The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  “Not even village children?” Touie asked.

  “Especially not them,” Dianna said. “I used to run away sometimes to play with the fishermen’s children on the beaches, but Mother said that I was not to do so because I would get into bad habits.”

  Touie thought that over as she trudged after the chair. Her own mother had not objected to any of her playmates, but she had had her brother, Jack, to guard her from unwanted roughness.

  They had reached the end of St. Cross Road. “Wot now?” the chairman wheezed.

  Dianna leaned forward and pointed to the iron gate. “Let’s take the shortcut through the park,” she ordered. “Otherwise, we’d just have to go around, and that’s a bore. I do wish you hadn’t cut my laces.” She tried to get out of the bath chair.

  Touie bent solicitously over the girl. “You really shouldn’t walk,” she said. “You took in quite a bit of water, and your skirt is very wet.”

  Dianna sighed again and sank back into the bath chair. “I suppose I must be pushed,” she said pettishly. “I really do prefer to do things for myself. I had hoped to be out of cotton wool here at Oxford. Aunt Roswell isn’t quite so forbidding as Mother, but she does get upset easily.”

  “Does your aunt live in Oxford?” Touie asked.

  “Oh yes, Uncle Roswell took one of the first houses built in North Oxford,” Dianna said. “Of course, as as soon as professors were allowed to marry, they snapped up most of the nicest houses; but Uncle Roswell got the grandest because he had invested in them. Most of the glass in the new houses built in North Oxford comes from the Roswell Glassworks,” she added proudly.

  The College Parks were a series of lawns and plantings in the natural style favored by such designers as the American, Olmstead. Formal flower beds had been abandoned for the most part, leaving the trees to spread their branches over the grass. The path went along the banks of the Holywell Mill Stream, so that Touie could revel in this unexpectedly bucolic landscape. A family of ducks paddled along, with Papa showing his gleaming green head in the lead, Mama hustling behind, and four fluffy ducklings striving to keep up between their parents. Blackbirds called from the branches of flowering pear and apple trees.

  Dianna leaned out of her chair and waved at her friends, still struggling with their punt.

  “Halloo!” she called out.

  Gertrude stopped poling long enough to wave back. Mary was too busy guiding the punt with the forward paddle to acknowledge the greeting.

  “We’ll get home before you!” Dianna taunted them.

  “Will they be all right?” Touie fussed, shading her eyes with her hand against the glare of the sun on the water.

  “Of course they will. Gertrude always comes out on top,” Dianna said carelessly. “She’s a stunning athlete. She plays rugger and cricket, too.”

  The College Parks were not especially populous for such a fine afternoon. It was too late for luncheon, too early for a predinner stroll. A few children were bowling hoops along the gravel paths, with their nannies watching from a bench. There were no students’ gowns to be seen here, but one elderly don sat alone, contemplating the river instead of his book.

  By now they had reached the northernmost end of the path, and the chairman gave one last lunge to get his burden to its destination.

  “Norham Gardens,” he announced.

  “You can leave me here,” Dianna said, indicating a small, undistinguished house at the end of the street. “Mrs. Doyle …?”

  Touie doled out coins, and the chairman accepted them. He looked up and down the street to find a fare to pay his way back to the center of town, but the only person visible was the boy in charge of the donkey cart full of vegetables, making his afternoon deliveries. The chairman grimaced and began the long trek back to High Street and another possible fare, while Dianna scampered into Lady Margaret Hall, to the consternation of her schoolmates, who crowded about her exclaiming over the state of her dress.

  “You’re all wet!”

  “Look at your hair!”

  “What happened to Gertrude and Mary?”

  “Miss Cahill had a small accident,” Touie explained, as Dianna was escorted up the winding stair to her room to repair the damage the river and Dr. Doyle had wrought on her clothing and hair. “Miss Bell and Miss Talbot will be along shortly.”

  As if to answer the last question, Gertrude and Mary arrived, red-faced from their exertions, but ready to expound on the ferocity of the male of the species in general and the undergraduates of Christ Church in particular.

  “We got attacked!” Gertrude declared.

