Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career (11 page)

The rain did not let up. She walked faster.
I should return to Miss Dignam's
, she thought,
but I must go to the Bodleian for that book by the mysterious Lord Chesney
. Ellen glanced at the little door that led into All Souls quadrangle. The don said Lord Chesney was a fellow there. She paused a moment and then hurried faster. The mystery would keep for drier weather.

A quick run through deepening puddles brought her to the Bodleian Library. She stood at the entrance a moment, amazed at what she was about to do, took a deep breath, and entered. The odor of books was overpowering. It made her mouth water as she stared about her, admiring row upon row of handsomely carved bookshelves, busts of Oxford's better-known graduates, and the plastered, ornamental ceiling that seemed to go on forever.

All was silent. She tiptoed into the main reading room and let out her breath in a sigh of relief. The library was almost empty. A few students sat here and there, some studying, more sleeping, others gazing out the window with thoughtful expressions. The smell of wet wool competed with the odor of books.

I should remove this cloak
, she thought,
but I dare not.
She clutched it tighter about her, sloshed in soggy shoes to the librarian, and in her gruffest voice, asked for Lord Chesney's book.

It was brought to her in a moment with the admonition to keep it dry. Keeping her head down, she nodded her thanks and looked for a safe place to read. Beyond the rows of shelves that flanked the main room's middle section was an area with tables and small desks lining the walls. She hurried to one of the desks, sat down, and began to read, careful to keep her sodden cloak high around her face.

She was deep in the first chapter when she heard footsteps behind her and felt a firm hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, not daring to turn around.

“That's my carrel, lad,” said a familiar voice. “Best you move into the center tables.”

She knew without even looking over her shoulder that it was James Gatewood. There was just the trace of London in his voice that she remembered from their brief meeting on the hill. Without a word she got up and moved to a table.

From the corner of her eyes, she watched as Gatewood took off his cloak, draped it over the back of his chair, and looked with a sour expression at the wet chair she had vacated. He removed a neck scarf and dried off the seat. In another moment, he was tipped back in the chair with his feet propped up on the desk.

Ellen put her hand to her mouth to hide the laughter.
Mama would cough up nails if I sat like that
, she thought.
Oh, what am I saying
?
She would twirl about and expire if she knew I was sitting in the Bodleian Library in borrowed trousers.

She looked down at herself. Her legs were primly together, as she always sat. After a quick glance about, she pulled back the cloak and crossed her legs, resting her ankle on her knee and leaning back slightly in her chair. Her face flamed.
I am vulgar
, she thought,
but my goodness, this is comfortable.

She picked up the book again and in another moment was captivated by Lord Chesney's remarkable wit and cynicism as he deftly skewered the young lovers in
Midsummer Night's Dream
and served them up to the reader on a platter of impeccable scholarship. She laughed out loud at Lord Chesney's description of Helena as “Befuddled, bemused and outwitted by love, that great leveler. Why should she be different than we? Do we laugh at her, or ourselves?”

“Shhh!” said James Gatewood, finger to his lips. “Lad, this is a library, not a theatrical amusement,” he whispered.

“But it is Shakespeare, sir,” Ellen replied, lowering her tones, hoping she sounded more masculine than she felt as she clutched the cloak more tightly about her face.

Gatewood only smiled and nodded, to her relief, and returned to his reading.

Ellen dug the paper and pencil from her pocket and bent her head over her notes, writing as rapidly as possible. The rain had stopped. Soon scholars would be returning to the library. She wrote faster.

She did not notice the mouse until it ran right by her hand, took a quick glance at Chesney's
Commentary
, and scurried off the end of the table.

Ellen gasped, screamed, and leaped onto the chair, grabbing her cloak about her. Starting in surprise, Gatewood tipped too far back in his chair and tumbled himself to the floor. He lay on his back, his face red, his eyes indignant.

He scrambled to his feet and gripped her tight by the arm.

“Scared of a little mouse, eh, lad?” he declared as he yanked her off the chair. “Is this ‘the gift and flower’ of English youth? Merciful heaven, help us!”

She stumbled against him. As her breasts brushed his arm, Gatewood flinched and drew back, gaping down at her with open-mouthed amazement. Before she could say a word, he ripped the cloak from her face and stared at her.

“Blast it, Ellen Grimsley,” he said in a voice much too loud for the Bodleian Library. “Grimsley, Grimsley, Grimsley,” echoed in the vault overhead.

He hastily released his hold on her, touched her face with the back of his hand in the oddest, most tender gesture, and then looked up as the librarian bore down on them.

She remained silent as he whirled her about and clamped his arm around her shoulders, quick-marching her toward the exit.

“Smartly now, Miss Grimsley, you rascal,” he whispered. “I think we can beat him to that door!”

T WAS A NEAR-RUN THING
. A
S HE PROPELLED
her toward the side door, she pushed it open and stumbled through. Gatewood slapped her sharply on the hip and turned to face the librarian, who was red-faced from his pursuit of them across the main floor.

“I can deal with this upstart noisebox,” Gatewood said and closed the door behind him. Without another word, he grabbed her by the hand and tugged her along the alley into the nearest doorway, where they stood as the rain began again.

Ellen couldn't bring herself to look at James Gatewood. She stared down at her hands, embarrassed beyond words.

Gatewood cleared his throat. “Miss Grimsley, in my wildest imaginings, I never thought to be ejected from the Bodleian.”

