Miss Wordsworth was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she did not hear the question addressed to her by Gertrude Bell, the young lady chosen by her to sit at her right hand.
“What do you think, Miss Wordsworth?” Gertrude asked again.
“I do beg your pardon, Miss Bell. I was thinking of something else. What did you say?” Miss Wordsworth put Miss Laurel in the back of her mind and concentrated on Miss Bell.
“We were talking about athletic and sporting activities,” Gertrude reminded her. “When I was home, I went riding every day; but here, all we do is take walks, and that’s not enough for me. Miss Pearson says that the river is too rough this year, but the Mill Stream looks calm enough for a punt.” She glared at the diminutive bursar, who looked for guidance to the head of the table.
“There have been floods,” Miss Pearson explained. “Even in our little canal, boats have capsized. Miss Bell and her friends wish to take out a punt, but I do not think it wise.”
“Have you any objections, Miss Wordsworth?” Gertrude asked, with her most winning smile.
“Certainly not,” Miss Wordsworth said. “If our students wish to take a boat out, they should be allowed to do so. Miss Bell is capable of holding her own, I am sure,” Miss Wordsworth added, in tribute to her student’s athletic prowess.
“But what of our rules?” Miss Pearson quoted from the sacred guidelines set down by Miss Wordsworth herself. “No student is to go out alone and never without a chaperon. I do not see how a chaperon will fit into a punt.”
“I wasn’t planning on going out alone,” Gertrude protested. “Mary and Dianna would come with me.”
Miss Wordsworth considered the matter, then gave her decision. “Miss Laurel, you will accompany Miss Bell and her team to the boathouse tomorrow. I trust you will use your good judgment and prevent them from taking unnecessary risks on the water.”
Miss Laurel’s cheeks seemed to grow pale as she contemplated her latest assignment. Gertrude and Mary grinned triumphantly at Dianna, who looked even more stricken than the chaperon.
“Boating?” she squeaked. “But I can’t swim.”
“We’ll all be there, and the Mill Stream is not precisely the Amazon,” Gertrude scoffed. “We need you for ballast. I’ll take the rear pole, and Mary can take the paddle in the bow.”
Miss Laurel took another bite of apple tart and smiled weakly at the other three girls. Clearly, she was going to be involved in the expedition, if only as spotter on the riverbank.
“And now we may have our tea in the sitting room.” Miss Wordsworth rose majestically and led the ladies into the sitting room, where they could amuse themselves with music and conversation until ten o’clock, when the girls were supposed to retire to their individual rooms.
Two miles south of Lady Margaret Hall, the mighty walls of Christ Church’s Hall looked down on quite a different scene. The nightly ritual here was more measured, sanctified by centuries of custom. The Senior Students and Fellows assembled in the Senior Common Room, hidden under the floor of the Hall, so that the older faculty members could gather, drink their sherry, and converse. The undergraduates assembled in Hall, under the gaze of painted images of deans and illustrious students long gone, in their subfusc best: gleaming white shirtfronts, black coats and trousers, student gowns, black mortarboards. Only when every undergraduate was in place could the High Table emerge from the door at the farthest end of the Hall, the door that some called the “Rabbit Hole,” leading as it did down the winding stair to the Senior Common Room.
Dean Liddell led the parade, followed by the rest of the Senior Common Room members in strict order of seniority; the oldest faculty in the lead and the newest at the end, to be seated farthest from the seat of power. No one could speak until the grace had been read. Once that was done, the young men of Christ Church could fall upon their beef, bread, fowl, greens, and pudding with the vigor of all young men still in their teens or early twenties.
The students themselves preserved the social distinctions imposed by their parents. Sons of the aristocracy sat closer to the High Table, mere clergymen’s offspring were seated toward the door, and those whose parents had to work for a living were social pariahs.
Lord Nevil Farlow was among those nearest the High Table, an accolade that had certain disadvantages. He slid into his seat just as the soup was being spooned out.
“Where have you been?” Chatsworth hissed. “The Dean’s already noticed you were missing. Keep this up and you’ll be gated!”