  “It was not our fault,” Mary said, over the chatter, “but we did get in the way of the rowers.”

  “And Dianna nearly drowned!” Gertrude added dramatically. “Only this lady’s husband is a doctor, and he saved her life.”

  “This is Mrs. Doyle.” Mary performed the introductions. “How is Dianna?”

  “She went upstairs,” Edith Rix said. “Whatever happened to her shirtwaist?”

  Touie smiled ruefully. “We had to cut her laces,” she explained, “so that she could breathe. And then she had to come back in a chair, and I came with her to see that she was all right, you see. And to bring the tablecloth back to Christ Church, where it belongs.”

  Miss Wordsworth and Miss Laurel now made their appearance, deposited at the door by their cab.

  Miss Wordsworth regarded Gertrude and Mary with a censorious frown. “Go and change your dress at once,” she ordered. “You both look like hoydens.” She turned to Touie. “Mr. Dodgson explained your situation,” she said.

  “My situation?” Touie looked puzzled.

  “That you and your husband are only here for the day,” Miss Wordsworth said, leading Touie into the Common Room, the luxurious sitting room where several of the students were occupied in reading and needlework. “It seems that Mr. Dodgson was most put out because your dinner last night was inedible; and since Dean Liddell has forbidden him to leave University grounds, and since he feels obliged to provide some sort of hospitality, he has invited Dr. Doyle to partake of the Christ Church dinner in the Hall. However, since no women may dine in the Hall at Christ Church, you must fend for yourself!” She removed her bonnet, displaying a lace cap trimmed with artificial flowers. “Men are quite impossible sometimes, Mrs. Doyle. If you wish, you may take tea and dinner with us here at Lady Margaret Hall, and I can call a cab to take you back to your lodgings.”

  Touie smiled sweetly. “That is most kind of you, Miss Wordsworth. Dear me, I had no idea how many young ladies wished to study at Oxford!” She looked around the room, which seemed to be full of young women, dressed in simple frocks of pale spring hues. Two girls had daringly opted for Liberty dresses, in the most modern style, with long, tight sleeves and puffed shoulders, smocked over the bosom and loose everywhere else. Miss Laurel’s dark green velveteen bodice and skirt stood out among the linens and cottons of the rest of the students.

  “Tea!” Miss Wordsworth ordered. She turned to Touie, indicating that she should sit down. “Oh yes, Mrs. Doyle, we are expanding every year. When I began Lady Margaret Hall, we only had seven students, and no teaching Fellows at all. We now have thirty students, and before long I expect to have women well enough educated to become Fellows of the University.”

  “My!” Touie regarded the female students with awe. “How clever you must all be! I would never have considered going to University.”

  Miss Wordsworth gazed at her charges with a proprietary air. “We may not be quite as scholarly as our friends at Somerville, but we are, in our own way, as intellectually sound as any other women’s college.”

  “Where do all of you come from?” Touie asked. “I know that Miss Cahill’s father is a clergyman.”

  “Oh, we’re all sorts,” Miss Rix said carelessly. “Gertrude’s family made a fortune in trade, I think, and Dianna’s got her rich uncle in glass.”

  “Most of my girls are gentry,” Miss Wordsworth amended. “And then th
ere is Miss Laurel, who came here as a referral from the Women’s Educational Alliance.”

  “Miss Laurel?” Touie looked across the room, where Miss Laurel had stationed herself at the tea urn and was helping the scouts pour out cups for the rest of the girls.

  “An interesting case, Miss Laurel,” Miss Wordsworth said, dropping her voice. “A governess, you see, is not always as well educated as one might hope. Mrs. Toynbee, one of our committee women, recommended her to us. Miss Laurel is reading modern literature and languages, with an eye to bettering herself. In fact, I am seriously considering keeping her on as a tutor to some of the young women who come here woefully unprepared to deal with the exigencies of writing essays.”

  Touie accepted a biscuit from the dish offered to her by one of the scouts and settled into an empty chair with a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Miss Wordsworth,” she said. “I must admit, I had never heard of Lady Margaret Hall until I met your students yesterday. One hears such odd things about women in colleges, and there are many who believe that women should not be over-educated.”

