Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career (18 page)

“I'm off, El,” he declared finally. “Some of the chaps are hosting a dinner for me.” He puffed out his chest. “I've become a credit to University College, don't you know.”

“Gordon, what you are is a fool,” she said, not mincing her words and softening none of the sting.

He only looked at her fondly and kissed her cheek. “Yes, ain't I?” he agreed, all amiable complacency. “Maybe it will be enough to get me sprung early from this pile.”

“Either that, or it will make you so valuable that University College—and Papa—will never let you go.”

He stopped and looked at her with an expression close to horror. “I never thought of that, El!” he squeaked, his voice suddenly raised into the upper registers by the prospect of a life of study. “Whatever you do, sister, do not make the next essay so brilliant, will you?”

He opened the door. She put her hand out and closed it again. “What essay, Gordon?” she asked, her voice quiet. “I am writing no more essays for you.”

His face lost its usual healthy glow, and he swallowed several times. “See here, El. You must,” he managed, when he could speak.

“I don't have to do anything of the sort,” she retorted. “And I am thinking of applying to Papa to spring me from this pile.”

He gripped her arm. “El, you must help me.”

“Oh, must I? I suppose you will tell me that Lord Chesney insists upon another essay,” she said, opening the door for him.

He closed it this time. “As a matter of fact, he did, El, and he wants this one to be about …” He paused to reflect, rolling his eyes. “Dash it all, something about a storm, and more of them foolish fairies, or sprites. Lord C. went on and on about ‘brave new world,’ whatever the devil that means.”

“
The Tempest
, you block,” she said and opened the door again. “Very well, but no more after this one, Gordon. I have done enough for you.”

He only smiled, but she did not like that smile.

F SHE EXPECTED A VISIT FROM
J
IM GATEWOOD
that afternoon, she was mistaken. For someone who seemed so interested in her progress, for someone so willing to help, he was notable by his absence.

Even Ellen's first official expedition outside the academy in the company of a maid, footman, and other select females failed to rouse her from her disappointment.

What is it that I expect?
Ellen thought as she walked along the High Street with the other students. With a blush, she looked away from her own reflection in a shop window.
I want his approbation,
she thought.
I want him to tell me what a fine job I did on this essay.
She looked down the street to the spires of All Souls.

It could be that I just want to see him.

The thought made her pause in the middle of the street. The other Christmas shoppers hurried around her, looking back in irritation.

“Ellen! Hurry up!” called one of the girls. “You are becoming a trial!”

The afternoon was cold, the kind of blue-gray cold that she was familiar with from her own corner of the Cotswolds, the cold that burrowed in between the shoulder blades and never let go until spring. Ellen tugged her woolen scarf tighter about her neck and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her pelisse. Dutifully she followed the others from store to store along the High, exclaiming over ribbons and fancies until she was heartily bored.

A reminder from one of the other students about the closeness of Christmas inspired her to find a doll for Martha, a strand of coral beads for Horry, and gray kid gloves for Mama. Papa would content himself with his favorite pipe tobacco. She felt disinclined to buy anything for Gordon and turned her interests to Ralph.

“We must go to the bookstore,” she said as the others were starting back. “I think it is not far,” she coaxed when the girls groaned and began a litany of complaints about their feet, the weather, and the weight of their packages, at least the ones that the footman, burdened as he was, was unable to carry.

“I have to find something for my brother,” Ellen declared. She gave her scarf another yank. “Just … go on,” she ordered, “and leave Becky Speed with me. Surely that's proper enough.”

Grateful not to have to surrender their footman, the others agreed. In a moment they were hurrying toward the warmth of Miss Dignam's asylum.

Ellen tucked her arm in Becky's. “I'm sorry,” she apologized, “but suppose I am punished next week for some misdeed or another and cannot escape to finish my Christmas obligations? I would hate to disappoint Ralph.”

Becky only smiled, even though her nose was red from the cold. “If we cut through the alleys, we will be there quicker.”

They hurried through Oxford University's alleys. Soon Ellen saw Fletcher's sign, swaying in the stiffening breeze. They ducked inside, and Ellen sighed with pleasure. The walls from floor to ceiling bulged with books of all types and sizes. Clerks scurried like sailors up and down the ladders that moved on tracks the length of the narrow store.

A clerk appeared at her side.

“I say, can you show me a copy of Shakespeare's complete works?” Ellen asked, when her mouth had thawed sufficiently to permit the formation of words again.

He disappeared, climbed a ladder, and retrieved a duplicate of the copy James Gatewood had sent to Miss Dignam's last week. He quoted her a price that made her eyes open wide.

“Mercy on us,” she exclaimed. “I haven't near enough!”

Disappointed, the clerk whisked the book away before she could sully it with one more glance. Ellen whispered to Becky, “Oh, I am so embarrassed! James Gatewood paid a small fortune for that book he sent me. I had no idea it was so dear. Becky, that was probably all his money in the world!”

The maid eyed her doubtfully. “Surely not, miss. Surely Mr. Gatewood has other resources.” She thought a moment. “Well, perhaps he does not, considering the state he is always in when we see him.” She giggled behind her well-darned mittens. “He always looks like he came backward through the shrubbery, doesn't he?”

“And I am afraid he has gone to awful expense for me,” Ellen said mournfully, thinking of the beautiful book on her desk with “Good luck!” scrawled across both inside pages.

