Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career (10 page)

They hurried across the High Street. Swept with rain, it was nearly devoid of all students. Ellen glanced back at the Female Academy. No one watched from the windows. She could only breathe a sigh of thanks to the patron saint of students, whoever he was, and hurry after her brother.

He slowed down for her on the curb and ushered her into one the narrow alleyways that led into the heart of the university. Gordon kept his head down against the rain, but Ellen raised her face to the sky, looking about her at the spires and ancient walls.

“I never thought to be here,” she said and stopped to admire the high walls that dripped rain. “Where does that little door lead?” she asked, pointing.

“To All Souls, El, holy ground indeed. Now hurry up and keep your face down. I never thought a beautiful sister to be a handicap before.”

She stopped again and smiled up at him. “Gordon, that's quite the nicest thing you ever said to me!”

“Well, it's true,” he replied gruffly, his eyes on the street ahead of them. “Once you got rid of your baby chins and freckles, you were the prettiest chit in the district. And I'm not just saying that,” he hastened to add. “I mean it. Now, quit gawking and step lively.”

They hurried down another narrow lane and another, robes clutched tight against the wind and rain. Gordon paused for a moment, waved her off, and was quietly sick down another alley.

As she waited for him, a group of students passed, looked at him, and winked at her. Her heart in her stomach, Ellen grinned and winked back.
Mama will flail me alive
, she thought, when the students offered some ribald advice to Gordon, pale and shaken.

Mama must never know
, she thought and rubbed her arm in the unfamiliar linen shirt. Gordon had tied the neck cloth about her, and it seemed to tighten like a hangman's noose.
Surely I will not be sentenced to appear before a firing squad if I am discovered
, Ellen thought.
Perhaps they will only transport me to Botany Bay.
She tugged at the collar, wishing her imagination less lively.

Another brisk five minutes brought them to University Quadrangle. Gordon stood outside the door and turned to his sister. “El, go up the first flight of stairs, down the hall to your left. It's the last room on the left.” He took her hand. “He'll do all the talking. He always does.”

She squeezed his hand. “Gordon, I think I do owe you a favor.”

“What?” he asked, surprised.

“Silly! For sending someone called Lord Chesney to Miss Dignam. You certainly convinced her that we have high connections here, and he—whoever he was—saw to it that I was moved into geography instead of watercolors. And she says I will have a Shakespeare tutor.”

He continued to stare at her. “El, have your wits gone wandering? I don't know any Lord Chesney. Must be one of Aunt Shreve's eccentric connections. You know how she is about not letting her left hand know what her right hand does.”

“Yes, but …”

“But nothing, El.” He grinned at her suddenly. “Besides, El, you know I never exert myself for my sisters! Perhaps you have a benefactor. I wish I had one. Now, go on.”

He opened the door for her and leaned against the frame, his expression warning her that in another moment he would be on his hands and knees by the gutter again. She hurried inside the quad and shut the door after her.

She held her breath and looked about her. The rain had turned the honey-colored stone a dismal gray. The trees were bare, the grass the faded tan of autumn. The only sound was the rain that rumbled through the gutters and gargoyles and spewed onto the ground. She sighed and clutched her gown about her. It was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. “University College,” she whispered, unmindful of the rain that pelted her. “Founded by Alfred the Great. Home of scholars these thousand years.”

With a laugh in her throat, she ran across the quad toward the hall, remembering to keep her toes turned out. The steps to the second floor were worn and uneven. She mounted them slowly, not so much fearful of her footing as mindful of the thousands who had trod them before her. She breathed deep of air that smelled of old wood, new ideas, candle wax, and somewhere, books in leather covers.

The room was empty, as Gordon had predicted. A fire struggled in the grate. She spent a moment in front of it, warming her hands, and then tugged the straight-backed chair into the shadow and away from the window with its wavy panes of leaded glass that admitted little light anyway. She took out her pad and pencil and waited.

In a few minutes, she heard someone climbing the stairs slowly, as she had done, a step at a time. The steps down the hall were measured and sure, as if they had walked this way for centuries at least. She smiled to herself as the person stopped frequently, as though to peer into each room. Gordon had said that his don was forgetful.
I wonder how many students he has misplaced over the years
, she thought.
I wonder, are they still waiting?