  Miss Wordsworth’s plump cheeks grew pink with indignation. “That is sheer foolishness,” she retorted. “Men may think they prefer empty-headed ninnies, but the truth is that educated women make far better wives than ignorant ones.”

  “Then you expect your students to marry?” Touie sipped her tea.

  “Certainly,” Miss Wordsworth said, with a nod of her head that sent the flowers on her cap fluttering. “I should hope that all my girls make good marriages and lead happy and productive lives. Scholarship is all very well, Mrs. Doyle, but a woman’s true vocation should be marriage.”

  “In that case …,” Touie began.

  “Why come to Oxford?” Miss Wordsworth smiled graciously. “Because, Mrs. Doyle, an educated woman is one who will further her husband’s career as well as her own. My girls may not be belles, Mrs. Doyle, but they will make their marks in the world.”

  By this time Dianna, Gertrude, and Mary had changed into afternoon dresses and rearranged their hair. They were now ready to present themselves in the sitting room.

  “I must thank you again, Mrs. Doyle, for seeing me back to college,” Dianna said. “What shall we do with the tablecloth?”

  “I shall have it laundered, and it can be sent to Christ Church,” Miss Wordsworth decided. “Mrs. Doyle will stay for dinner.”

  “How jolly!” Gertrude exclaimed. “We don’t get that many guests for dinner, especially on a weekday.”

  “Not unless you count Mr. Dodgson,” Mary said. “He sometimes takes Edith out.”

  “But he doesn’t stay to dinner,” Edith protested.

  “Poor Mr. Dodgson,” Touie giggled. “He truly wanted to give us a good dinner, and then the scout who was supposed to serve us forgot all about it; and when we finally got our dinner, it was cold, and Arthur would make jokes; but Mr. Dodgson took it all in bad part. And then Arthur took out his cigar, and Mr. Dodgson told us to leave!” She looked about for a response. None of the girls had been in a social situation quite like that, and there were a few nervous giggles; but Miss Wordsworth’s severe frown showed Touie that she might have crossed an invisible line between what was funny and what was cruel mockery.

  “I heard that one of the Christ Church scouts was found in the river,” Miss Laurel said. “If he was the one who was to serve your dinner, that would explain his absence.”

  “Well, yes, it would,” Touie said. “And one does feel sorry for the man’s family, if he had any. But it was very trying, nonetheless; and now that Mr. Dodgson feels he must make it up to Arthur, I am very grateful to you for taking me in, so to speak, at such short notice.”

  She smiled at Miss Wordsworth, who decided to be gracious and smiled back.

  “You have had a long walk from Christ Church, Mrs. Doyle. I shall leave you to rest until dinner.” Miss Wordsworth rose majestically from her chair. “Girls, you may walk in the gardens but do not forget your hats and gloves. Miss Laurel, will you see to the clearing up?”

  Miss Laurel nodded to the scouts, who began to pick up discarded teacups and biscuits. The girls straggled out, dividing into groups, to walk in the garden until the supper bell called them indoors again.

  Touie sipped her tea, while Miss Laurel fussed about with the cups and cake plates.

  “Are you quite finished, Mrs. Doyle?” Miss Laurel asked, waiting for the empty teacup.

  “I think I will have another cup of tea, Miss Laurel,” Touie said. “Do sit down. You have been running about all day, chasing those naughty girls in their punt and now helping with the tea.”

  “It is very kind of you to think of me, Mrs. Doyle, but I am used to hard work,” Miss Laurel said.

  “Of course. Miss Wordsworth said you had been a governess,” Touie recalled. “And now you want to become a college Fellow. I admire you tremendously, Miss Laurel. I never had a governess, you see, since the Church school was quite good, and my mother thought I should attend there. Were your charges difficult?”

  Miss Laurel’s severe expression softened slightly. “There were one or two who were a handful,” she admitted. “Throwing their toys about, never wanting to go to bed when told, tearing their clothes.”

  “But there must be some satisfaction in knowing that the children under your care will someday achieve great things,” Touie hinted.

