by Carla Kelly
Lord Chesney. Now there is an unknown quantity, indeed, she thought. I know only that he is a peculiar eccentric who loves the plays of Shakespeare. He has taken it upon himself to interest himself in the Grimsley family. Beyond that, I have nothing but idle speculation. I don't even know what he looks like, she thought, as Lord Chesney crossed the stage of her mind and followed Jim Gatewood into the wings.
The boards were cleared for Shakespeare.
She read rapidly, almost finished the play while the others were at the dining table, and then stretched out for the repairing nap that Miss Dignam considered essential before her minions tackled the intricacies of embroidery.
Fanny Bland had eyed her with vast suspicion as she flounced into the room they shared and laid herself down. Ellen ignored her, beyond a glance and an unvoiced question at Fanny's self-satisfied expression.
It was an expression she remembered from their shared childhood, when the older Fanny had taken such delight in seeing that Ellen was constantly in trouble. Horatia had always been content to follow after the insufferable Edwin and listen to him prose on and on about horses and the proper management of a Cotswold farm. Fanny had made her own fun by tripping up Ellen with her infernal tattling.
The memory rankled, even though they were too old for that sort of childish devilment. Pointedly, Ellen turned her chair slightly to avoid Fanny's smirk.
She was unprepared for embroidery and had to endure Miss Dignam's icy stares and the laughter of the other girls as she struggled to follow the simplest instructions. Her mind was full of the trials of Isabella and her impetuous brother, Claudio, arrested by Angelo, a petty bureaucrat. As her eyes paid attention to Miss Dignam's explanation of feather-stitching, her mind was full of Isabella's awful dilemma and the price Angelo wanted from her for Claudio's life.
I would never surrender my virginity for the safety of my brother, she thought, red-faced, as she fumbled with the threads and knots in her lap, not daring to raise her eyes to Miss Dignam's barely banked wrath.
Well, not for Gordon, anyway, she concluded as, tongue between her teeth, she hurried through another lopsided row of daisy chains.
For Ralph? Well, possibly. The thought made her laugh out loud and brought Miss Dignam over to stand in front of her, staring down.
“You find this abomination of a sampler amusing?” Miss Dignam thundered, as the room grew quiet.
Ellen paled and swallowed. “No, Miss Dignam,” she whispered. “I was merely thinking of something else.”
“Shakespeare,” Fanny offered and then laughed at Ellen's discomfort. “One of those questionable plays, I do not doubt.”
Miss Dignam snatched the sampler from Ellen's nerveless fingers and waved it about the room as the other girls laughed. “Miss Grimsley, it is a continuing mystery to me why Lord Chesney is so interested in your progress here,” she said as she picked out the offending threads and thrust the project back in Ellen's lap.
“It is a mystery to me too,” Ellen said and then flinched when Miss Dignam frosted her with a head-to-toe stare.
“I'll thank you not to add impertinence to your numerous and growing list of character deficiencies, Miss Grimsley,” the headmis-tress said.
Ellen raised startled eyes. “I meant no impertinence,” she stammered. “I … I don't understand his interest, either, Miss Dignam. I meant nothing more.”
But Miss Dignam had turned her back on her and was admiring Fanny's beautiful row of daisy chains.
Ellen sighed and vowed to do better. By the time the endless class was over, her back ached and her head was pounding.
In the peace of her room, a quiet contemplation of the armload of books that James Gatewood had loaned her did nothing to restore her confidence. It was as he had said: they raised more questions than they answered. She stared hard at the books, willing them to tell her more about Measure for Measure. Her scrutiny yielded nothing except a greater headache, and the gnawing discomfort that she, or Gordon, at any rate, was about to be weighed in the balance and found wanting.
She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. “What is it that Lord Chesney—bless his quirky heart—expects that Gordon will discover from this play?” she asked out loud.