She saw a mental image of rows and rows of dusty skeletons waiting in each room, pencils still caught in bony fingers. She laughed out loud, and then stopped when Gordon's don crossed the threshold and stood there, peering at her.

She would not have thought such a thing possible, but the man was shorter than she. His scholar's gown swept the floor as he entered the room. He raised his shoulders at the sound of the fabric dragging along the floor, rather like a barnyard fowl attempting flight and then thinking better of it. He had no hair on his head, and drops of rain glistened there and on his spectacles.

Still observing her, he brushed his hand across his head and dried his glasses on the hem of his dusty robe. The results did not satisfy him, so he removed a handkerchief from some inner pocket and tried again.

“Better, much better,” he murmured and then sniffed the air in Ellen's general vicinity. He frowned and peered at her, squinting through nearsighted eyes.

“Lavender, eh?” he asked. “The new mode at University College? How odd is this younger generation.”

Ellen cleared her throat and returned some noncommittal reply, careful to utter it in lower tones, with some semblance of Gordon's style. She sat forward, ready to capture his every word.

The don perched himself on the room's only table and gathered his robes about him like a crow folding its feathers. Ellen looked on in fascination, waiting for him to turn around and around and settle himself. She smiled at the absurdity of this, her fear gone.

He frowned. “My dear Grimsley, is this some special occasion? Is there something particular you wish from me?”

Ellen stared at him, her eyes wide, her fear returning. What had she done wrong?

“See here, sir. This is the first time you have come to drink from the font of knowledge with pencil
and
paper.” He withdrew a slim volume in red morocco from another pocket. “Dare I to hope that you have even read
Midsummer Night's Dream
?”

“I have, sir,” she answered, grateful that only two weeks ago she and Ralph had hidden themselves in the buttery and read the play aloud to each other while Horry sobbed over the fit of her wedding dress, Mama lamented the dearness of beeswax candles, and Papa, booted and dressed in his hunting clothes, shook his fist at the heavens because of the rain.

“For we need a good laugh, El,” Ralph had insisted. “And what could be funnier than lovers?”

“I have indeed, sir,” she repeated. “It is a favorite of mine.”

The don grabbed his book to his meager chest in a gesture of extreme surprise. “Next you will tell me something profound, Grimsley, and then I will know I am in the wrong room.”

Ellen had the wisdom to be silent.

The don waited another moment, then opened the book. “Very well, then, since you have no more profundities, let us begin this romp, Grimsley. Let us see ‘what fools these mortals be.’ ”

When she set down her pencil two hours later, sighing with satisfaction, Ellen was in complete charity with her brother. For two hours, she had listened to the undersized, scrawny don transform himself into all the characters wandering about in that enchanted forest.

She regarded the little man with a feeling close to affection. He was Pyramus; he was Chink; he was the haughty Hyppolita, the confused Helena. He was lover and rustic; fond father, foolish maid. He was an absurd little bald man, undeniably prissy, and stuffy with old ideas. He was the very soul of education, and she would have followed him anywhere.

“I understand this play,” she said softly, her words not even intended for his ears.

He heard her, though, and smiled. “Then, Grimsley, you can tell me what it is about, can't you? You can be the first scholar I have instructed this day who is not more concerned about his stomach, or his imagined injuries, or his paper due, his book unread. Tell me then, sir.”

Ellen took a deep breath. “It is about the absurdity of love.”

The don closed his book and whisked it out of sight in his pocket. “Grimsley, you astound me. Yes, yes! It is about the absurdity of love.” He pointed his finger at her. “Do you understand the absurdity of love?”

“I know nothing of it, nothing at all, sir,” she confessed, and hesitated, looking up at him.

“Yes?” asked the don, leaning forward. “What else?”

“Perhaps I was wrong. I confess that I know even less than when you began to read,” she said, looking down at her bands. “I said I understood the play, but I do not. My ignorance is nearly complete, and somehow, this does not bother me.” Ellen looked at him. “Have I failed?”