She looked up, fearful of his wrath, into smiling eyes. “I am so sorry. Will your reputation suffer damage?” she asked in all seriousness.

“Probably.” He laughed and leaned against the wet stones. “Miss Grimsley, you look like a drowned rat. Or mouse, in your case. Which reminds me. I must brave the Bodleian again.” He stepped from the protection of the doorway and into the rain.

Ellen grabbed for his hand. “I must have my notes, sir. Oh, please, can you fetch them?”

He kissed her wet hand and dashed back into the library. Ellen drew her gown around her again and huddled in the doorway. She thought at first she would run. In another moment she could be across the High Street and safe in the kitchen belowstairs at Miss Dignam's. But that would mean abandoning her notes and leaving Gordon to his well-deserved fate on Saturday, and she could not do that.

Since when have I become so scrupulous about casting Gordon to the fates?
she asked herself.
Let us be honest, Ellen. You want your notes back. You want to write that paper.

Gatewood was back then, his cloak draped about his shoulders this time and her notes in his hand. He glanced at them as he handed them to her. “I noticed Chesney's
Commentary
on the table.”

She accepted the notes. “I wish you could have smuggled that out for me, sir. I had only just begun it.”

“Please call me Jim,” he said promptly. “And I will call you …” He paused and looked her over as she blushed. “Somehow, Miss Grimsley, or even Ellen—it is Ellen, isn't it?—sounds misplaced for someone in trousers.”

She grimaced as she pocketed the notes. “I am supposed to be Gordon Grimsley.”

“‘Worse and worse it grows,’ ” he quoted, his eyes twinkling again. “I scarcely need remind you that women, even women in their brothers’ trousers, are not allowed to undertake serious scholarship in the Bodleian. Or any scholarship, for that matter.”

When she made no reply, he looked beyond her into the rain, the smile gone from his eyes. “And more's the pity, I suspect.”

She looked at him then. “Well, thank you, sir.” Her teeth began to chatter and she shivered.

He put his arm around her and pulled her into the rain again. “Bundle up, Mr. Gordon Grimsley,” he said, speaking loudly to be heard about the thundering downpour. “I feel the need of a pint.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide. “Sir, I have never been in the taproom of a tavern!”

He only laughed and tugged her along. “Then you should not have got yourself into a pair of trousers, Miss Grimsley!”

She pulled back. “Sir! I should think that you could wish to see the back of me, after the embarrassment I just caused you.”

He released her and they stood regarding each other in the pouring rain. “I suppose you are right,” he said slowly. “After all, scholarship is a stodgy thing, is it not? No?” He did not put his arm about her again but started walking toward the High Street.

The fact that he did not look back to see if she followed piqued her own interest, and she trailed after him. In another moment, he slowed down and walked by her side.

“I confess to curiosity, Miss Grimsley,” he continued. He seemed unaware of the turn their brief acquaintance had just taken in the rain and the narrow alley. “From my knowledge, I have never before encountered a female in the Bodleian. As you are the first, and I may claim some slight acquaintance, I thought I should ask you.”

“Yes, but a tavern?”

He continued his slow meander down the alley, unmindful of the rain. “If I escort you to Miss Dignam's, I fear you would be in the suds indeed, unless that dragon's ideas of females and academe have changed. I would have no leave to find out more.” He bowed. “And as a student, is not my task to find out more? I ask you, Miss Grimsley.”

“Ellen,” she said involuntarily.

“Not a chance,” he replied as quickly. “I will call you … oh, let me see, how about … I will call you Scholastica.”

“Please don't,” she said. “Surely you cannot call that an improvement over Ellen.”

“Does Ellen need improving?” he asked. “Ah, well, since you were deep in Chesney's
Commentary
on the fairies and lovers, I will call you Hermia.”

She stopped in the middle of a puddle and clapped her hands. “Do you like
Midsummer Night's Dream
too?”

He took her by the elbow and steered her down another alley.

“I am excessively fond of it, fair Hermia. As I am also excessively wet, let us discuss this indoors.”

In another moment, she was seated in a high-backed settle in a smoky corner, her hands wrapped around a battered pint pot. Gatewood sat next to her, turning himself to face her, and effectively shielding her from others in the room. He twitched the cloak back from her face and just looked at her until she turned away and took a deep quaff of the ale.

She coughed as the fumes rose and circled through her brain. “This is a vile brew!” she gasped when she could talk.

“Yes, isn't it?” Gatewood replied. “You would be amazed how inspirational it can be in the eleventh hour before a paper is due.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I have it on good authority that Lord Chesney himself wrote much of his
Commentary
at this very table.”

Ellen opened her mouth to ask him about Lord Chesney, but Gatewood was off and running. “My dear Hermia, please tell me—if it isn't too much trouble—what you were doing in the Bodleian? I suspect that Miss Dignam's is slow indeed, but isn't the Bodleian rather a risk?”

Ellen nodded and frowned into the ale as she swirled the pot around and around. “I told Gordon it would not work, but he was suffering the ill effects of a weekend in London, and I said that I would write his Saturday paper for him.” She laughed and shook her head. “I should never listen to Gordon.”

Gatewood only smiled and took another drink. Ellen took him by the arm. “But think, Jim! I actually attended his tutorial!” She let go of his arm, but she could not keep the enthusiasm from her voice. “I have been merely a dabbler in the Bard—it is Ralph who is enamored of him—but never before did I realize that Shakespeare could be such fun!” She subsided then, her face red. “I suppose I get carried away.”