The answer came to her so fast that she thudded all four chair legs back onto the floor. Her heart pounding, she looked at the books of commentary on the desk in front of her and closed them one by one. She stacked them to one side and took out a piece of paper. Lord Chesney expects more from Gordon—the wonder scholar—than stale, revisited ideas. And James Gatewood expects more from me, she thought, opening the play again and dipping her pen in the inkwell. I will not merely shake my head over this frank and enormously engaging play and declare it a “problem” like other Shakespeare students. I will turn it on its head.
She wrote steadily until the dinner bell chimed in the hall. With a yawn, Ellen got to her feet, stretching her arms over her head and then pressing her hand to the small of her back. Scholarship is tedious business, she decided as she went slowly down the stairs, her mind full of Measure for Measure.
The small talk at the dinner table flowed all around as she ate thoughtfully, chewing over Isabella's plight and Shakespeare's intentions with the same interest that she awarded the beef roast and kidney pie. She sat impatiently through all the courses, with their accompanying dreary gossip about the royal family and Beau Brummell's latest witticisms, eager to be back at her desk.
After Miss Dignam finally released the diners, Ellen scurried into the library and surveyed again with dismay the pitifully few copies of Shakespeare's plays. “This will never do,” she declared firmly as she hurried upstairs.
In another moment she had composed a hasty scrawl to James Gatewood, fellow, All Souls. It was a plea for a copy of Shakespeare's complete works, if he possessed such a volume, plus the return of his commentaries. “‘I have decided to attempt original scholarship,’ ” she wrote. “‘Should you wish to know more, then don't miss Gordon's Saturday recitation. Regards, El.’ ” She signed her name with a flourish.
She summoned the footman and sent him downstairs with the books, the note, a shilling, and the admonition to jettison the books and swallow the note if Miss Dignam should happen by. The footman merely grinned and bowed.
Ellen expected no reply that evening, but she waited, anyway, hopeful that the footman would find Gatewood in his quarters and possessing just the volume she required.
Her wishes were rewarded an hour later by a tap on the door. Fanny looked up from her contemplation of her face in the mirror but turned away with a sniff when Becky Speed came into the room.
“Miss Grimsley,” she said breathlessly, as Fanny turned to regard her again. “The footman said I was to give this to you.” She handed Ellen a cumbersome folio edition of Shakespeare's complete works.
It was a beautiful work in and of itself, bound in soft morocco leather, with gold leafing. She carried it to her desk and took out the note stuck into it.
Jim had returned her own note and added his own scrawl to her words. “‘I can hardly wait to hear the pearls of wisdom that will drop from Gordon's lips. Yrs., Jim.’ ”
She laughed and followed the arrow at the bottom of the page. “‘P.S.,’ ” she read silently. “‘I suppose I shouldn't have kissed you on the stairs like that, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.’ ”
She blushed and read the postscript again, wondering for the first time if James Gatewood was as wild an eccentric as his friend Lord Chesney. She crumpled the note in her hand, putting it in the back of her desk drawer. She looked over her shoulder to see Fanny regarding her thoughtfully.
“Little secrets?” was Fanny's only comment as she began to dab witch hazel on her face.
Ellen's eyes were as wide and innocent as Fanny's. “Fanny, you know my life is an open book,” she said as she gathered together her papers and arranged them neatly on her desk. “Besides, I have never known a time when you could not find out my business. I
have no secrets, Fanny.”
Fanny turned an unhealthy red and set her lips in a firm line.
Ellen prepared for bed, retrieving her flannel nightgown from the chair close to the fire where she had draped it. She climbed into it quickly in the chilly room, grateful for its warmth, not caring that Fanny thought her tacky for leaving her gown on the chair for all to see.
In perfect charity with God, she knelt longer beside her bed for prayers this time. And God bless Jim Gatewood and his wonderful library, she prayed silently. After a moment's consideration, Ellen rested her cheek on the bed. And help him to find someone who doesn't mind a little disorder, and who is not above scolding him to dress tidy occasionally. Heaven knows, he shows to advantage when he does.
Ellen raised herself up on her knees and clasped her hands together again. There was no sense in bothering the Lord Omnipotent about James Gatewood's less-than-perfect personal habits. And bless Mama and Papa and Martha and Horatia and Ralph, and even Gordon, she concluded, and then hopped into bed.
