Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career (2 page)

Her unnatural son's voice floated down from the second floor landing. “My dear, what could be safer than All Souls College?”

ASTER
R
ALPH
G
RIMSLEY TUGGED AT HIS
collar, sighed, and looked up at his sister. “Do you know, El, I do not think this interview will go well for either of us. That bagwig Snead don't much like to be corrected, especially by you.”

“‘Doesn't,’ ” Ellen Grimsley corrected, her eyes on the saddled horse pawing the ground directly under the window where they sat. “And Papa hates above all things to be trapped by that prosing windpipe, especially when the fox has already been loosed.”

As if to emphasize her words, the mellow tones of the hunting horn sounded through the open window. The wavering notes stretched out and then drifted away on the October breeze. Ellen shivered and pulled the window shut.

Ralph scrambled to his knees and pressed his nose against the windowpane. “Poor old fox,” he said softly. He glanced at Ellen again. “There is a certain injustice to this system,” he said.

Ellen smiled for the first time since Vicar Snead's arrival, charmed by the thought that her little brother, who was but twelve, sounded full grown. She thought of Gordon, incarcerated at Oxford, who had never sounded that mature at twelve, and likely never would.
A certain injustice
, she thought, her eyes on the closed door to the book room.

Ralph remained kneeling in the window seat, his nose pressed to the glass. In another moment, he was blowing on the glass and then writing his Latin vocabulary on the pane. “El, if I write it backwards, then people outside can read it forwards.”

“You could,” she agreed as she tucked in his shirttail and then tickled him. “But as the only animate object outside is Papa's horse, I think it would be a waste of good breath.”

Ralph laughed, turned around, and sat next to her again, resting his head against her arm. He closed his eyes in satisfaction. “I'm glad it's Horry getting married and not you, El. Promise me that you will never marry.”

“I promise,” she said promptly and then amended, a twinkle in her eyes. “But suppose I get a good offer? Mama is sure that if Horatia can bag the son of a baronet, then I ought at least to snare a vicar!”

Ralph frowned. “Well, as long as it's not Vicar Snead, that old priss.” He brightened. “I think someone as fine as you could trip up a viscount at least.”

“Silly!”

They were still smiling when the book room door opened and the vicar minced out. He smiled his gallows smile at the Grimsley progeny, his thin lips disappearing somewhere inside his mouth. Carefully he smoothed a finger across each eyebrow—his only good feature—and stood aside for the squire.

Ellen's heart sank lower into her boots. Triumph was etched all over the vicar's rather spongy features.
Ellen, why do you not keep your mouth shut?
she thought.
Why aren't you a more dutiful daughter?

The hunting horn sounded again, barely audible through the closed window. The squire lumbered to the window and pressed his nose against the glass in unknowing imitation of his younger son. The sigh that escaped him was plainly audible.

The vicar coughed and cleared his throat, recalling the squire to the proceedings at hand. “Squire Grimsley, I believe you have something to say to your daughter.”

“My daughter?” the squire repeated absently. He opened the window and looked down at his horse.

Ellen bit her lip to keep back the laughter. Poor Vicar Snead! He hadn't been in the neighborhood long enough to know that one only asked easy questions of Squire Grimsley when the pack was loosed and the fox running fast. He would be hard put to remember any of his children, especially his daughters.

“Sir, your daughter!” the vicar repeated when the squire stayed where he was, his hands resting on the glass as if he wanted to push through it, leap on the waiting horse, and gallop toward the sound of the horn.

“My daughter?” the squire said, as though the concept of parenthood were a new idea requiring further consideration.

“Ellen,” Ralph added helpfully. “She's short for a Grimsley, and blonde, Papa. I think she's pretty,” he concluded, unable to resist, even as his sister kicked his foot.

“And you are impertinent,” the vicar snapped. He cleared his throat again. “Your daughter, Miss Grimsley.”

The squire waved his hand in the direction of the clergyman.

“You have my permission, sir. Take her, she's yours.”

The vicar gasped and turned the color of salmon. Ralph dissolved into helpless mirth.

The laughter recalled the squire to the distasteful business at hand. He turned away from the window with a reluctance that was almost palpable. Ralph stopped laughing and scooted closer to his sister, who put her arm around him.

“Ellen, you will apologize to the vicar for your rudeness this morning during Ralph's lesson.”

Ellen rose, wishing for the millionth time that she was tall like the other Grimsleys. She turned the full force of her cobalt blue eyes upon the vicar, who went even redder and seemed to have trouble with his collar suddenly. He tugged on it and made strangling noises that made Ralph shake.

“Mr. Snead,” she began softly, “I do apologize for correcting you this morning when you said that Boston was the capital of the United States.”

“And?” asked the vicar, running his finger around the offending collar as Ellen continued to regard him, a slight smile on her face.

“And?” she repeated.

“And you will not interfere again,” the vicar concluded.

“I can't promise that,” she said. “Best that you brush up on your geography, sir, before you lead any more young boys astray.”

“Daughter!” roared the squire.

Ellen winced, but she stood her ground. “Papa, Boston is not the capital of the United States.”

“No?” The squire rubbed his chin, his eyes on the vicar. “Well, of course it is not! What do you say to this, sir?”

The vicar dabbed at the perspiration gathering on his upper lip. “She could have told me in private, sir.”

Ralph sprang to his sister's defense. “Sir, as to that, I am sure she could not,” he insisted. “Papa would never permit a
tête-à-tête
with a single gentleman such as yourself.”

