowly across her damp face.

  “Wait right there,” she commanded.

  Becky froze where she was, the papers tight in her hand. Ellen lay back and closed her eyes as she felt the blood drain from her face. Once she saw the title, there was no way Fanny could mistake the connection between Gordon and the papers.

  Fanny held out her hand for the papers as Becky backed up against the door. As Ellen held her breath, Fanny began to rub her eyes.

  “Drat!” she exclaimed and turned around for a towel to wipe the soap from her face.

  In the moment she turned, Becky threw open the door and ran down the stairs. Fanny, clad only in her chemise and petticoat, could only stare out the door and watch.

  Ellen sighed and thanked the Lord who watches out for miserable sinners that Fanny Bland was too much of a lady to go charging half-naked after the maid.

  “That was for Gordon, wasn't it?” Fanny exclaimed, whirling on Ellen. “And don't try to weasel out of it, Ellen Grimsley. You've been doing something for your brother, haven't you?”

  Ellen made no reply, other than to get out of bed and tug down her nightgown, her mind made up. She ignored Fanny's questions as she crossed to the dressing room and calmly removed the scholar's gown. Deliberately she shook it out and laid it across her bed.

  With a smile on her pale face, she touched its folds one last time. Moving fast to take advantage of Fanny's amazement at her brazen behavior after a week of miserable cowardice, Ellen pulled on the frilled shirt and breeches.

  “Do you know, Fanny,” she commented as she smoothed out the dark hose she had hidden in her bureau drawer, “these garments are so comfortable. I think that men have been keeping such a secret from us. If we knew how wondrously liberating trousers were, we would have worn them years ago. It's such fun to sit with your legs wide apart, or propped up on a desk.”

  Fanny sputtered and wiped the soap from her face. Ellen scuffed her feet into the shoes, touching them up with the corner of the bedspread. “Of course, I don't doubt, Fanny, that when you marry, you'll wear the pants. If you marry.”

  “You … you …” was all Fanny could say as Ellen swirled the student's gown around her with a flourish.

  “Brilliant repartee,” Ellen said as she bowed elaborately to her roommate and closed the door behind her.

  She wasted no time in the hall but darted down the back stairs, running past several other students, who shrieked and leaped out of the way. Her face set, her mind working a million miles an hour, she ran to the front door and out into the High.

  As she raced across the street, the gown flapping in the stiff breeze, she looked back at her second-floor window where Fanny stood, beating
on the frame. She sighed and thanked the Lord again. In another moment she would be protected by Oxford's warren of alleys and safe from immediate discovery.

  Once out of sight of Miss Dignam's Select Female Academy, she slowed to a fast walk, breathing hard. To her knowledge, Fanny had no idea which college Gordon attended. University was only one of many colleges that required Saturday papers of its first-year students. With any luck at all, Fanny and Miss Dignam would take some time finding her.

  “And I will hear my paper read,” she said out loud, unmindful of the students who stared at her when she spoke so emphatically and grinned at each other.

  She knew they would find her. It was only a matter of contacting the Vice Chancellor and searching the student enrollments for each college. Perhaps by then, if Gordon were toward the first readers, she would have heard her paper delivered. There would be the humiliation of discovery and then Papa would be summoned. She would go home in disgrace.

  “But I will hear my paper first,” she whispered as she paused on the steps of University College's lecture hall. It would be something to remember through the dreary winter months at home, and all the months of her life to come, when she was tending Thomas Cornwell's children and running his manor, subordinating all her wishes and dreams to others’ needs.

  The hall was still empty. Quietly she sat down in one of the side pews, toward the back. Her stomach pained her. She winced at the pain and shoved her elbow against her middle, looking about at the serenity of the hall, with its stained glass windows and fine-grained wood. The peace of it filled her, and she forgot her own misery.

  Her chin went up as she looked about. I am sitting in the lecture hall at University College, she thought. I will hear my paper read.

  Time passed. Even the slightest noise from outside the massive doors made her start in surprise. The unheated hall was frigid and she could see her breath. She shivered and tucked her hands up under her armpits. The familiar ache began in her forehead.

  Soon the students began to file in, laughing and chatting with one another. Some of them carried papers, and others, the ones who looked at ease, carried nothing more than gloves. The sound of their good humor filled the hall and echoed around it.