Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career (17 page)

In perfect charity with God, she knelt longer beside her bed for prayers this time.
And God bless Jim Gatewood and his wonderful library
, she prayed silently. After a moment's consideration, Ellen rested her cheek on the bed.
And help him to find someone who doesn't mind a little disorder, and who is not above scolding him to dress tidy occasionally. Heaven knows, he shows to advantage when he does.

Ellen raised herself up on her knees and clasped her hands together again. There was no sense in bothering the Lord Omnipotent about James Gatewood's less-than-perfect personal habits.
And bless Mama and Papa and Martha and Horatia and Ralph, and even Gordon
, she concluded, and then hopped into bed.

Fanny blew out the lamp. Ellen sighed and closed her eyes, grateful to be away from her desk, even as her mind tossed about scenes and plots from Shakespeare's plays to support the theory that was going to startle University College on Saturday.

“Did you hear me, Ellen?”

She opened her eyes. Fanny was speaking in her usual querulous tones.

“No, I'm sorry, Fanny. What did you say?”

“Merely that I was going home this weekend to be fitted for my bridesmaid dress.”

There was an edge of triumph in Fanny's voice. Ellen felt tears sting at her eyelids, and she scrubbed them away. Horatia had chosen the most beautiful deep green for her bridesmaids. Ellen had lingered over the bolts and bolts of specially dyed lawn that Mama had purchased, wishing that she could grow six inches and be symmetrical enough to march in the bridal procession.

Ellen raised herself up on one elbow and looked through the gloom at Fanny. “I hope you have a good time,” she said softly. “I wish I could be a bridesmaid too. Good night, Fanny.”

“Oh, well, thank you, Ellen,” said Fanny, the surprise showing in her voice. She cleared her throat in a way that sounded vaguely like embarrassment to Ellen. “Is there … is there anyone you want me to say hello to for you?”

Ellen thought a moment and remembered her conversation with James Gatewood in his chambers. She took a deep breath. “If you should happen to see Tom Cornwell, tell him hello for me.”

“I will, Ellen.”

She closed her eyes again, surprised at the tears that still threatened, even though her artless words had disarmed Fanny for the time being. Tom Cornwell was likely her destiny. She had said as much to Jim. She clutched her pillow in her arms, enjoying the comfort of it, and wishing for the briefest moment that James Gatewood's arms were still around her and that silly armload of books on the All Souls stairwell.
Perhaps Thomas will hold me like that someday
, she thought, and dabbed at her eyes.
Maybe, if and when we are married, he will become someone I can love and respect.

Soon she would be returning for Horatia's wedding, and she could see him again. Perhaps he would be more to her liking, then, if she looked at him seriously in the light of a possible husband.
Someone to share my bed with
, she thought as she rested her head against the pillow.
Someone with enough money for Papa, and living close by for Mama.

What about me?
she thought.
What does he have that I will need?
Her tears flowed faster.
Would he understand if I wanted to travel, and learn to make maps, and write guidebooks? Would he loan me books, and give me chocolates when I was desperate, rescue me from the Bodleian, and make me a little tipsy in a tavern?

She turned her face into the pillow so Fanny could not hear her.
Will Thomas Cornwell, with his big ears and horse talk, and conversations about the Grain Exchange, even have a clue about me, Ellen Grimsley?

When she heard Fanny breathing slowly and evenly, Ellen left her bed and sat at her desk again, parting the curtains so she could see the moon rise over the spires of Oxford. Her hand gripped the curtains. “It is only across the street, but I can never reach it,” she said softly. “Oh, mercy, it is so unjust.”

She touched the pages in front of her. There would be this final paper for Gordon, and no more. She would go home before she made a fool of herself and tell Mama that she was ready for Thomas Cornwell and his clumsy attentions. If she had any regrets, she would bury them in the back of her mind, stuffed out of sight like the shirt, breeches, and scholar's gown that hung in the dressing room.

Fanny left after morning classes in the company of a maiden aunt who was returning home to the Cotswolds from London. “I will remember you to your family,” she told Ellen over her shoulder as she followed the footman downstairs with her trunk.

