Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career Read online

  She let her mind rest a moment and then laughed out loud. “Ellen, you are a true idiot,” she said. “You will be safely out of this ridiculous infatuation when Jim sees your family as they really are. No need to apologize for them. Just let him see for himself.”

  She nodded to her reflection in the window glass. In a short space, he will be so disgusted that he will probably beat a hasty retreat even before Horry's nuptials. End of problem.

  The thought did not relieve her as she had imagined it would. For no reason that she could discern, she burst into tears.

  Her eyes were long since dry by the time she tapped on the glass and stopped the post chaise before they turned off the main road and traveled down the lane. Papa reined in his horse and leaned toward the carriage as she rolled down the window.

  “Papa, I forbid you to mention one word of this affair to anyone,” she ordered, keeping her knees tight together so they would not quake at this unheard-of insistence by daughter to father.

  “Oh, you do?” he asked. To her relief, his voice was mellow.

  Obviously Squire Grimsley was still basking in the idea of an alliance far beyond his wildest dreams.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to assure him that such an event would never come to pass, but she let it go and smiled sweetly up at him instead. “Yes, Papa, I insist! It is Horry's big day, and nothing is settled, and it would be the height of rudeness for us to trumpet these imaginings about the countryside.”

  “I suppose so,” he agreed, his voice filled with reluctance. He brightened. “But I shall have to say something to Mama, or she will think only the worst about my sudden trip to Oxford.” He frowned and shook his riding crop at her. “And you are still a scamp, Ellen Grimsley.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said, and there was no subterfuge in her voice. “I was. But I mean to reform.”

  “Very well, miss. Now, roll up that window before pneumonia carries you off and I can never tell my comrades that I am closely related to the Marchioness of Chesney!”

  She sighed and did as he said. I hope he will not take it too badly when I continue to refuse Jim's offer of marriage, she thought as they proceeded down the lane. I suppose I had better consider Thomas Cornwell more seriously.

  Ellen was happier to see them all than she would have thought possible. Horatia was as silly as ever; Mama as nervous. Ralph wanted to discuss Great Ideas, and Martha nosed about for sweets. As she stood in the hallway, still clad in her traveling cloak and hiding her swollen knuckles, Ellen could only regard them with affection.

  “I have missed you all,” she said simply and wondered why she felt like tears again.

  Mama's chin trembled. “I hope you were not in terrible trouble in Oxford, my dear, else why would Mr. Grimsley rush off in such a hurry?” She rested her hand against her forehead. “I have been imagining the worst.”

  “’Tis nothing, my dearest,” the squire soothed. “Let us discuss this matter in private.”

  Mama nodded and watched him retreat down the hall, whistling to himself as he swatted at the potted plants with his riding crop. “He is in rare good humor,” she observed, then turned to her daughter again. “Ellen, it is too bad! Your papa refuses to spend one more penny on food for the reception, and I have told him it is not enough.”

  “And he is being a perfect beast about the music in the church,” Horry added, handkerchief to her eyes too. “He insists on all his favorite hymns, and you know how old-fashioned they are!”

  Ellen took off her bonnet and tossed it to Ralph, who grinned and beat his own retreat before the Grimsley females began to weep in earnest. Slowly Ellen unbuttoned her pelisse and smiled upon her sister and mother. Last week, I would have been so impatient with you both, she thought.

  Tears came to her own eyes as she embraced them, urging them not to fret, telling them that she would make things right with Papa. She hugged her silly mother and sister, deeply cognizant of the fact that even their combined foolishness did not equal the enormity of her own folly.

  “There now, Mama, I am certain I can convince Papa to lay out some more blunt for refreshments. Now, go along and hear what he has to tell you.”

  “I wish you would not use such dreadful cant,” Mama scolded, but she did as Ellen said.

  Ellen turned to Horatia. “Horry, dearest, all you have to do is slip in one or two of Papa's own favorite hymns, and he will allow you the rest. You know he will. Don't be a goose.”

  “Do you think so?” Horatia asked.

  “I know so.”

  Horatia blew her nose. She was silent a moment as they walked arm in arm toward the stairs. She stopped suddenly to more closely observe her sister.