“I had to see someone,” Farlow muttered.
“About a dog?” Chatsworth made a face. “This soup is half water! Why do they allow it?”
“Don’t ask me, ask the cook.” Farlow ingested his soup with the relish of a steam engine taking on water. “I say, Minnie, after dinner I want you to nip one of those bath chair things and bring it down to the boats under Magdalen Bridge.”
“Whatever for?”
“I’ve got an idea that will shake up those dodos in the mortuary.”
“I’m your man, always have been. What’s afoot?”
“I’ll tell you when you meet me.” Farlow nudged the man on his other side, the stout Mr. Martin. “And, Greg, we’ll need you, too.”
Martin sighed. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things, Nev. One of these days the bulldogs are going to nab you, and all your pater’s influence won’t get you off again.”
“Greg, you are the greatest prig in nature!” Farlow chomped on the beef. “Where do they get this stuff, the tannery? I’d as soon eat an old boot.”
“When we set up our flat in London, we’ll get a man who can cook,” Chatsworth assured him. “What do you want with a bath chair? You’re not going to smuggle some female into the quad after hours, are you?”
“Of course not!” Conversation stopped as the scout dished out vegetables. Farlow, Chatsworth, and Martin regarded the soggy mess on their plates with despair before digging in.
“Well, then, what do you want with a chair?” Chatsworth repeated.
“You’ll find out when you meet me. It’s one of the best rags we’ve ever pulled.” Farlow grinned at his two comrades-in-arms.
Martin shook his head in disapproval. “This is the last time, Nev. I really cannot get involved in any more of your antics! Not when I’m to be ordained! I can’t get rusticated now!”
“Nothing will happen, Greg, I promise. Just meet me at Magdalen Bridge with the chair, and we’ll have some fun, I promise you!” Farlow decided to change the subject. “There’s an empty chair up at the High Table,” he observed. “I wonder where old Dodgson is? It’s not like him to miss a meal.”
“He was leading a bevy of beauties into his rooms at tea time,” Chatsworth chuckled. “I saw him when we were coming back from the river.”
Martin looked up from his plate to frown at his frivolous friends. “Those beauties, as you call them, were undergraduates from one of the ladies’ colleges. I heard one of them mention Lady Margaret Hall. I bumped into one of them on my way back from my tutorial in Duckworth’s rooms.” Chatsworth grinned.
“I saw it all. There was a nice little brunette, but the red-haired one looked quite the Tartar, and the fat blond …”
“She was not fat,” Martin demurred. “She was rather pretty, pleasingly plump. Her name is Dianna.” He gazed soulfully into the distance.
Farlow frowned at his friend. “Gregory Martin, I’m shocked. A nice, clean parson like you, getting misty-eyed over a female undergraduate. They’re all man haters anyway.”
“I thought she looked rather sweet,” Martin said, more to his meal than to his friend.
The dinner concluded with the sweet and the savory, and the High Table stood up and reversed the procession down the winding stairs back to the Senior Common Room, where the Dean would partake of after-dinner drinks and conversation, while the undergraduates were allowed to disperse to their own rooms or to wander about the town until the urgent tones of Great Tom sounded
the magic hour of nine.
Farlow, Chatsworth, and Martin strolled around the quad. They ducked around the passage through the Cathedral and into the side street that led to the High.
“You find a chair, Minnie. Greg, you come with me, and we’ll all meet at the bridge. Now … Go!”
The three undergraduates headed back toward the town bent on mischief.
Mr. Dodgson was not at the High Table on this May evening. He was in his own rooms, preparing his table for the dinner party so much anticipated by Dr. and Mrs. Doyle. Mr. Dodgson had decided not to invite any other guests but to keep this party a private one. Dean Liddell had uttered the gravest reservations about young Dr. Doyle when Mr. Dodgson had arrived late from his summer holidays, after having been detained in Portsmouth during a visit to the young couple; and although the recent difficulties in returning from London had been laid down to the weather, the Dean had hinted to Mr. Dodgson that perhaps his young friend had shown too much of a tendency to become involved with matters that did not directly concern him, to wit, murder, kidnapping, and similar criminal activities.
