Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career (30 page)

“And so, Miss Grimsley, the women have indeed moved into Oxford,” Miss Medford had declared the afternoon of Ellen's introduction to St. Hilda's. “And we will not be easily dislodged, no matter what our current status.”

She had ushered Ellen into her quarters, hiding a smile when she opened the door upon a veritable flower shop. “I believe you have an admirer,” was all she said as she ushered Ellen into her room.

Ellen had looked about her in delight that immediately turned to chagrin. She could only shake her head and ask, “How do people like that have access to flowers in January?”

Miss Medford laughed and clapped her hands. “I suppose in summer he will bring you shaved ice brought from the Andes by Inca runners.” She coughed delicately. “Lord Chesney has become one of our most enthusiastic benefactors of late. Perhaps he will endow a chair of horticulture.”

Ellen laughed and sat on the bed. “Miss Medford, let me tell you this at once. Lord Chesney is of the opinion that I should marry him, but I have no such intention.”

Miss Medford only inclined her head, a smile on her face. “So he told me.”

“What?”

“He said that you regarded him with complete indifference and …”

“‘Complete indifference’?” Ellen interrupted, without even meaning to. “Well, I do not know if I would go that far … yes, yes, I would! Complete indifference. Pray excuse the interruption, Miss Medford.”

“Certainly. I assured him that we at St. Hilda's Hall would keep you sufficiently challenged so that you would never have the opportunity to repine either lost or unrequited love.”

“And what did his lordship say to that?” Ellen asked, a smile playing around her lips.

“He laughed long and hard.”

“He would! That is so entirely in character.”

“And when he was quite recovered, he offered his services here, should we ever wish an occasional lecture on Shakespeare.”

“Which you accepted?”

“Of course! My dear, in scholarly circles, Lord Chesney is renowned.” She moved to the door. “We accepted his offer gladly, and leave it to you two adults to sort out your own private difficulties.” She picked up a nosegay of tea roses by the door. “I expect he will prove difficult to argue with, but that, Miss Grimsley, is your problem.”

Ellen dealt with the distraction of Lord Chesney in womanly, time-honored fashion: she avoided him. It was an easy matter at first. Her first morning's work at St. Hilda's quickly showed her that this little hall so modestly situated on one of Oxford's more quiet streets far exceeded the mild scholarship available to the unwary of Miss Dignam's Select Female Academy.

Coming as she did in the middle of the school year meant serious catching up. To the balm of her somewhat bruised and trampled-upon scruples, it was no prevarication to send down the upstairs maid with a note stating that she could not leave her studies when Lord Chesney came to call.

It was more difficult to avoid the summons to his maiden lecture on the nature and study of Shakespeare. She tried in vain to resist when she heard he would be discussing
Much Ado About Nothing
, her favorite comedy. She succumbed during the middle of his lecture, sneaking in and sitting down in the back of the hall.

He took no notice of her capitulation other than to raise his eyebrows and make more sure that his voice carried to the back of the hall where she sat.

Following the lecture, he was remarkably fleet in walking with rapid dignity to the back of the hall and bowing over her hand, which she had reluctantly extended.

“I trust you are still in harmony with Hero and Beatrice, even though I may have muddled their motives,” he commented, strolling with her from the hall.

“You did not muddle them at all,” she replied. “And you needn't fish for compliments from me. I know you too well, Lord Chesney.”

“Jim to you,” he added. “I wish you would marry me.”

“It was a masterful lecture,” she said, ignoring his little aside. She wished he would not stand so close, which made it difficult to resist the urge to straighten his neckcloth. “I took copious notes.”

“To what purpose?” he asked, holding the door for her.

She stopped walking and turned to face him. “To refute every argument,” she said, looking directly into his eyes for the first time. “I couldn't have agreed less with your conclusion.”

“Then write your own, Ellen, and let me see it when it is done.”

“I shall,” she replied.

He took her hand before she could leave. “I haven't proposed yet today,” he began when she cut him off.

“You just did, Jim! And you also sent a note with the flowers this morning.”

“I thought I did that yesterday,” he replied. “Love is making me absentminded.”

She shook her finger in his face. “It is doing nothing of the kind! You are the most calculating man I ever met! And try to deny that your lecture today was given to incite me to a response.”

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, laughing. “Am I so base, fair Hermia?”

She couldn't help but smile. “You are! But I will write your silly paper. And send Ralph's with it when I am done.”

He tucked his arm in hers and headed with her across St. Hilda's small quad. “Ah! I was wondering when you would hear from that enthusiastic young fellow. Did you make any changes in his addition to
Hamlet
?”

“Only a very few. At times he sounded more like Fielding than Shakespeare, so I aged his words a bit. That was all.” She sighed and tucked her notebook closer to her. “I only wish he could be here.”

“He could, you know. You could marry me and we could make a home for him here in Oxford. I think your father would not object.”

She stopped again. “He would not object because he is a toady! He will do whatever you say.” Tears welled up in her eyes and she angrily brushed them away. “Jim, do stop this proposing! I have not the heart for it.”

He only put his arm about her and continued walking. “I couldn't possibly stop proposing, Ellen. I love you.” He took her by both shoulders. “Can you look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't harbor some small sentiment in my direction?”

She raised her eyes to his and then lowered them quickly.

“Perhaps some small sentiment, but I am sure that is nothing more than friendship.” She tugged at his neckcloth. “I wish that you would take a look in the mirror before you venture out of your room! Hold still a moment.”

Her eyes serious, she straightened his neckcloth and gave it a pat. “There now, you are much more presentable. Now, sir, I ask you to leave me in peace to make my own muddles here at St. Hilda's.”