“Thank you, Fanny,” Ellen said. She waited impatiently by the front door while Fanny stood there, trying to remember if she had forgotten anything.

As soon as Fanny left, Ellen darted upstairs again, spreading her pages and notes across both beds and walking around them, rearranging ideas as she considered what she was doing. Using
Measure for Measure
as her starting point, she would prove, play by play, that many of the plays of Shakespeare were written by a woman.

“Surely no man can know the mind of a woman so well,” she said out loud and then repeated her words as she wrote them down. “I will prove it and prove it until there can be no argument, “she said, looking around her at the garden of notes planted everywhere.

“What do you think of my idea?” she asked Becky Speed later when the maid came in.

“I think you are going to find yourself in the middle of a muddle,” the maid said frankly. “How long will it be until someone asks Gordon an intelligent question—begging your pardon, ma'am—and he stands there like a half-wit?”

“There is that risk,” Ellen agreed. “But what is that you have there?” she asked, eager to change the subject, because Becky had hit on the target of her own fears.

From her contemplation of the clutter about her, Becky brightened and held out the box. “More chocolates, Miss, and don't we know who they are from?”

Ellen clapped her hands. “Jim Gatewood is probably spending money he does not have, but oh, how thoughtful!” She opened the box, sniffing the contents, and pulled out a note. “‘If chocolates be the food of scholarship, eat on,’ ” she read and laughed. “He is never serious where Shakespeare is concerned. What a mangle of a quote.”

Ellen popped a chocolate in her mouth and held out the box to Becky. “I am to be interrupted only if the building is burning down,” she told the maid. “If Miss Dignam should cut up stiff that I am missing embroidery, tell her … oh … tell her that Lord Chesney has given me a particular assignment that I must fulfill. She won't believe it for long, but at least I should have the paper in hand before she gets too suspicious.”

She was back at Shakespeare before Becky let herself out quietly.

That evening, Gordon delivered his notes to her from his weekly tutorial. “We discussed
Measure for Measure
,” he said, stretching out his hands to the sitting room fire. “I do not know how Shakespeare comes up with such rattlebrained plots. I am sure I do not have a sister like Isabella, who would surrender her … well, you know … for me.”

Ellen only glanced up from his notes and smiled her best gallows smile, the one reserved for brothers. “You are absolutely right, Gordon.”

An uncomfortable silence followed that Gordon broke finally by putting his arm cautiously about his sister. “Well, El, some day when I am a general, you will look back on all this and laugh.”

“I doubt it,” she replied. “You have put us both in such a spot, brother, that I may never forgive you. Good night. Come back Friday for the paper.”

She left him standing, open-mouthed, by the fireplace.

She finished the paper Friday morning, when the candles had burnt out and the sun was struggling over the barren, winter-swept hills. Her eyes burned and her back was sore. With a sigh, Ellen gathered her night's work and took it to the window. She perched on the window seat and watched the sun rise. She looked down at the closely written pages in her hands.
I could have done better
, she thought, tracing the words with her finger. Flipping to the last page, she read the ending again. “Oh, it is good,” she whispered out loud.

In another moment, she was seated at her desk again, writing out a fair copy for Gordon. When she finished, she added a note, admonishing him to read it through first before he sprang it on himself in front of an audience of scholars and summoned the footman. Her eyes drooping with exhaustion, she gave him Gordon's directions and another shilling.

Back in her room again, she finished the box of chocolates and fell asleep in the middle of a pile of notes.

When she woke, the room was tidy again and Becky was just stacking the last of her notes and first draft in neat piles on the floor. Ellen sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“Best burn them, Becky,” she said. “I would only get in trouble if Fanny chanced upon them and put two and two together.”

“Very well, Miss,” Becky said, “although it seems a shame after all your work.”

She attended her classes that day, nodding off over the geography of Cyprus and then struggling in vain to make sense of her embroidery. She could only bow her head in misery over the scathing criticism that Miss Dignam rained down upon her head. With her eyes closed, she even dozed a little, waking up when Miss Dignam shook her and demanded to know how in the world she expected to find a husband if she knew so little about the domestic arts.