Her heart nearly stopped when the don hopped off his perch and strode to the window, throwing it wide. He leaned out for a deep breath, a beatific expression on his face, and turned toward her again. “Grimsley, my lad, you have succeeded! Such ignorance is the essence of education. I must have misjudged you.”

Ellen looked at him in confusion.

“My dear Grimsley, armed as you are with this supreme ignorance, and an obvious love for the play, what should you do about it? Think hard, lad, and we will see if there is hope for you?”

She thought hard.
I could answer this odd question with a smile and shrug, as Gordon would, or I could be honest.

“I would seek to find out more, sir,” she replied quietly.

“Why?” he challenged.

The word hung in the air and seemed to settle on her shoulders.

“Because I wish to know more, even if for no other purpose than to satisfy myself,” she replied.

The don smiled and nodded. “Then education is served, lad,” was all he said as he adjusted his gown and went to the door. “I can recommend a course to follow.”

“Sir, please do,” she said, rising to her feet and following him.

“Grimsley, how short you are today,” the don said.

Ellen held her breath, but he did not pursue this line of reasoning.

“In the Bodleian you will find a book. It is called
Commentary and Notes on A Midsummer Night's Dream
. I suggest you read it and make it the basis of your paper for Saturday's reading.” He shook his finger at her. “Which, I must add with sorrow, you neglected to attend last week. I am certain the gods mourned. Redeem yourself, lad, with this little work of Lord Chesney's.”

She sat down again. “Lord Chesney?
The
Lord Chesney?”

“There is only one from that shatterbrained family.” The don shook his head and bowed his head. “Sad what happened to him. England has lost a great Shakespeare scholar.”

“He is dead?” Ellen gasped, her mind filled with even more confusion. Was that the mysterious Lord Chesney who sat in Miss Dignam's parlor only two days ago and changed the course of her Oxford stay? “I do not understand.”

“He is dead in English literature, Grimsley! What could be worse? I hear he is even now a fellow at All Souls and reading history.” The don made a face, as though he had uttered a foul word. “I fear he will become a Philistine after all.”

He brightened then. “But he is young, Grimsley. Perhaps there is hope. Such wisdom! Such sagacity! We can only pray that he will yet return to his own special analysis of the Bard. Such piquancy! Such wit!”

He paused, as if so much exclamation had wound him down like a top. His voice was milder when he spoke again. “Good day, Grimsley. I await your paper this Saturday with something close to bated breath.” He cast his eyes upon Ellen, squinting at her. “I hope you will leave off the lavender. And do grow, Grimsley, between now and Saturday.”

He closed the door behind him. Ellen stared after him, shaking her head and then smothering her laughter with her hands.
Such a funny stick
, she thought, recalling Gordon's dire warnings.

She went slowly down the stairs, trailing her hand along the banister.
How many have done this before me
, she thought, as she felt the years of polish, the roughness of the wood worn smooth by hands and time. No matter that no one believed any longer that Alfred the Great himself had established this seat of learning. She lowered herself to the bottom step and leaned against the railing, content to summon the sight of king and scholars, gathered together at this oxen ford, thirsty for knowledge in an age when few knew anything.

“Not so different from now,” she said and rose.

The rain pelted down, drenching the quadrangle, driving the few remaining leaves to the ground and the students indoors. She tucked her tablet into her pocket and walked slowly toward the door in the wall. She looked back once at the hall she had left and raised her hand. It was an absurd gesture, but there was no one around to see her salute to stones and wood and scholarship.

Ellen peered about her, but Gordon was nowhere in sight. She had not expected to see him, especially with the rain pouring down and his inner workings in such a muddle. She was glad of the solitude. She wanted to think for a moment of what she had learned. Her own inclination ran more to geography, cartography, and mathematics, but she had read Shakespeare to humor Ralph. The scrawny little don—
I don't even know his name
, she thought—had awakened her to the vigor of Shakespeare. She clasped her hands together and looked down at them. “Like Adam, I have been touched by the finger of God,” she whispered.