noticed, sir, that life is not fair?”
“It has come to my attention on occasion,” he said. “Are there others in your family? Are they satisfied?”
Ellen smiled. “Horatia is prodigious happy, sir.”
“Jim,” he said automatically, not taking his eyes from her face, which she considered somewhat forward. She put his manners down to the ale he was steadily consuming.
“Jim, then,” she amended. “She is soon to marry the son of a baronet.” Her eyes widened as she looked at Gatewood. “He is worth almost four thousand a year. Imagine!”
“I cannot,” Gatewood replied, his eyes as merry as hers. “So Horatia is happy.”
“And what about Ellen?” he asked, when the silence stretched on and she returned to her own pint pot.
“Mama is determined that she will do as well as Horry, but Ellen is not so sure. She would prefer to map unknown continents,” she said, her voice subdued. She thought a moment more and then set down the pint pot with some force. “Is marriage the destiny of women, sir, I ask you?”
“I fear it must be, Hermia,” James Gatewood said, a smile playing around his lips. “We all have our little duties.”
“Even you?”
“Even me.”
Ellen sighed and reached for her cloak again. “I thought as much.” She paused and stroked the sodden material. “But I have had my afternoon at University College, sir—Jim, and I have learned so much about Shakespeare!”
“Ah, yes, we have returned at last to the issue. How did you fool your instructor?” he asked again.
She peered at Gatewood, the admiration strong in her voice. “My goodness, sir, you are so good at keeping the thread of the conversation.”
“Jim,” he said again. “Well, of course, fair Hermia. That is what they teach us here at Oxford, don't you know. We learn to detect false argument, to build an unassailable case, and to be, above all else, objective.” He ran a lazy finger down her cheek, even as she leaned away from him. “Not in a million years could any man alive mistake you for your brother.”
“Do you know my brother?” she asked. “I am sorry for you.”
“I … well, I know who he is now,” he said.
If he was evasive, she overlooked it. Her eyes were merry as she also overlooked his forward behavior. “I sat in the shadows, sir, and to tell the truth, I think the old man was remarkably shortsighted. And, sir, he was so small!”
Jim sat up straight again, his eyes filled with remembrance.
“You can only be describing Hemphill. No bigger than a minute, and with a funny way of hunching up his shoulders to keep his gown from dragging?”
“The very same,” she said, as she eyed the pint pot and pushed it away from her. “He was all the characters for
Midsummer Night's Dream
.”
“And his Pyramus has a lisp,” Jim continued, draining the rest of his ale. He struck a pose in the narrow booth. “‘Thuth die I, thuth, thuth thuth.’ ”
Ellen joined in his laughter. “Yeth, you have hit it, thir,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes to match his. “And now I must go.”
He inclined his head to her. “So you should.”
She reached for her cloak, draping it about her shoulders again and feeling the pocket to make sure that her notes at least were dry. “I could wish for Chesney's
Commentary
, but I believe that I can recall enough to write Gordon's paper.”
Gatewood edged his way out of the booth, keeping between Ellen and the other patrons while she gathered her cloak tight about her again. She had taken no more than one step toward the door when Gatewood propelled her back into the booth, put his finger to his lips, and practically sat on her.
Mystified, she craned her neck around to see what had caused this strange behavior, spotted her brother, and ducked her head until only one eye peeked out from under Gatewood's arm.
She held her breath as Gordon crossed the floor, listing about as though the tavern itself moved. Supporting him was another student, dressed also
“It has come to my attention on occasion,” he said. “Are there others in your family? Are they satisfied?”
Ellen smiled. “Horatia is prodigious happy, sir.”
“Jim,” he said automatically, not taking his eyes from her face, which she considered somewhat forward. She put his manners down to the ale he was steadily consuming.
“Jim, then,” she amended. “She is soon to marry the son of a baronet.” Her eyes widened as she looked at Gatewood. “He is worth almost four thousand a year. Imagine!”
“I cannot,” Gatewood replied, his eyes as merry as hers. “So Horatia is happy.”
“And what about Ellen?” he asked, when the silence stretched on and she returned to her own pint pot.
“Mama is determined that she will do as well as Horry, but Ellen is not so sure. She would prefer to map unknown continents,” she said, her voice subdued. She thought a moment more and then set down the pint pot with some force. “Is marriage the destiny of women, sir, I ask you?”
“I fear it must be, Hermia,” James Gatewood said, a smile playing around his lips. “We all have our little duties.”
“Even you?”
“Even me.”
Ellen sighed and reached for her cloak again. “I thought as much.” She paused and stroked the sodden material. “But I have had my afternoon at University College, sir—Jim, and I have learned so much about Shakespeare!”
“Ah, yes, we have returned at last to the issue. How did you fool your instructor?” he asked again.
She peered at Gatewood, the admiration strong in her voice. “My goodness, sir, you are so good at keeping the thread of the conversation.”
“Jim,” he said again. “Well, of course, fair Hermia. That is what they teach us here at Oxford, don't you know. We learn to detect false argument, to build an unassailable case, and to be, above all else, objective.” He ran a lazy finger down her cheek, even as she leaned away from him. “Not in a million years could any man alive mistake you for your brother.”
“Do you know my brother?” she asked. “I am sorry for you.”
“I … well, I know who he is now,” he said.
If he was evasive, she overlooked it. Her eyes were merry as she also overlooked his forward behavior. “I sat in the shadows, sir, and to tell the truth, I think the old man was remarkably shortsighted. And, sir, he was so small!”
Jim sat up straight again, his eyes filled with remembrance.
“You can only be describing Hemphill. No bigger than a minute, and with a funny way of hunching up his shoulders to keep his gown from dragging?”
“The very same,” she said, as she eyed the pint pot and pushed it away from her. “He was all the characters for
Midsummer Night's Dream
.”
“And his Pyramus has a lisp,” Jim continued, draining the rest of his ale. He struck a pose in the narrow booth. “‘Thuth die I, thuth, thuth thuth.’ ”
Ellen joined in his laughter. “Yeth, you have hit it, thir,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes to match his. “And now I must go.”
He inclined his head to her. “So you should.”
She reached for her cloak, draping it about her shoulders again and feeling the pocket to make sure that her notes at least were dry. “I could wish for Chesney's
Commentary
, but I believe that I can recall enough to write Gordon's paper.”
Gatewood edged his way out of the booth, keeping between Ellen and the other patrons while she gathered her cloak tight about her again. She had taken no more than one step toward the door when Gatewood propelled her back into the booth, put his finger to his lips, and practically sat on her.
Mystified, she craned her neck around to see what had caused this strange behavior, spotted her brother, and ducked her head until only one eye peeked out from under Gatewood's arm.
She held her breath as Gordon crossed the floor, listing about as though the tavern itself moved. Supporting him was another student, dressed also
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