  “Perhaps.” Miss Laurel seemed to mentally review her former charges. “Of course, the boys go off to school when they’re six, so it’s hard to say what they’ll become. Girls are different, but I didn’t have girls.”

  “Of course, once it is known that you have had an Oxford education, you will be very much in demand,” Touie said, handing over the teacup.

  “I would prefer to remain here. Miss Wordsworth has offered me a position when I finish my exhibitions.” Miss Laurel accepted the teacup and followed the scouts into the kitchens.

  Touie stared out the sitting room window into the college garden. The girls were strolling up and down the paths, chattering gaily. Gertrude, Mary, and Dianna were apparently demonstrating their accident, with appropriate gestures.

  Touie considered what she had learned. She was certain that she had another piece of Mr. Dodgson’s puzzle, but she did not know how to proceed. I do wish I could talk with Arthur, she thought. He would tell me what to do.

  She scrabbled in her reticule and came up with her card case. She had not thought of paying calls, but one never knew when one might need cards, and now was as good a time as any to use one. She looked about for some kind of writing tool, Aha! There was a desk in the corner, with a pen and inkwell.

  Touie wrote a quick note on the back of her visiting card. Now, she thought, how can I send it to Mr. Dodgson and Arthur?

  She looked about her then ducked quickly back into the street. The chairman was gone, but the lad with the donkey cart had finished his rounds and was about to move on.

  “Hello!” Touie called out. “Young man!”

  The greengrocer’s boy looked about him. “Me, mum?”

  “Yes, you!” Touie darted down the few steps and into the street. “Can you take this to Christ Church for me? It’s very important that this note go to Mr. Dodgson of Christ Church.”

  “I’ve me rounds to make …” the boy protested.

  Touie found a penny, the last of her coins. “If you take this message, here’s a penny for you, and Mr. Dodgson will give you more,” she promised. She looked behind her. It would never do for her to be seen passing the note!

  “Please!” She pleaded.

  The boy looked at the penny, then at the card. He accepted the first, and tucked the second into the pocket of his waistcoat. “I’ve me rounds to make,” he warned her, “but I’ve deliveries down St. Aldgates. I’ll take your message, mum.”

  “Thank you!” Touie bestowed a dazzling smile on the boy and darted back into the house.

  The donkey and its master ambled along, and Touie was left to hope that Mr. Dodgson would get
her message before dinner. In the meantime she would walk in the gardens with the young ladies and enjoy what was left of the afternoon. She only hoped that Arthur had been able to find what he was looking for, and that Mr. Dodgson could put the two halves of the puzzle together before they had to be on their way.

  Chapter 23

  It was nearly teatime when Dr. Doyle made his way back to Christ Church. He stopped at the Porter’s Lodge just inside Tom Gate and asked for Mr. Dodgson.

  “If you will wait here, sir,” the porter told him, with a lofty glance at his tweed suit and deerstalker cap, “I shall see if Mr. Dodgson will receive you.”

  Dr. Doyle was left to contemplate Tom Quad. The May sunshine was beginning to dim. A threatening bank of clouds was building in the west, and a stiff breeze had begun to send students’ gowns fluttering and mortarboards tumbling across the lawn.

  The porter arrived with Telling, both frowning their disapproval of the disturbance of college etiquette.

  “Mr. Dodgson is conferring with Dean Liddell,” Telling announced. “He will join you in the Senior Common Room as soon as he has completed his discussion. I am to escort you there.”

  “Lead on,” Dr. Doyle replied, with a theatrical gesture. It was lost on Telling, who led the guest around the quad, through the Hall, and down the winding medieval staircase to the paneled room at the bottom. Here, in a room full of leather-upholstered furniture reminiscent of the gentlemen’s clubs of London, Dr. Doyle was left to the scrutiny of what seemed like an army of men, ranging in age from a pink-cheeked youngster of his own age to venerable white-haired or balding gentlemen, all dressed formally in black suits, most with reversed collars, some bearded and some clean-shaven, all draped in black fustian gowns, and all with expressions of astonishment at this intrusion into their private realm. The only one in the room Dr. Doyle recognized was Dr. Kitchin, the pathologist who had conducted the autopsy that morning.