Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career by Carla Kelly Page A

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
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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
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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.”
    “Not at all,” Gatewood said. “I like the way enthusiasm makes your eyes shine. Most chits only look that way when you pay them a compliment, and, even then, they are not sincere.” His voice trailed off, and he leaned back against the settle, staring at the wall straight ahead. “How on earth did you fool your brother's instructor? And by the way, who is Ralph?”
    “He is my younger brother,” she said, the animation coming into her voice again. “He is taking lessons from the vicar, a prosing bagwig who thinks the capital of the United States is New York City.”
    “Ignorant clergy,” Gatewood said. “They should all be lined up and shot. Your brother would be better served at Winchester, or Eton.”
    “Papa will not hear of it. He says Ralph can do well enough with Mr. Snead.” She sighed and took another cautious sip. “He has plans to send Ralph into the City to work with one of Mama's brothers—she has prodigious many. Gordon is here at University College because he is the oldest son and Papa wants him to be a gentleman.”
    Gatewood laughed and then sobered immediately. “No, no, go on,” he said. “From what I already suspect of the infamous Gordon, this is not his inclination.”
    “Indeed, no! He wants more than anything to take up with a cavalry regiment in Spain. But he promised Papa a year at Oxford, and provided he acquits himself well, he may yet buy his colors.” Ellen set aside her cloak, wringing water out of it under the table. “Have you ever