Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career (14 page)

“I think you are charming,” he said, “even with the wrong shoes on, and the marks of the bedspread still on your face.” Ellen gasped and looked down at her feet, where one brown shoe and one black one peeked out from under her dress. She touched her cheek. “Oh, dear!”

He leaned back on the couch, stretching out his legs, enjoying the moment. Without thinking, Ellen socked him in the stomach. “You are no gentleman!” she protested, laughing. “You remind me more of my brothers, and I will treat you that way.”

“Brothers, eh?” he teased, when he could breathe again. “I don't know who to pity more: you or them.”

The bells of Oxford sounded the hour. Gatewood glanced out the window. “I would love to discuss your family, but I am late. Do you have a copy of your
Midsummer Night's Dream
paper? I would love to read it.”

“I did not have time to make another copy.”

Gatewood shook his head. “My dear Miss Grimsley, always keep a copy. That is the first rule of the writer.”

“It is only a paper for Gordon,” she protested.

“Still and all, madam, scholarship demands it, and there is no telling who might try to gyp you.” He rose and put on his gloves again. “I shall be forced to attend Gordon's University College reading this morning then, won't I?”

Ellen stood up too careful to keep her shoes under her dress. “I wish I could accompany you.”

He looked down at her, a lazy smile playing about his face. “I wish you could too.” The smile vanished. “It seems unfair.”

He took her hand and squeezed it. She looked up at him in surprise and then smiled her sunniest smile.

“It doesn't matter.” She let him hold her hand. “I am going to cry uncle soon and ask Papa to come and get me.” Unexpected tears filled her eyes, replacing the smile. “Oxford is not what I thought it was, and I was a silly nod to harbor expectations.”

“You are leaving?” he said, his voice as serious as hers. He only tightened his grip on her hand. “Do reconsider, Hermia. The Bodleian will be so dull with only the mice to entertain me.”

She smiled then and turned loose his hand, which she was gripping just as tight. “Still, sir, it has made me wiser.”

He was standing so close that she could have kissed him. The thought made her blush again, even as she wondered where such an idea had come from. She stepped back and clasped her hands behind her.

“You'll be late to the lecture, Jim,” she said, her voice soft.

“So I shall be.” He kissed her cheek. “Courage, fair Hermia,” he said, and quoted, “‘Do not doubt that saints attend thee.’ ”

“
Hamlet
,” she said, “and badly altered, I might add.”

He laughed and touched her cheek where he had kissed her. And then he was gone. She stood in the doorway until he vanished down the alley that led to the interior of Oxford and University College.

Fanny and the other students returned before noon from their stroll about Oxford, rosy from the cold and glowing with news. Ellen looked up from her embroidery as Fanny entered the room. Fanny removed her hat and unbuttoned her pelisse. She went to the fireplace to warm her hands.

“Guess who we saw, running and jumping about on Cornmarket Street like a rabid dog?” she said at last.

“The Duke of Wellington,” Ellen said promptly, her eyes on her embroidery.

“Silly! It was your brother!” Fanny shook her head in disapproval at the memory. “He accosted me, Ellen, and grabbed me by the shoulders and said he had news for you. Imagine.” She looked down her long nose at Ellen. “Perhaps someone taught him how to write his own name or tally beyond his fingers.”

Ellen tightened her lips, counted to ten, and then smiled sweetly into her roommate's smug face. “Capital! Perhaps we should recommend Oxford to your brother Edwin, so he can learn these skills too. It must be grievous indeed for Edwin to have to take off his shoes to do higher math at the Grain Exchange.”

Fanny turned white about the mouth. “You're going to wish you hadn't said that,” she exclaimed and then cast about for something else. She raised her chin. “At least I, unlike you, am to be a bridesmaid for my dear Edwin and your featherbrain of a sister. Too bad such ignorance seems to run in your family!” She grabbed up her own embroidery and flounced from the room, slamming the door after her.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” Ellen muttered. She refused to let her mind dwell on Fanny's rudeness. “Or my own,” she said out loud, grinning to herself. “That was a repartee worthy of Ralph.”

She looked out the window, wondering when Gordon would appear, wondering if her paper had really been such a success.