Mr. Dodgson agreed that his young friend did seem to attract crime; but on the other hand, he was a personable young man with a definite literary talent, and after all, he was Dicky Doyle’s nephew. On either or both of those accounts, Mr. Dodgson had decided to continue the friendship.
Dr. Doyle’s youth and energy were assets that the more retiring Mr. Dodgson could put to good use in solving this current problem of the missing wine and the thefts. The young man could approach pawnbrokers and wine merchants; and if indeed the thief was Ingram, he would be dealt with by the college proctors, who insisted on their authority to punish minor crimes and misdemeanors committed on University grounds. Mr. Dodgson would then allow Dr. Doyle access to the library, where the eager young writer could examine some of the fragile relics of more turbulent times.
Mr. Dodgson turned his attention to the table setting. He laid down the cardboard squares he preferred to pretentious lace placemats, and wondered what was keeping Telling. He had specifically told the Senior Steward to have wine and biscuits ready; and here it was, nearly fifteen minutes after the hour and no wine and no biscuits!
His misgivings increased when Dr. Doyle and Touie presented themselves at the door to his rooms.
Mr. Dodgson looked down the staircase. “Why did you not ask to be announced?”
“No one seemed to be about,” Dr. Doyle said cheerfully, as he greeted his host. “Everyone’s at dinner.”
“You understand, Dr. Doyle, that Mrs. Doyle could not dine in Hall,” Mr. Dodgson explained. “And since she cannot be excluded from our conversation, I have arranged that our dinner should be served here. At least, I think I did.” Mr. Dodgson’s usually unwrinkled brow furrowed in confusion.
“It is quite all right,” Touie said. “You have such an interesting room. We were so caught up in our conversation earlier, we did not get a good look at your decorations. And what a view you have! Right into the street. Why, you can see everything from here!”
“Doesn’t the noise bother you?” Dr. Doyle asked.
Mr. Dodgson flushed slightly. “I do not notice it,” he said. He hated to refer to his deafness.
Touie was examining the pictures on the walls, most of which depicted young girls. “Do you know any of these children?” she asked.
“A few,” Mr. Dodgson admitted. “Dr. Doyle, here is my new microscope. I have read some interesting monographs regarding the use of microscopic evidence in criminal cases. I believe that in the future such evidence will become more and more acceptable to the Court and may lead to more criminal convictions.”
“I agree, sir. Why, a man may live or die by the evidence of a thread or a hair or a fragment of a leaf,” Dr. Doyle replied. “A magnificent instrument, sir! I intend to get one as soon as I can afford it.”
“And my photograph albums are kept here in this bookcase. As I told you, I used the wet-plate method, until 1880, when I turned to drawing instead of photography.”
“And have you many photographs?” Touie asked unnecessarily. There were the albums, a whole shelf of them.
The two young people looked at each other, and Mr. Dodgson began to worry in earnest. Where, oh where, was dinner? He could not continue to chatter with these people for much longer. He could not entertain them with conundrums or magic tricks, as he did his child friends, and Bob the Bat was hardly a fitting companion for Dr. and Mrs. Doyle of Southsea.
In desperation, he pulled out the photograph albums. He had been something of a lion hunter when he was younger; now he could point with pride to portraits of such notables as Alfred Lord Tennyson and the Rosetti family.
Dr. Doyle and Touie made appropriate noises. The photographs were interesting, and some were quite beautiful; but one little girl looked much like another, and they had been promised a meal. Where was it?
In the vast kitchens Telling was directing the last of the scouts to bring up the hot puddings. He noticed a small table in a corner with a selection of covered dishes on it.
“What’s this?” he demanded.
“Dinner for Mr. Dodgson.” The harried scout dashed up the stone stairs with a jug of beer.
“Mr. Dodgson!” Telling suddenly remembered. Mr. Dodgson was giving a dinner party! “I thought Ingram was supposed to take that up.”
“Ingram’s gone,” one of the cooks informed him.
“Gone? Gone where?” Telling’s confusion grew.