  “Ellen, you act as though you had something on Papa.”

  “It could be that I do, my dear.”

  “Oh, tell!”

  Ellen laughed, even though she did not feel particularly jolly. “It is nothing that cannot wait. Come, dearest, and let me hear your plans.”

  She lay wide awake in bed late that night, long after Horry had yawned for the last time and taken herself off to her own room, eyes bright with wedding plans. Ellen thought about dinner and turned restlessly onto her side. Mama, bursting with Papa's news but sworn to secrecy, was all smiles and dimples from first course to last.

  It is bad of me to encourage her, Ellen thought, as she turned to her other side and flipped around the pillow for a cool spot. I should tell them all flat out that I have no intention in the world of marrying Lord Chesney.

  Or do I? She hugged her pillow to her, thinking of James, head thrown back, laughing at something she had said that afternoon in his chambers. James with his feet propped up so negligently at his carrel in the Bodleian. James poling so expertly on the river rimmed with ice, a glass of champagne in one gloved hand, and good ideas tumbling out of his head. James that first afternoon on the hill overlooking Oxford, letting his shredded letter blow into the wind.

  With a shake of her head, she got out of bed and stood by the window. It had always been her favorite view, that long expanse of valley before her, wooded, and with streams flowing.

  Now it was merely cold and wind-scoured. The trees had surrendered all their leaves and the streams were clogged with ice. The distant hills that were so invitingly purple in the summer were only dim, dark shapes now. She closed her eyes, wishing with all her heart that she could open them upon the Oxford landscape.

  She rested her cheek against the curtain. “I shall write an essay on the permanence of impermanent things,” she decided as she allowed the tears stifled since her homecoming to flow. “After all, what are the quads, halls, chapels, and libraries except symbols of ideas that will never die?”

  But there would be no time for essays, not in these hectic days before the wedding. She glanced at the large volume of Shakespeare on her desk, a gift from James Gatewood. She had not given it to Ralph yet. Perhaps it could wait another day or two, when the reality of being home, and all that it meant, set in with a vengeance.

  If it ever does, she thought as she crawled back into bed. I have changed. It was only a paltry few weeks, but I have changed.

  Whether it was for the better, she could not tell. As the sound of her fist against James Gatewood's face echoed through her head, she knew that she could not possibly have improved. How could I have done that? she asked again. I have never been that angry at anyone before, and here I thought I liked him.

  Earlier that evening, she had approached Horatia cautiously, when they were both sitting on her bed, asking if she had ever felt angry enough to strike Edwin Bland. Horry's eyes had widened as her hand went to her mouth. “Mercy, Ellen, of course not! He is my true and only love!”

  “Don't you ever get angry at him?” Ellen had asked.

  “I couldn't possibly. Edwin is everything that is proper and right.”

  “Oh.”

  Ellen sighed in the dark. Whatever it was she felt for James Gatewood obviously wasn't true love, then. She blushed. Dear me, sh
e thought, it is much worse. Last year, Mama had sat them both down one afternoon when they had the house to themselves. With blushes and long pauses, Mama had divulged some of the mystery surrounding the male sex. Mama had warned them about the “animal instincts in men.”

  Do women have such base instincts? Ellen asked herself. Dear me, I wish there was someone I could ask. She scrunched herself into a ball and pulled the blankets over her head, reflecting on this compounding of her sins. She would never marry Lord Chesney, no matter what Mama and Papa thought, so the matter of her base instincts would likely never surface to trouble her. And if she married Thomas Cornwell? Ellen shook her head. She had not the remotest wish to plant either a facer or a kiss upon him, so the matter could be considered safely closed. Cornwell would likely never inspire those tempting thoughts that had filled her head and now left her ashamed.

  Still, Jim's lips had been so warm and … she cast about for the right words to describe his kiss. She decided after much thought that there was no single adjective. Gatewood's kiss had been a complexity of many feelings. I felt that he and I were doing something that no one else in the world had ever done before, she thought. I didn't give a rap who saw us. The only thing that mattered was Jim.