He looked down at her, his eyes equally serious. “I can help you through your muddles.”

“I know you can, “she replied quietly. “But don't, please. I don't need your help.”

There, she had said it.
I hope I have not wounded you beyond repair
, she thought, as she waved a hand to him and ran the rest of the way across the quadrangle.
Requiring your assistance in all matters will make me a cripple.

The daily flowers became weekly flowers, accompanied by a note requesting marriage, which she ignored. She applied herself to her studies and watched January slide effortlessly into February. If she slept less well than usual or found herself picking over her food, she put it down to the general melancholy that always struck after Christmas and would abate, she knew, with the arrival of spring.

For I truly do not need you, Lord Chesney
, she told herself.
I have you to thank for St. Hilda's, but I have come to apply myself to scholarship.

She was not alone at St. Hilda's in her search for knowledge, but she soon discovered a difference between her and the other students. Most of them were daughters from good families, but daughters of clergymen and teachers, without much hope of excellent marriages to ease their paths through life. Several had told her that when the term ended, they would apply as governesses in England's greatest houses. Two were planning to follow cleric brothers to mission posts in distant reaches of the realm. One other was engaged to a vicar from Yorkshire and seeking only additional polish before her own wedding.

Ellen took it all in, puzzled over what it meant, and continued her Shakespeare papers. As they accumulated in a small stack on her desk, she debated whether to send them to Lord Chesney, as she had sent on Ralph's paper. She dissected all the comedies with particular care, but found herself wishing to bounce them off Gatewood's sounding board.

“But I have said I do not need any help,” she told herself as she folded the last comedy paper.

In the morning Ralph stood before her, looking defiant and smelling faintly of pig.

The headmistress, concern showing in the frown on her face, had wakened Ellen from a sound sleep and ushered her into the sitting room where Ralph waited, muddy and tired. “My dear, the cook found him curled up on the doormat at the servants’ entrance. He insists upon seeing you.”

“Ralph!” she exclaimed, hugging him and then stepping back from the odor that drifted up, even in the cold room. “How on earth did you get here?”

“In Papa's pig wagon,” he said. “He was sending a load to slaughter in Morely. I hid in the back as far as the slaughterhouse and walked the rest of the way.”

She hugged him again. “But … but why, Ralph?”

He began to cry, rubbing at the tears that coursed down his cheeks and streaking his face with mud. “Papa is sending me to Uncle Breezly's counting house in London! Oh, Ellen, I want to study! If I go there, it will only be a lifetime of columns and figures.”

She held him close as he sobbed, flogging herself for not warning him sooner of his fate, so he could wear around to the idea before the shock of Papa's demand sent him running away from home in dead winter.

“Perhaps it will not be so bad, my dear,” she soothed. “You know that Mama's brother has no sons. In no time, you could head the whole business.”

He only cried harder. “Ellen, I do not want that! I want to study and learn, and maybe teach someday.”

“Ralph, Papa has probably intended this for years. It is not a bad plan,” she said, feeling traitorous to the brother she held so tight in her arms.

He stopped crying with an effort and wiped his coat sleeve across his eyes. “It is not my idea, Ellen,” he said as he turned away. “If you will not help me, I don't know what I will do.”

She sat back on her heels, looking at him. “You're so young,” she murmured.

“I am old enough to be in school,” he replied in that decisive tone that reminded her of Papa. “Vicar Snead and I only meet to argue nowadays. Please, Ellen!” he begged.

“What can I do?” she asked, knowing the answer even before he said it and dreading it.

“You can petition Lord Chesney.”

“Ralph, I cannot!” she protested. “Especially not after I told him that I did not want his help.”

Ralph only shrugged. “I need his help, Ellen. Isn't that good enough?”

She looked at her brother, tired and dirty.
You don't understand
, she wanted to shout.
How can I prove my independence of him—paltry as it is—if I am forever rushing to him for help the moment a crisis looms?

“We could send a note round to Gordon,” she offered. “Maybe he would have a good idea.”

The look that Ralph fixed on her was one full of scorn. “Ellen, you know that Gordon seldom has any ideas, and never any good ones.”

She could only agree. It was true. Gordon had come to her only the day before, asking for money. “Gordon, it is still six weeks before the next quarter,” she had said and sent him away, his pockets still to let.

And even if they did go to Gordon, what would he do but pat Ralph on the shoulder and tell him to hurry home, and maybe Papa wouldn't even know he was missing.

After another moment's thought and misgivings of the severest sort, Ellen seated herself at the escritoire. With a firm hand that belied the writhing of her insides, she scrawled a hasty note to Lord Chesney, All Souls College, and directed the footman to deliver it at once.

“I only hope that note finds him in,” she said to Ralph as she opened the door.

Ralph blinked. “Where else would he be at this time of the morning? It's only quarter past six, Ellen.”

“He will be furious!” Ellen exclaimed. “It will serve us right if he does not come at all.”

She had expected some difficulty in getting Miss Medford's permission to take Ralph upstairs, but it was given easily enough. With her hand on his head, but standing well back from his somewhat soiled person, Ellen accepted the headmistress's consent, and the provision of an immediate bath.

“I only hope you left a note for Papa,” Ellen said as she led Ralph up the stairs to her room.

“Well, I did not,” he replied, his defiance lessened by the great weariness that seemed to settle on him with each step. “If he is so wise, let him figure it out.”

“Oh, Ralph!”

He turned on her at the top of the stairs, his face white with exhaustion, and something else. She recognized the desperation in his voice, the sudden flash of his eyes. “Ellen, this is my future we are talking about,” he said, his voice low, pleading. “Surely you, of all people, understand this.”