In a few moments she saw him meandering along, hands shoved deep into his pockets, whistling. She tapped on the window to get his attention. When he looked up, he pointed down the street. Ellen shook her head, but he only shrugged his shoulders and grinned at her, pantomiming a pint of ale in one hand.

“Drat you, Gordon,” she said as she ran down the stairs and out the front door. She took him by the arm. “Not one step farther until you tell me how it went,” she said, out of breath.

Gordon looked around him. “Really, El, how does this look?” he complained. “I was merely going to celebrate the successful outcome of this morning's work,” he said. “And then I was going to come back to Miss Dragon's Female Hothouse and tell all.”

Ellen tugged him back to the academy. “That won't do, Gordon. I know you too well. Tell me first, and then go to the Cock and Hen.”

He gave her a look of compounded suspicion, surprise, and hurt feelings. “Really, El. How did you know it was the Cock and Hen?” he accused, assuming that exalted air he used on occasion when he wanted to remind her that she was the younger sibling. “El, one would think you had been there yourself. You're not keeping low company here in Oxford, are you?” he asked on the attack. “On the sly from Miss Dignam?”

Even though his dart hit home, she refused to acknowledge it to him. “The lowest company I keep is yours, brother,” she said. “Now come in here. You owe me that.”

When she released her grip on his gown, Gordon Grimsley carefully shook out its folds and followed her into the school, muttering something about little sisters who haven't a penny's worth of dignity to their name.

He followed her into the parlor, head high. When she closed the door behind them, he grabbed her and whirled her about, setting her down again and kissing her cheek with a loud smack. “We did it, El. My paper was a smashing success!”

“Whose paper?” she asked quietly, but he did not hear her as he continued to dance about the room with her. He stopped finally and flopped down on the settee.

“El, you should have been there. I rose to read my paper, and everyone was rummaging around and making vulgar noises. You know, the usual bits of nonsense at the Saturday readings.”

She didn't know, but she nodded. “Go on.”

He rose to his feet and struck a pose by the fireplace. “By the second page, everyone was silent,” he said, his eyes bright. “Even the dons and fellows were hanging on my every word.”

Ellen sighed with pleasure. “Magnificent, Gordon,” she said.

He bowed. “It was, rather.” He hurried forward then and grasped her hands. “But the best part was the end, El. When the last word died away, the room was dead silent. And then everyone began to applaud.”

“No!” she gasped, her eyes wide, the color rushing to her cheeks.

“Yes! And they stood up!” He threw himself in the chair across from her. “I never knew I could do so well!”

She frowned at her brother, who lolled in the chair, head back, eyes closed, a silly smile on his face. “I am the one who wrote the paper, Gordon,” she reminded him.

He opened his eyes. “Oh, yes, quite,” he said. “Wish you could have been there, dear, to see my triumph.”

She chose to overlook his enthusiasm and wondered for only a moment about the depression that settled over her.

It lasted only long enough for Gordon to sit upright and leap to his feet again. “El, here's the best part! Lord Chesney was there, and he singled me out for a conversation!”

“No!” she exclaimed again, her hands to her face. “Gordon, for heaven's sake, tell me what he looks like. What did he say?”

Gordon looked at her and shrugged. “Well, he was tall and had brown hair.”

Ellen pounded the armchair. “Can't you be more specific? That could be almost anyone in England!”

“I suppose you are right,” he said and smiled. “He really looked like a lord.”

Ellen sighed and took a turn about the room. “Gordon, you have never met a lord. How would you know?”

“Well, he had a certain air about him.”

“So does the village tannery back home, Gordon.”

He tried to stare her into capitulation, but he blinked first. “He had a Londoner's accent, I think. Sounded like a real aristo.” He frowned and tried to think. “Black robe … what else is there?” He brightened. “He did have a rather magnificent gold watch fob.”

Ellen sat down beside him. “So does James Gatewood, Gordon, and he is nothing out of the ordinary. Far from it, in fact.”

Gordon grinned and tweaked her curls before she could draw away. “Silly! What do you expect here at Oxford? That Lord Chesney will wear his House of Lords getup or employ slave girls to dance in front of him and toss out rose petals? Ellen, sometimes you are almost as ridiculous as Horatia. Or me,” he added, to soften the blow.