“I … I don't know that I have ever given it much thought,” she managed finally when the headmistress just stood there, hands on hips, glaring at her. Finally she raised her own cool blue eyes to Miss Dignam's red face. “I shall have to trust Papa to find someone among his horsey acquaintances who will have me with all my faults. He will probably want to examine my teeth and watch my gait about the paddock. After all, what can a girl expect?”

The other students in the room gasped.

“Miss Grimsley, go to your room,” Miss Dignam ordered, her voice perfectly awful.

Ellen went, grateful to collapse in sleep upon her bed again.

She was still sleeping the next day when Becky shook her awake.

“Miss Grimsley! Gordon is below, and I have never seen him so excited!”

She sat up and stuffed her feet into her shoes, looking about for a shawl to hide the wrinkles in the dress she had slept in. “I am amazed that Miss Dignam let him in.”

“Oh, she does not know. He is belowstairs in the kitchen.” Ellen followed the maid down the servants’ stairs and into the kitchen, where Gordon strode about like a caged animal.

When he saw his sister, he ran to her, lifted her off her feet and whirled her around.

“El, I have been declared a Shakespeare prodigy!” he crowed, ignoring her request to set her down.

“How lovely for you, Gordon,” she said, when he finally stopped whirling her about like a top.

He smiled modestly. “Of course, I'm not sure what a prodigy is, El, but since everyone was standing on their feet and applauding—the ones who weren't cheering, anyway—I guess it is a good thing.”

Ellen sat down and merely regarded her brother in silence until he recalled himself and sat beside her.

“Well, tell me,” she said, when he just sat there grinning. With a laugh, he leaned back in his chair. “I was almost scared spitless when I read your conclusion about Shakespeare being written by a woman.”

“Gordon! I told you to read the paper over first!” she scolded.

He ducked his head in embarrassment. “I meant to, really I did, but the men in the next room were holding a mouse race, and when that was done, we went to the Cock and Hen, and there just wasn't time. You understand, El.”

“Of course,” she replied promptly. “Never let education interfere with the business at hand.”

“I knew you would understand. Well, when I finished my paper, you could have heard a pin drop. And then someone started applauding, and others were on their feet cheering me. It's the greatest feeling, El.”

She could think of nothing to say except hot words that she would regret later, so she had the wisdom to knot her hands in her lap, grit her teeth, and be silent.

Gordon touched her arm. “The best part, El, the best part of all! Someone had invited the Vice Chancellor of Oxford. Come to think of it, he was sitting beside Lord Chesney.” Gordon grinned at the memory. “He told me I was a credit to my family and the whole nation.”

Ellen leaned forward. “Did Lord Chesney seem to enjoy it?”

“Oh, El! He's the one who called me a Shakespeare prodigy.” He closed his eyes, a dreamy expression on his face. “Gordon Grimsley, boy genius, England's gift to the world. El, everyone should have a sister like you.”

She swallowed the tears that threatened. “Did … did you see James Gatewood?”

He frowned. “I don't know this Gatewood chap you are always going on about.” He shrugged. “Who cares? Lord Chesney was pleased, and so was my warden, and I can't think anything else matters.”

“I don't suppose it does. Did you get the copy back?”

He slapped his forehead in contrition. “Would you believe that Lord Chesney insisted upon having this one too?”

Ellen uttered an exclamation of disgust. “Gordon, I particularly told you not to let that happen! I was too tired to write out another copy, and see here, I told Becky to burn my notes and rough copy, so there is nothing left.”

He looked at her with an expression that wavered between pity at her shortcomings and brotherly condescension. “I don't see how you can possibly blame me for that, El. Besides, what can it matter? What can he possibly do with those papers?” He put his arm around her. “And what use can you have for them, sis?”

She nodded slowly. “I suppose you are right, although it does make me uneasy that I have no copies of anything.”

He laughed and tugged at her curls. “Great Godfrey, El, what were you planning? To publish a book of your collected essays?” He gave her a hug and pulled her toward the door. “Who do you think would ever read a stodgy old Shakespeare collection by the worldrenowned Ellen Grimsley?”

It did sound unlikely, put that way. Ellen felt her face grow red.
Was I honestly imagining that I would ever publish those works someday
, she asked herself as Gordon prattled on about inanities and finally took out his watch.