“Dunno.” The cook wiped his brow with one meaty hand.
“Then who’s to take Mr. Dodgson and his friends their dinner?” Mr. Telling asked the world at large.
“Dunno,” the cook said, with a shrug.
“I’d better do it,” Telling decided. “It’ll be cold, of course. And late. And he’s not going to be in a good temper.”
“When is ’e ever?” The cook gave a bark of laughter.
Telling thought about reproving the underling, then decided that it was too late for recriminations. The meal would have to be served, and he would have a word with Ingram when and if he saw him again.
Telling arrived at Mr. Dodgson’s rooms with the tray at eight o’clock. Mr. Dodgson had exhausted the photograph albums, the paintings, the microscopes, and the globe as topics of conversation. He was reduced to asking after the Doyle’s circle of friends with whom he had become acquainted during his brief stay in Portsmouth the previous autumn. Telling’s arrival was providential.
Mr. Dodgson greeted Telling testily. “Where have you been?” he demanded.
“There was a small difficulty in the kitchens,” Telling said apologetically. “Ingram was to have served you tonight, but he seems to have taken himself off somewhere and has not been seen since teatime.”
“Ingram? That insolent scout who served us tea?” Mr. Dodgson frowned. “I met him coming out of Tom Gate. I discharged him for rudeness and insubordination.”
Telling stifled a sigh. “I wish you would inform me when making changes to the staff,” he said, setting up the small folding table. “Now he has taken the liberty of removing himself without completing his day’s work.”
“That was most improper of him,” Mr. Dodgson said.
“But not unexpected,” Dr. Doyle added. “He seemed to be a most surly and disrespectful person. Not at all the sort one would find in service of any kind, let alone in a college like this.”
“Well, now that dinner is here, we may as well eat it,” Touie said, pragmatic as always.
Dinner there was, but eating it was something else. Mr. Telling did his best in the small kitchen used to heat up food for Mr. Dodgson’s parties, but the stove had not been lit, and the water not laid on. The soup was cold, with gobbets of fat riding on top of the broth like little dumplings. The fowls were tough, with burned patches of skin that had not been removed when the spits were not properly turned. The new asparagus was stringy, the carrots still had bits of dirt that had not been scrubbed off, and even the sw
eet was sour, since the only form of tart was dried cherry.
Mr. Dodgson endured the meal in silence feeling more and more mortified with every bite. Touie bravely ate what was put before her, but Mr. Dodgson could read dismay on her usually cheerful face. Touie’s redoubtable mother had set a veritable banquet before him in Southsea, and this was hardly a way to repay the social obligation.
For his part, Dr. Doyle decided to treat the whole matter as a joke. “Touie, my dear, did I ever tell you about the time my mother’s old cook decided to serve us a haggis?”
“No, Arthur, I do not think you did.”
Dr. Doyle turned to his taciturn host. “It’s a Scottish country dish, you see, of oatmeal and vegetables and the, ah, odds and ends of a sheep, all baked in a sheep’s stomach. Robert Burns wrote a poem on the subject, but it’s clear he never actually ate one.”
Mr. Dodgson swallowed a piece of cold chicken.
“Of course, there were worse meals than this one on the whaler I sailed in the Arctic,” Dr. Doyle went on, apparently oblivious to his host’s displeasure. “There was one time I was persuaded to try seal blubber.”
“How odd!” Touie glanced at Mr. Dodgson. The older man’s face was becoming more and more set in lines of rigid disapproval.
Dr. Doyle continued to chatter. The more he talked, the more silent Mr. Dodgson became. Touie looked from one man to the other with a sinking feeling. They were so different, these two: the dry, pedantic scholar in his literal ivory tower, and the vibrant young doctor, with his zest for adventure and endless curiousity. Was there any possibility that they could be friends?
Finally, Telling cleared the dishes and set out a small decanter and two glasses. Touie smiled sweetly at the two of them. “I am the only lady present, but I suppose I must now take my leave and permit you to have your port.” Dr. Doyle produced his postprandial cigar from his breast pocket.
The Problem of the Surly Servant Page 7