Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career (20 page)

“Yes, isn't it?” he agreed cheerfully. “Consider it advance training for an adventure at the North Pole, grim Miss Grimsley. Your sleigh awaits.”

He gestured toward a punt that bobbed on the choppy water.

Ellen chewed her lips and looked back at Gatewood doubtfully.

“Trust me, Ellen,” he said.

“I should not,” she said promptly, wondering at her own wildness. She would never be so brazen at home, where her most forward act had been a stroll unchaperoned in the shrubbery with Thomas Cornwell. Not that her virtue was ever in any danger from Thomas. All he could talk about was the price of grain. “No, I should not,” she repeated.

“That is up to you,” he replied and held out his hand to help her into the punt.

She hesitated and then took hold of his hand again. He made no comment but regarded her with an expression she had not noticed before. There was none of the casual amusement in his eyes that she had become familiar with in their brief acquaintance. He was serious about something, and she did not entirely understand.

“You'll not regret it,” he said as he followed her into the boat and picked up the pole.

She was silent as she settled herself into the little craft. His was not a statement that seemed to require comment. In some inscrutable way that was currently beyond her understanding, she sensed that he meant much more than he actually said.

I should change the subject
, she thought as the stillness between them became uncomfortable, and then she blushed. There was no subject to change.

Gatewood poled in silence into the middle of the stream. Gradually, the somber, almost sad expression left his face. He concentrated on punting into the stream and down the river. Soon he was humming to himself.

Ellen leaned back against the cushion and watched him. How odd it was to be on the river in December. She had read in feverish novels about punting on the Isis in warm, romantic summer, with a picnic hamper and champagne, and a hero with burning eyes. She smiled. James Gatewood's eyes looked a bit red, as though he had not slept much recently, and it was so cold that her nose tingled.

He looked back at her and smiled. “Open that basket,” he said, indicating the wicker basket midway between them.

She lifted the lid. A dark green bottle nestled in the straw, with two glasses tucked stem to lip beside it. She smiled up at Gatewood.

“You, sir, are a complete hand.”

“Champagne is, I believe, a requirement for a punt on the Isis,” he replied. “If it is not frozen, we will be in luck.”

She popped the cork and poured them each a glass. He accepted it without missing a push against the pole as they glided along. He raised his glass to her.

“And now, Miss Grimsley, shall I tell you what I think of
Measure for Measure
?”

When he finished, the bottle was half empty. The warm glow in her stomach had traveled down to her fingers and toes, leaving her slightly piffled and charitable to the world at large that drifted by.

“Your ending was particularly adroit,” he was saying as he accepted a refill. “I own that I felt sorry for Gordon. He is, I regret to say, too dense by half to realize that you wrote the whole thing in jest. I am sure he still thinks that Shakespeare really was a woman.”

Ellen joined in his laughter. Gatewood drained his glass and held it out again, but Ellen shook her head and tapped the cork more firmly into the bottle. “You have had enough, sir,” she said.

“You are a bit of a tyrant,” he replied, tossing the glass over his shoulder. It bobbed on the current and then sank beneath the waves. “But I will tolerate this heavy-handed cruelty if you will tell me: what is your next assignment?”

Ellen made a face. “Gordon has committed me to
The Tempest
.”

She regarded her glass of champagne, wrinkling her nose as the bubbles rose. She swirled the liquid around and around. “Tell me what you think, sir. I believe I will write this paper as a travel guide to the New World. You know, something along the lines of Hakluyt's
Navigations, Voyages, Traffiques and Discoveries
.” She frowned. “That is, provided I can find a copy of that work among the moldy, unused stacks of the female academy.”

“And if you cannot, I …”

She held up her hand, sloshing the champagne from the glass. “You will not—repeat not—invest in such a book at Fletcher's, James!”

“But it gives me pleasure,” he said simply, as if that was all the argument there was to consider. “And besides, Hakluyt was a Christ Church man.”

