Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career
Read Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career Online
Authors: Carla Kelly
A
LSO BY
C
ARLA
K
ELLY
F
ICTION
Daughter of Fortune
Summer Campaign
Miss Chartley's Guided Tour
Marian's Christmas Wish
Mrs. McVinnie's London Season
Libby's London Merchant
Miss Grimsley's Oxford Career
Miss Billings Treads the Boards
Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand
Reforming Lord Ragsdale
Miss Whittier Makes a List
The Lady's Companion
With This Ring
Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind
One Good Turn
The Wedding Journey
Here's to the Ladies: Stories of the Frontier Army
Beau Crusoe
Marrying the Captain
The Surgeon's Lady
Marrying the Royal Marine
The Admiral's Penniless Bride
Borrowed Light
Coming Home for Christmas: Three Holiday Stories
Enduring Light
Marriage of Mercy
My Loving Vigil Keeping
N
ONFICTION
On the Upper Missouri: The Journal of Rudolph
Friedrich Kurz
Fort Buford: Sentinel at the Confluence
© 2012 Carla Kelly
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Cedar Fort, Inc., or any other entity.
ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-1037-7
Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.
2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT, 84663
Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc.,
www.cedarfort.com
Previously published by Signet/New American Library in 1992.
Cover design by Angela D. Olsen
Cover design © 2012 by Lyle Mortimer
Edited and typeset by Melissa J. Caldwell
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
In memory of Jean Dugat,
my dear teacher, who taught me and challenged me
Ay me! For aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth.
—William Shakespeare
A Midsummer Night's Dream
T PAINS ME TO THE QUICK TO MAKE THIS
observation about my only son, but James, for a Gatewood, you are queer stirrups, indeed,” said Lady Chesney.
This startling pronouncement was followed by a deep quaff of ratafia and a look of deeper concern at the offspring who sat, legs crossed, eyes on a book.
James Gatewood looked up and smiled at his mother. It was a sweet smile, one full of lazy Gatewood charm that only served to irritate his parent and send her back to the ratafia for further fortification.
“Why you could not bring yourself to smile like that at Lady Susan Hinchcliffe, or Augusta Farnsworth, I will never understand! Son, you would tax the patience of a martyr!”
The smile deepened. After one more glance at his book, Lord Chesney laid aside the volume. “Dearest mother, that would be impossible. Martyrs are dead. That is why they are martyrs.”
This observation served only to rouse Lady Chesney to greater heights. “And there you go again! You know very well that I meant saint!”
Her son laughed and picked up his book again, settling back into the chair.
Lady Chesney was not about to let a good topic wither for lack of nourishment. “How you can expect to find a wife in the Bodleian Library, I cannot fathom. James, wasn't once at Oxford enough? You're the only Gatewood in recent memory to … to immolate himself there, and look at the results!”
“Mother, do you perhaps mean, ‘to immerse myself’?” he teased. “And I do not expect to unearth a wife in the Bodleian. Indeed, it would be impossible, considering England's unenlightened state of national indifference to the education of females. I go there for scholarship.”
Lady Chesney could only moan and reach for her handkerchief. “Other young men your age—your friends, I might add—are busy at their tailors, or bargaining for bloodstock at Tattersalls, or sitting in White's bow window like normal men!” She buried her face in her handkerchief and blew her nose. “I wish you would reconsider this off notion of yours. It is not too late!”
Lord Chesney only stood up, stretched, and reached over to ruffle her hair. He kissed her cheek and perched himself on the arm of her chair, his hand on her shoulder. He gave her a mild shake. “Mama, it isn't forever! I could not possibly turn down an appointment to All Souls. It is an honor I had not dreamed of, and I will read history there this year,” he concluded, his voice firm.
The seriousness lasted no more time than it took to speak his intentions. Gatewood rested his cheek against his mother's hair. “Mama, look at it this way and take some consolation: at least I am not pursuing my fellowship in Shakespeare too. I could, you know.”
Lady Chesney shuddered. “You
will
remind me of your dratted double first!” She dabbed at her eyes. “When my set gathers for loo and we discuss the exploits of our sons, I have to endure Lady Whittington's bragging about that oafish lump she claims is Lord Whittington's and his exploits in Spain. Christine Dysart proses on and on about her dear Little Darnley's latest win at Newmarket. All I have to brag about is some pesky book you wrote about fairies and donkey's heads! Lud, it's enough to set me off my meals.”
“
Midsummer Night's Dream
, Mama,” Lord Chesney said patiently. “It's a rather good play, even if it is Shakespeare. And I only wrote a small commentary.”
“Stuff!” Lady Chesney exclaimed. “You are a disgrace to all the Gatewoods who ever turned a card or made a wager. While we are having such fun, here you are, your nose eternally in a book.”
Gatewood abandoned his station at his parent's elbow and took up a more defensive stance in front of the fireplace. “We made a bargain, Mama—you and Papa and I, remember? Papa is gone now, but I am holding you to the bargain. I will study this year at All Souls, and when the year is up, I promise to set up my nursery, and start riding to hounds, and gambling, and making my tailor's life miserable. Agreed?”
Lady Chesney sighed and nodded. “That ought to redeem the family honor, although I've a mind to tell people, when they inquire where you are this year, that you are taking the Grand Tour on the Continent.”
“Mama! No one is taking the Grand Tour these days! Remember the Blockade?” He regarded her with tender affection. “Mama, when did you last look at a newspaper?”
Lady Chesney brushed aside world events with a wave of her handkerchief. “Too much small print, my dear. Very well, I will not complain,” she said, and complained, “But you know that I do not approve. You are the head of the family now!”
“I know, Mama, I know,” he soothed.
“You will remember to send out your collars every now and then to be starched?”
“Of course, Mama.”
“I do not understand why you cannot take your father's valet with you to Oxford!”
“He would perish with boredom and kill me in my sleep, Mama,” Gatewood said, the amusement creeping into his voice again. “Besides that, Lord Winnfield has made him a wonderful offer of employment.”
“I suppose. At least promise me that you will not wear that beastly student's gown all the time. You are rumpled enough.”
“Certainly, Mama.”
Her tone softened. “And write to me occasionally.”
“Yes, dearest. Oxford is not situated in the polar reaches.”
“It is dreadful unmodish, and you know it!”
“Dreadful slow,” he agreed with a twinkle in his eyes as he began a slow edge toward the door.
As his mother cast about for another argument, he reached the door, pausing with his hand poised above the handle, ready to bolt.
“I have hit upon it, Mama!” Gatewood exclaimed as he turned the handle. “You can tell your set that I have killed someone in a duel and must spend the year rusticating with relatives in Virginia. That ought to be sufficiently worthy of a true Gatewood!”
Lady Chesney puffed up for a resounding reply. Before it could leave her lips, her son was gone, laughing his way down the hall. “Oh, if you were only of an age for me to stop your quarterly allowance,” she muttered.
She sprang to her feet, surprisingly agile for one of her bulk, and hurtled herself after him. All she saw was a pair of heels vanishing up the staircase. She shook her fist after him.
“It is my fervent wish that you meet your match at Oxford, you wicked, wicked, unnatural son!” she shouted, quite forgetting herself.