“Bother and nonsense,” the vicar exclaimed. “I am her spiritual counselor, as long as she resides within the boundaries of my parish!” He turned to the squire and all but plucked at his pink coat. “Squire, I protest! Miss Grimsley corrects me in front of my other pupils. How does it look, sir?”

The squire forced his attention from the window to the domestic scene. “It looks to me, sir, as though you ought to take a good look at a map. Everyone knows that New York City is the capital of the United States. Good day, vicar. Do come again when you can stay longer.”

The vicar sniffed and patted his eyebrows again. “Very well, sir. I will withdraw now. Perhaps I shall compose a sermon from St. Paul about women not speaking in public!” He turned and strode majestically to the front door. The effect was marred when he closed the door upon his coattails and had to open it again to free himself.

The squire watched him go. “Our vicar is good evidence for the theory that all younger sons should be drowned at birth,” he murmured, and then glanced at Ralph. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Ralph grinned, pleased by his father's unexpected attention. Ellen sat down in the window seat again. “Papa, the capital of the United States is Washington, DC!”

The squire, his family duties attended to, was at the window again. “That's not my fault,” he said and eyed his daughter. “What am I going to do with you, Ellen?” he asked.

“You could send me away to school, Papa,” she said. The squire roared with laughter and pinched her cheek.

“You're the funny one,” he said. “Lord, what use does a chit have for school? You had a governess for two years, my dear. That's enough. I have never heard that reading books will get you a husband.” He looked about for his hat.

“But, Papa, isn't there more to life than the getting of a husband?” she persisted.

He took his hat from Ralph and settled it on his head. He turned to her with a puzzled expression. “What else is there for chits?” he asked.

“But, Papa—” she began and was cut off with a wag of the squire's finger in her face.

“None of that!” The squire took one last look out the window and hurried to the door. “From now on, you will stay out of the vicar's lessons. If you must walk into the village with Ralph, then visit your Aunt Shreve while your brother is at the vicarage.” He frowned and took a few swings at imaginary enemies with his riding crop. “She's a dratted woman and a nuisance, but I can't have you hounding the vicar.” He patted her cheek. “Even if he is a sorry excuse.”

He had almost reached the door before other Grimsleys converged upon him like driverless coaches hurtling toward the same crossing. The squire looked about for a quick escape, but all routes were cut off.

Martha, towed along by one hand, cried the loudest and hiccupped as her mother pulled her toward the squire. She appeared strangely splotchy about the face and neck.

“Spots, Mr. Grimsley!” Mama shrieked. “Spots!”

Squire Grimsley sighed and looked about for an escape while Ellen watched in amusement. “‘In sooth you ’scape not so,’ ” she murmured to Ralph, who nodded and smiled.

“
Taming of the Shrew
?” he asked, and she nodded, her hands on his shoulders, as they watched the rest of the Grimsleys unravel before their eyes. Even as she looked on, Horatia, her face pale, staggered toward the squire and sank into a chair, her hands covering her eyes.

“Sarah Siddons is warming up,” Ralph whispered.

“She must wait her turn,” Ellen whispered back. “Mama will win out.”

“Spots!” Mama cried again. She tugged on her husband's arm. “Mr. Grimsley, this is serious business!”

The squire peered closer at his youngest child and then leaped back. “’Pon my word, if it persists, won't she be a sight when she skips down the aisle in front of Horry, strewing around them little posies that I am supposed to pay a king's ransom for in December!”

Mrs. Grimsley glared at her husband until he stepped back again. Her eyes narrowed. “We are having a wedding in less than two months’ time, Mr. Grimsley. This is no joking matter!” She followed up her words by bursting into tears, noisy tears that cast Martha's efforts into the shade. The child ceased her wailing and stared up at her mother. Then her red-dotted face darkened again, and she added her miseries to her mother's woe.

Ralph put his hands over his ears and then nudged his sister, who still sat in the window seat, transfixed by the spectacle before her. “It is Horry's turn,” he whispered. “This will be good.”

“Hush, Ralph,” Ellen whispered as Horatia, her lovely face filled with misery, staggered to her feet and latched onto the lapels of her father's riding coat.

Like others of the Grimsley race, she was tall and possessed a headful of guinea-gold curls that tickled Papa's nose and made him sneeze.

Wide-eyed, Ralph watched the tableau before him, then turned away. “Dear me,” he managed, his shoulders shaking.

Ellen put her finger to her lips.
Was ever womankind plagued with such a helpless family?
she thought as she hurried to Martha and knelt in front of her little sister. Expertly she ran her hands over the bumps on Martha's face, then stood up.

“Mama, do take it down a peg.”

Mama only sobbed harder. “You and your dreadful slang! You are not faced with a crisis of monumental proportions!” Mama wept into her handkerchief. “Spots!”

“It is worse and worse, Mama!” Horatia burst out. “Chevering says …”

“Nonsense!” Ellen said, cutting off her sister in midsentence and resting her hand upon Martha's head. “Mama, let us begin with Martha. Did you take a good look at her? A really good look?”

Mama wiped her eyes and squinted down at her littlest daughter. “I think I know my own children, Ellen,” she said, biting off her words.

Ellen knelt in front of her sister again, her hands firm on Martha's shoulders. “Tell me truly, Martha. Have you been in Mama's chocolates again?”