“Let us see how pleased you will be when you have run through your quarterly stipend and there is no bread and cheese to be had,” she retorted.

“My dear Miss Grimsley,” he began, his voice filled with dignity that sounded almost ducal to her ears, “I happen to know that Lord Chesney possesses the Hakluyt collection in his library. I will beg the loan of one volume for you. He is a Shakespeare scholar of such renown that he could never resist a plea on behalf of the Bard.” He held up his hand this time to ward off her objections. “Not a word, Miss Grimsley. In this, I insist. You will have the book by tomorrow noon.”

Ellen did not argue. She drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders. The afternoon sun was beginning to dip behind the hills. She looked up at Gatewood, who was smiling down at her.

“I have an idea for another paper,” she began, picking her way among half-formed thoughts. “It is for me alone, I suppose.”

“Some topic that Lord Chesney has not poked his long nose into?” he asked.

She looked at him quickly. “Oh, do not think that I am ungrateful for all he has done, and I have truly enjoyed writing those papers. I have learned so much. This is just an idea of my own.”

“I would like to hear it.”

“Only promise you will not tell Lord Chesney,” she insisted.

“I promise,” he said. “But why not?”

“Maybe I will surprise him with it. Maybe I will even sign my name to this one.”

“Bravo, fair Hermia,” said Gatewood. He steadied the punt and turned his full attention to her. “Speak on.”

She clasped her hands over her knees. “Let us pretend that Romeo got Friar Lawrence's message in time to rescue Juliet from ‘yon Caple's monument.’ ” She nodded toward James, her eyes merry. “And then …”

“Let me guess,” he interrupted and laughed out loud, missing a beat with the pole and setting the little craft rocking. “Excuse that! And they both live happily ever after. Only, perhaps they don't?”

Ellen clapped her hands. “Exactly!”

“Oh, ho!” Gatewood chortled. “Imagine the possibilities of domestic discomfort in the palazzo of Mr. and Mrs. Romeo Montague. Now why did I never think of that?”

“You are not the Shakespeare scholar.”

“Alas, yes.”

Ellen put the bottle back in the wicker basket. “That title belongs to your friend, Lord Chesney. By the way, sir, why do you not bring him along sometime? I owe him so much and would like to thank him in person for smoothing my way here.”

“He is a bit shy around women, Ellen,” James said.

“Well, I would be shy too I am sure,” Ellen said. “Imagine meeting an actual marquess! I am sure that beyond expressing my thanks, I would be quite intimidated and have nothing of significance to say.”

“Surely you could think of something,” he coaxed.

“No,” Ellen said with a shake of her head. “I am sure I could never be comfortable around a peer.”

“You could, Ellen, you could,” Gatewood said, his voice suddenly serious. “He's not so fearsome.”

“Too rare for me!” she said with a wave of her hand. “Still, I would like to tell him good-bye, and thank him.”

“Good-bye? Are you still intent upon leaving?”

“Yes. When this paper is done, I am writing to Papa to come and get me,” she said.

“Giving up?” he asked quietly.

She nodded and met his eyes. “Exactly so. All I want is Oxford University, and I cannot have it. I write papers, and others get the applause.”

“I never thought applause was your motive,” Gatewood said.

She shook her head. “It is not. Oh, James, I fear that I would grow bitter if I stayed around Gordon and watched him squander the riches here.” She shook her head. “No, it's high time I returned home. Christmas is coming, and then there is a wedding to prepare for. I am needed at home.”

Gatewood poled toward the bridge in silence for several moments. “I understand your bitterness,” he said at last.

“You couldn't possibly,” she burst out. “You have this university education spread before you like a feast, and I never will!”

“I didn't mean it that way,” he retorted. “I am saying that I know what it is to feel the weight of family responsibility.” He leaned on the pole and gazed across the river. “I am reminded in frequent letters that I should be home too.”