After another moment spent in real discomfort, Ellen settled on a more modest volume of Shakespeare's histories and let the clerk carry it away to be wrapped in brown paper.

“I must remember never to petition James Gatewood for books,” she said out loud and then glanced at Becky. “I feel that for my penance I should write that sentence one hundred times. Oh, dear!”

Becky took the package from the clerk. “Well, it can't be helped now, Miss Grimsley.”

“I suppose it cannot,” Ellen said.

The wind outside Fletcher's staggered them backward. Snow was falling. Ellen linked arms with the maid and they turned, heads down, into the wind.

It fairly carried them along, swooping and dodging through Oxford's warren of alleys and hidden streets. Ellen's dress whirled up around her knees, and she could only be grateful that no one else was abroad on such a chilly afternoon to witness such a brazen display.

Almost no one. She was turning to attempt some remark to Becky as they struggled along, when suddenly James Gatewood separated them and put his arms through theirs.

“What a duo of silly chits you are,” he said mildly, as the wind ruffled through his already untidy hair. “I expected that England's next preeminent Shakespeare scholar would have the wit to keep warm.”

Ellen giggled despite her misery. “We are on Christmas errands,” she shouted above the wind.

“You'll only get a lump of coal from me, if you do not seek shelter soon,” he shouted back, still cheerful.

Becky tugged at his other arm. “Please, sir, I live only one street over. We could duck in there for a moment to get warm.”

Gatewood smiled at the maid. “Capital notion, my dear!” he declared. “How glad I am to know that one of you has a particle of sense.” He laughed out loud when Ellen dug him in the ribs. “My dear, if the shoe fits …”

He had to duck his head to get through the low doorway into the Speed house, a narrow set of quarters built along the same lines as the bookstore. A woman who looked very much like Becky Speed was sitting beside a thin, sunken-faced man with no expression who lay on a daybed close to the fire. She blew a kiss to Becky and took in the situation at a glance, rising to her feet.

“Come close to the fire,” she said, gesturing toward the small mound of coal that glowed in the grate. After a slight hesitation, she hurried to the cupboard on the dark side of the little room and took out two china cups.

In another moment, Ellen was sipping the weak tea. She smiled her appreciation. The woman beamed back as Becky put her arm around her.

“Mr. Gatewood, Miss Grimsley, this is my mother,” Becky said and then tilted her head toward the man on the daybed. “And my father. He was a stone mason and fell from the walls of Magdalen while making repairs last year.” Her voice faltered and she tightened her grip on her mother. “We think he can understand us.”

Gatewood hesitated not a moment. He walked to the daybed and sat down in the spot Mrs. Speed had vacated. “Then we thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Speed,” he said, his voice gentle.

Beyond a slight movement of his head, Mr. Speed lay still.

With increased appreciation, Ellen watched James Gatewood as he sat where he was, addressing pleasantries to the man who could not answer him. She turned away and found herself looking at Mrs. Speed, who was watching Gatewood.

Becky kissed her mother's cheek as Mrs. Speed began to dab at her eyes with her apron. “I think he reminds Mama of Tommy, who went to Spain to war and never came home.”

“Becky, I am so sorry,” Ellen said. Her throat felt scratchy and her eyelids burned. She sipped her tea-flavored hot water, her heart troubled.
And Spain is where Gordon thinks he must go
, she thought.
I was so unkind to him this afternoon.

In another moment, Mrs. Speed directed her attention to the fireplace. Carefully she took out two more lumps of coal from the nearly empty pasteboard box that served as a coal scuttle and arranged them on the little fire with all the skill of a bricklayer. Ellen's eyes clouded over as she remembered the maids at home tumbling coal into the grate, careless of it.

Gatewood remained by Becky's father until the man closed his eyes and relaxed in sleep. He looked at Ellen then, who had removed her pelisse and was sitting close to the fire, her hands extended to it.

“You look so nice in a dress,” he whispered, so none of the Speeds could hear him. “Much more flattering than a scholar's gown.”

She raised her eyes from her contemplation of the struggling little fire, as though she had not heard his small compliment. “James, I think they intend to have us for supper.”

He sat close beside her. “We can't put them to that embarrassment,” he said softly, “even though I would like to sit with you by the fire a little longer.”

“Well, you cannot,” she said and then glanced at his face. “You could come to Miss Dignam's parlor some evening.”

“No, I could not,” he replied enigmatically and then changed the subject by wrapping his scarf about his neck again and pulling on his gloves. “Mrs. Speed, Becky, thank you so much for rescuing us from the storm, but I must return this waif to Miss Dragon's.”

Becky giggled. Ellen couldn't help but notice the look of relief on Mrs. Speed's face.

“If you must,” Mrs. Speed began.

James held out his hand. “We must. Miss Grimsley is so often in and out of trouble that it would not be wise to tempt the Fates. Good day to you all. Here, Ellen, let me help you.”

Becky reached for her cloak again. James shook his head.

“I can see Miss Grimsley home. After all, I am going in that direction too.”

Ellen buttoned her pelisse and stood still while James wrapped the muffler about her neck. She held out her hand to Becky. “I am sure I will be fine.” She frowned. “Becky, wasn't this your half-day, anyway?”

Becky nodded. “I didn't mind the shopping this afternoon. I love to look in shop windows, even if I do not buy.”