  Ellen burrowed deeper in her bed. “Miss Grimsley,” she began, her voice muffled by the covers, “you will begin by not thinking of him as ‘Jim’ anymore. He is Lord Chesney, a peer of the realm, who thinks himself in love. A Christmas visit with his own kind will wake him up, I am sure.”

  That thought was a bucket of cold water on her nervous imaginings. He would never show up for the wedding. A little cool-eyed reflection of his own would show him the wisdom of staying far away from Squire Grimsley's manor. He might feel honor-bound to send a gift, but he would not bring it in person, she convinced herself.

  It should have been a reassuring thought, but it wasn't. She dwelt upon it long enough for the monotony of that single idea to send her off to sleep finally.

  In the morning, she disappointed Ralph by insisting that her walk into the village be solitary.

  “My dear, since I am not returning to Oxford, we have ages and ages to discuss Shakespeare,” she told him as she pulled on her gloves. She touched his cheek. “On my desk is an early Christmas present to you. That should distract you sufficiently for me to have a comfortable chat with Aunt Shreve.”

  She watched her brother hurry up the stairs. Tears welled up suddenly as she thought of the “Good Luck” Jim Gatewood had scrawled across both inside pages. She dabbed furtively at her eyes, looking around to make sure that she was not seen. I simply must get over this lacrimosity, she thought, as she let herself out of the house.

  With the door carefully closed against the servants, and a comforting fire in the hearth, Ellen told her aunt everything that had happened during her brief Oxford career, leaving out no detail, no matter how gory. When she finished, Aunt Shreve merely sat there, a slight smile on her face, as Ellen stirred up the coals in the fireplace.

  “I gather then that I do not need to sacrifice my one remaining bottle of Palais Royal just yet.”

  “It seems so, Aunt,” Ellen replied quietly, her chin on her palm, as she stared into the flames that briefly rose and then died because there was nothing left to feed upon. “It would never have worked. I have been a fool, and I freely admit it.”

  Aunt Shreve took Ellen by the hand. “But I must know, my dear, did you enjoy writing those papers?”

  Ellen laughed out loud, her misery shoved aside for the moment. “I did! It was glorious fun. I only wish I had them to show you, Aunt.”

  “Perhaps you can ask Lord Chesney about that when he arrives for the wedding,” Aunt Shreve suggested.

  “He will not come,” Ellen said. “I am sure of it.”

  “You will not think me foolish if I beg to differ with you?” her aunt asked, a twinkle in her eyes.

  “He will not come,” she said again. “I know it. Let us find another subject to discuss, Aunt.”

  They did, touching upon the weather, Horry's wedding, the approaching Yuletide, and the visits of Aunt Shreve's own children, one of whom was symmetrical enough to be in Horry's bridal party.

  “Tell me, Aunt,” she said suddenly, during a lull in trivia. “Do you know anything about the marquesses of Chesney?”

  “It hardly matters,” Aunt Shreve replied, her dimple much in evidence. “He will not come.”

  “Aunt! I am merely … curious.”

  “Go to the bookcase. My dear Walter used to enjoy thumbing through Great Families of England. I believe our copy is up to date within ten years.”

  Ellen found the book. Perching herself on the arm of Aunt Shreve's chair, she turned to the section on Hertfordshire. Aunt Shreve peered at the book too. “Hertfordshire, is it? Excellent country. I wonder, does he hunt?”

  “Only for mice in the Bodleian,” Ellen murmured. She ran her fingers down the page. “Let us see: Casewell, Charterus, Chesmouth, Chesney.” She read to herself and then looked up. “It is an old title, Aunt. Dear me, they appear to own half of Hertfordshire!”

  “It is a small shire,” Aunt Shreve commented, a smile playing about her lips. “Why, in Northumberland, that would be merely a farm.”

  “Aunt! It would not! And why in heaven's name would anyone want a seat in Northumberland?”

  “Why indeed? Dreadful slow place!”

  “You are quizzing me,” Ellen said mildly. “They have been a distinguished family too. Look here, there have been ministers to the crown, ambassadors, and any number of soldiers.”

  “But not recently,” Aunt Shreve said as she scanned the page along with her niece.