She took his words in good grace and considered their merit. What did she expect, after all? “And I suppose you will tell me that he puts his trousers on one leg at a time.”

“He probably does, El,” he said and put his arm around her. He leaned closer. “I think he must tie his own neckcloths too. Between you and me, it didn't look so expert.”

He glanced toward the door that led to freedom and the tavern, and ran his tongue over his lips. Ellen tugged on his arm. “One thing more, Gordon, before you abandon yourself to the Cock and Hen—or whatever that place is called—you said he had some conversation with you.”

He slapped his forehead. “Oh, my, did he ever!” He took both of her bands in his. “El, you need to write me another paper.”

She withdrew her hands from his grasp as though they burned.

“Not this sister, Gordon! I swore I would not do that again.” She eyed him until he blinked again. “Particularly since you seem to forget who wrote that first paper.”

She might as well not have bothered to speak. “El, he told me I should write a paper on
Measure for Measure
.” Gordon rose and took his stand by the fireplace again. “He wants to know what I think about it! El, is it a play?”

“Yes, you block, it is a play,” she said quietly. “Perhaps it is time you learned to write your own papers at University College.”

His eyes grew round as he stared at her in horror. “Ellen! Don't abandon me now! It's just one more paper, and soon the winter vacation will be upon us and maybe, just maybe, Papa will change his mind and buy me a pair of colors.”

When she made no reply, he fell on both knees and clasped his hands together. “Sister, have a heart!” He thought a moment and sidled closer to her on his knees. “Didn't you just tell me that you owed Lord Chesney for your own improved treatment here?”

“I suppose I did, Gordon,” she said at last. “Although what that has to do with …”

Gordon Grimsley had no time for sisterly riders. He let go of her hands and leaped to his feet. “I knew you would not fail me! I promise to attend my tutorial and take exemplary notes this time.”

She nodded, already regretting her decision. “At the very least, you can give me back my
Midsummer Night's Dream
paper.”

He shook his head. “I wish that I could, but Lord Chesney asked me for it, and what could I do?”

“What indeed?” she asked. “Gordon, you are the biggest flat that ever drew breath. Yes, I will write your stupid paper for the honor of the Grimsleys, and you had better hang on to the original this time.”

He kissed her cheek. “Ellen, you are a great goer! Remind me to do something nice for you sometime.”

The look she gave him sent him backing toward the door. He had almost escaped into the hall when she called to him.

“Gordon, I want you to take a note to James Gatewood at All Souls,” she said, hurrying to the escritoire. She wrote quickly. “Tell him that I will return that one book that he loaned me, and tell him that I have a few questions about
Measure for Measure
. Maybe he will help me.”

“I don't know, El,” he said doubtfully, the letter between his fingers. “Gatewood doesn't sound at all the thing. Didn't you tell me that he comes from a long line of horse traders? I know that Papa is horse-mad, but I am not sure he would approve.”

“Find someone to deliver that note, or I won't write your paper,” she said.

He gave her a wounded look. “Lord, El, you can be difficult. Why did I never see this before? Very well, I will deliver it to the porter at All Souls, but that is all. Suppose I run into Lord Chesney there? He would ask me something about Shakespeare, and then we would be in such a fix.”

“No, Gordon,
you
would be in such a fix,” she amended pointedly.

He could not have heard her. He opened the door and stood there in the hallway, shaking his head over the perfidy of sisters until she wanted to yank the hairs out of his head one at a time.

As he regarded her, the gleam came back into his eyes. “El, you should have heard the applause I got,” he said as he closed the door behind him.

“Ungrateful wretch,” she muttered under her breath.

She took the noontime meal in thoughtful silence, considering
Measure for Measure
, and wondering why Lord Chesney would request a paper on that play, of all plays. She had never read it and had only the vaguest notion of the plot.

After luncheon, she hurried to the academy library, a skimpy affair with one rack of books that were all split leather bindings and moldy paper.
Measure for Measure
was not numbered among the Shakespeare collection.

Miss Dignam, noting the library door open—a rare thing in her academy—came into the room with a glare of suspicious inquiry in her face.