Ellen looked away, embarrassed with herself for reminding him of his own meager condition. She imagined the drain of his education on his parents’ limited resources, and she was ashamed.

“I am sorry,” she said, her voice soft.

The sun was behind the hills now, and she shivered. “I really don't belong here.”

“I think you do,” was all he said as he poled the boat alongside the landing.

She could think of nothing to say as Gatewood helped her out of the punt. He held her hand and helped her up the steps, which were now sheathed in shadow. She felt disinclined to let go, even when her footing was sure.

They walked slowly up the High Street in awkward silence.

Finally Gatewood nudged her shoulder. “Tell me something, El.” He let go of her hand as others appeared on the street. “It's about your paper on
Romeo and Juliet
. Do your parents have a happy marriage?”

She stared at him, startled at his astounding question. After a moment's thought, she smiled, her good humor restored. “You are wondering where is my authority for a paper on marriage?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Yes, they do, I think,” she said. “I have never given it much thought until lately. Ah me, perhaps I am homesick.”

He stopped and gestured grandly toward Miss Dignam's.

“What? You can have all this and be homesick?”

“Silly!” She clasped his hand again when the people passed and unconsciously slowed her steps as the academy loomed closer and closer. “My parents are pretentious and silly, but they love each other. Mama will humor Papa when the weather is rainy and he cannot ride, and he will listen to her silly stories about the neighbors. But sometimes she is afraid when he storms and stomps about.”

“Can that be love?” he asked in amazement, with a twinkle in the eyes that looked so tired.

She smiled. “I think it is. They know each other so well, faults and all, and it does not disgust them. And that is how my Romeo and Juliet will be.”

“Ellen, you astound me,” Gatewood said finally. “I never suspected you for a cynic, my dear.” He touched her under the chin.

“No, sir, I am a realist,” she replied quietly. “I hope to be as fortunate as they, some day. It may not seem like much, but perhaps it is. How will I know until I am there myself?”

Gatewood put her arm through his as he helped her down the steps leading to the servants’ entrance. “Perhaps you will be more fortunate, Hermia.”

She took her arm from his and opened the door, her mind on Thomas Cornwell. “Who can tell? I suspect that one must work at success in marriage, as in any other venture. Good night, Jim. Take care.”

He kissed her fingers and hurried up the steps without a backward glance.

She watched him go, listening to his footsteps as he crossed the empty street, and then went into the servants’ quarters.

Becky met her at the door of the scullery, her eyes wide.

“Miss Grimsley, do you know what time it is?”

“Why, no,” she said, startled.

“Miss Dignam has already summoned all the young ladies for Psalms in the sitting room,” Becky said as she hurried Ellen toward the stairs.

Ellen stared at her. “It is that late?”

“Oh, hurry, Miss Grimsley!”

Ellen gathered her robe about her and took the steps two at a time. She opened the door into the main hallway and looked about. Young ladies, armed with needlework, were headed toward the parlor. Ellen closed the door to a crack. When the last girl had passed, she opened the door and ran to the back stairs.

To her relief, the upper hall was deserted. She tiptoed down the corridor to her room and threw open the door. Fanny was seated at her desk. She looked up in surprise at Ellen, who stood before her in shirt, breeches, and scholar's gown. The only sounds in the room were Fanny's sharp intake of breath and Ellen's gasp of dismay.

Her whole body numb, Ellen closed the door. She clasped her hands in front of her.

“Well, say something,” she said at last, when Fanny continued to regard her in silence.

Still Fanny said nothing. After a moment's observation, she rose from her chair and walked around Ellen, who followed her with her eyes.

“Charming,” she ventured at last.

Ellen felt the tears start in her eyes. “Are you going to tell Miss Dignam?”

“Of course I am,” Fanny replied, unable to keep the triumph from her voice.

Ellen closed her eyes and thought of the papers yet to be written, and Lord Chesney's disappointment.

“When?” she croaked.

Fanny laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. “When I am good and ready, Ellen Grimsley.”