  “No. They appear to have done nothing of merit for at least one hundred years.” Ellen closed the book and put it back on the shelf. She leaned against the bookcase. “Jim—Lord Chesney—claimed he was descended from a long line of ‘window dressers and horse traders.’ ”

  Aunt Shreve nodded. “Perhaps, of late, the Chesneys have been more concerned with cutting a dash at Brooks and Watier's, and racing horses at Newmarket. Do you suppose that was what he meant?”

  “Likely it was.” Ellen made a face. “Even then, Aunt, he is much too exalted for the likes of the Grimsleys.”

  Aunt Shreve shook her head. “I don't know, my dear. From what you have told me, James Gatewood is neither exalted nor common. He sounds like a rare gem to me. Do excuse the pun.”

  Ellen groaned. “How vulgar, Aunt!”

  “Yes, indeed.” She peered at her niece more closely. “I own I do not precisely understand what your objection is to this paragon.”

  “He is no paragon,” Ellen said quickly. “He is deceitful.”

  Aunt Shreve considered this. “Perhaps he must protect himself. You mentioned some remarks of yours that were somewhat disparaging of the peerage. Could it be that you are too proud? And do you suppose, my dear niece, that this man has been hounded for his wealth by females with more on their minds than scholarship? Is he handsome?”

  “Well, no, but he does have quite a nice smile,” Ellen admitted. “In fact, it is a very nice smile. And he has an air about him …”

  She stopped and then laughed at herself. “Listen to me. You would almost think I cared. But I do not!” she added hastily. “He was so untruthful.”

  “And you, a little too proud?” Aunt Shreve asked again, more gently this time.

  “How odd that I should feel too proud for a marquess,” Ellen mused and then took a turn about the room, stopping in front of her aunt. “Actually, Aunt Shreve, I think I just wish to control my own destiny. I see how wrapped up in Edwin Horatia is, as though she had no mind of her own.” Her chin went up. “I intend to resist this.”

  “Well, resist away,” said Aunt Shreve. She idly picked at some lint on her sleeve. “As your dear Uncle Walter would say to me, ‘This is moot, Jeanie, moot indeed.’ For after all, Ellen, he will not come.”

  “He will not come.”

  By the time Chr
istmas was little more than a memory of too much eggnog and not enough sleep, Ellen had resigned herself to the fact that Lord Chesney had really changed his mind. There had been no communication with Papa from the Marquess of Chesney, not even to reaffirm the day of the wedding and give assurances of his own arrival. Papa's optimism in the face of his daughter's good fortune dwindled and expressed itself only in an occasional weak smile in Ellen's direction.

  Ellen kept her feelings to herself. As the house began to fill up with relatives and close friends come to witness this first Grimsley wedding, she occupied herself with keeping Mama and the cook far away from each other. By judicious council and earnest appeal, Ellen managed to keep Cook's threats to resign down to a minimum of a crisis per day.

  Gordon returned from London, where he had spent Christmas with one of Aunt Shreve's sons. Ellen had her own doubts that Giles Shreve had actually invited Gordon, but she did applaud her broth-er's newly acquired wisdom in staying away from the wrath of the squire. As it was, the squire only frowned at him, threatened vaguely “to have a few words with you, my boy,” and soon forgot his Oxford misadventures after Gordon's present of a new riding crop and a spanking dash across the landscape with his eldest son. He returned, charitable and forgiving.

  Sensing that the coolness between himself and his sister had not warmed appreciably, Gordon trod a narrow line with Ellen. He tested the waters gradually.

  She interrupted him one afternoon in the library, where he had gone to sleep off a massive luncheon. He sat upright when she entered the room to return several books to the shelves.

  “Best sofa in the house, Ellen,” he ventured.

  “It ought to be,” she replied crisply. “No one uses this room except me and Ralph.”

  “I wouldn't, either,” he assured her. “It's just that this place is filled with kin, and where there is not a relative sitting, there is a present or two.”

  Ellen smiled and shelved the books. She prepared to leave the library, but he stopped her.

  “El, guess who I saw in London?” he asked.

  “Dick Whittington and his cat? King Arthur, or perhaps Sir Gawain?” she asked in turn.