Fanny blew out the lamp. Ellen sighed and closed her eyes, grateful to be away from her desk, even as her mind tossed about scenes and plots from Shakespeare's plays to support the theory that was going to startle University College on Saturday.
“Did you hear me, Ellen?”
She opened her eyes. Fanny was speaking in her usual querulous tones.
“No, I'm sorry, Fanny. What did you say?”
“Merely that I was going home this weekend to be fitted for my bridesmaid dress.”
There was an edge of triumph in Fanny's voice. Ellen felt tears sting at her eyelids, and she scrubbed them away. Horatia had chosen the most beautiful deep green for her bridesmaids. Ellen had lingered over the bolts and bolts of specially dyed lawn that Mama had purchased, wishing that she could grow six inches and be symmetrical enough to march in the bridal procession.
Ellen raised herself up on one elbow and looked through the gloom at Fanny. “I hope you have a good time,” she said softly. “I wish I could be a bridesmaid too. Good night, Fanny.”
“Oh, well, thank you, Ellen,” said Fanny, the surprise showing in her voice. She cleared her throat in a way that sounded vaguely like embarrassment to Ellen. “Is there … is there anyone you want me to say hello to for you?”
Ellen thought a moment and remembered her conversation with James Gatewood in his chambers. She took a deep breath. “If you should happen to see Tom Cornwell, tell him hello for me.”
“I will, Ellen.”
She closed her eyes again, surprised at the tears that still threatened, even though her artless words had disarmed Fanny for the time being. Tom Cornwell was likely her destiny. She had said as much to Jim. She clutched her pillow in her arms, enjoying the comfort of it, and wishing for the briefest moment that James Gatewood's arms were still around her and that silly armload of books on the All Souls stairwell. Perhaps Thomas will hold me like that someday, she thought, and dabbed at her eyes. Maybe, if and when we are married, he will become someone I can love and respect.
Soon she would be returning for Horatia's wedding, and she could see him again. Perhaps he would be more to her liking, then, if she looked at him seriously in the light of a possible husband. Someone to share my bed with, she thought as she rested her head against the pillow. Someone with enough money for Papa, and living close by for Mama.
What about me? she thought. What does he have that I will need? Her tears flowed faster. Would he understand if I wanted to travel, and learn to make maps, and write guidebooks? Would he loan me books, and give me chocolates when I was desperate, rescue me from the Bodleian, and make me a little tipsy in a tavern?
She turned her face into the pillow so Fanny could not hear her. Will Thomas Cornwell, with his big ears and horse talk, and conversations about the Grain Exchange, even have a clue about me, Ellen Grimsley?
When she heard Fanny breathing slowly and evenly, Ellen left her bed and sat at her desk again, parting the curtains so she could see the moon rise over the spires of Oxford. Her hand gripped the curtains. “It is only across the street, but I can never reach it,” she said softly. “Oh, mercy, it is so unjust.”
She touched the pages in front of her. There would be this final paper for Gordon, and no more. She would go home before she made a fool of herself and tell Mama that she was ready for Thomas Cornwell and his clumsy attentions. If she had any regrets, she would bury them in the back of her mind, stuffed out of sight like the shirt, breeches, and scholar's gown that hung in the dressing room.
Fanny left after morning classes in the company of a maiden aunt who was returning home to the Cotswolds from London. “I will remember you to your family,” she told Ellen over her shoulder as she followed the footman downstairs with her trunk.
“Thank you, Fanny,” Ellen said. She waited impatiently by the front door while Fanny stood there, trying to remember if she had forgotten anything.
As soon as Fanny left, Ellen darted upstairs again, spreading her pages and notes across both beds and walking around them, rearranging ideas as she considered what she was doing. Using Measure for Measure as her starting point, she would prove, play by play, that many of the plays of Shakespeare were written by a woman.
“Surely no man can know the mind of a woman so well,” she said out loud and then repeated her words as she wrote them down. “I will prove it and prove it until there can be no argument, “she said, looking around her at the garden of notes planted everywhere.
“What do you think of my idea?” she asked Becky Speed later when the maid came in.
“I think you are going to find yourself in the middle of a muddle,” the maid said frankly. “How long will it be until someone asks Gordon an intelligent question—begging your pardon, ma'am—and he stands there like a half-wit?”
“There is that risk,” Ellen agreed. “But what is that you have there?” she asked, eager to change the subject, because Becky had hit on the target of her own fears.
From her contemplation of the clutter about her, Becky brightened and held out the box. “More chocolates, Miss, and don't we know who they are from?”
Ellen clapped her hands. “Jim Gatewood is probably spending money he does not have, but oh, how thoughtful!” She opened the box, sniffing the contents, and pulled out a note. “‘If chocolates be the food of scholarship, eat on,’ ” she read and laughed. “He is never serious where Shakespeare is concerned. What a mangle of a quote.”
Ellen popped a chocolate in her mouth and held out the box to Becky. “I am to be interrupted only if the building is burning down,” she told the maid. “If Miss Dignam should cut up stiff that I am missing embroidery, tell her … oh … tell her that Lord Chesney has given me a particular assignment that I must fulfill. She won't believe it for long, but at least I should have the paper in hand before she gets too suspicious.”
She was back at Shakespeare before Becky let herself out quietly.
That evening, Gordon delivered his notes to her from his weekly tutorial. “We discussed Measure for Measure,” he said, stretching out his hands to the sitting room fire. “I do not know how Shakespeare comes up with such rattlebrained plots. I am sure I do not have a sister like Isabella, who would surrender her … well, you know … for me.”
Ellen only glanced up from his notes and smiled her best gallows smile, the one reserved for brothers. “You are absolutely right, Gordon.”
An uncomfortable silence followed that Gordon broke finally by putting his arm cautiously about his sister. “Well, El, some day when I am a general, you will look back on all this and laugh.”
“I doubt it,” she replied. “You have put us both in such a spot, brother, that I may never forgive you. Good night. Come back Friday for the paper.”
She left him standing, open-mouthed, by the fireplace.
She finished the paper Friday morning, when the candles had burnt out and the sun was struggling over the barren, winter-swept hills. Her eyes burned and her back was sore.
With a sigh, Ellen gathered her night's work and took it to the window. She perched on the window seat and watched the sun rise. She looked down at the closely written pages in her hands. I could have done better, she thought, tracing the words with her finger. Flipping to the last page, she read the ending again. “Oh, it is good,” she whispered out loud.
In another moment, she was seated at her desk again, writing out a fair copy for Gordon. When she finished, she added a note, admonishing him to read it through first before he sprang it on himself in front of an audience of scholars and summoned the footman. Her eyes drooping with exhaustion, she gave him Gordon's directions and another shilling.
Back in her room again, she finished the box of chocolates and fell asleep in the middle of a pile of notes.
When she woke, the room was tidy again and Becky was just stacking the last of her notes and first draft in neat piles on the floor. Ellen sat up and rubbed her eyes.
“Best burn them, Becky,” she said. “I would only get in trouble if Fanny chanced upon them and put two and two together.”
“Very well, Miss,” Becky said, “although it seems a shame after all your work.”
She attended her classes that day, nodding off over the geography of Cyprus and then struggling in vain to make sense of her embroidery. She could only bow her head in misery over the scathing criticism that Miss Dignam rained down upon her head. With her eyes closed, she even dozed a little, waking up when Miss Dignam shook her and demanded to know how in the world she expected to find a husband if she knew so little about the domestic arts.
“I … I don't know that I have ever given it much thought,” she managed finally when the headmistress just stood there, hands on hips, glaring at her. Finally she raised her own cool blue eyes to Miss Dignam's red face. “I shall have to trust Papa to find someone among his horsey acquaintances who will have me with all my faults. He will probably want to examine my teeth and watch my gait about the paddock. After all, what can a girl expect?”