Chapter Three #2
The day after he first danced with her, he had made excuses to wander up and down Magdalen and St. Giles Street, for no other reason than he hoped (in vain) she might emerge from St. John’s College to do the same.
After the second time he danced with her, he grew bold enough to wander St. John’s garden, a popular rendezvous, but though he was fortunate enough to glimpse her with her friends, it was too awkward to be seen there alone, and he had not repeated the attempt.
Benjamin related neither of these things to his mother, however, truth having its limits.
Instead he replied, “Since then, I have danced with her at several more assemblies but otherwise only seen her in church. At this very one,” he concluded, indicating the medieval St. Mary Magdalen marooned on its little island in the middle of the street.
“Indeed? You have met her relations, then, this Mr. and Mrs. President?”
“Not yet,” he admitted. “You see, I didn’t want to put myself forward until I was in a position to impress them favorably.”
She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “But this Miss Allen…when you come to church, she peeps at you across the aisle? She smiles? She makes you a curtsey? Or she pretends not to see you?”
“It depends.”
“Depends?”
He shrugged.
“She is not consistent?” persisted his mother dangerously. “She…how does one say it—she toys with you?”
“No, Maman. I am certain it is that sometimes she sees me, and other times I am seated too far away or something. She is not obligated to seek me out or recognize me. I am nothing to her as yet, beyond an acquaintance. She never lacks for partners at the assemblies.”
In answer Mrs. Ellsworth gave a flick of her fingers. “Tomorrow is Sunday. We will go to church, and I will see her.”
He paled. “No—you must not speak with her, Maman! You must not try to corner her! I have a plan to win her, however long it requires, and you must not interfere with it.”
“Who says I will interfere?” she countered. “We will go to church with you, your father and me, and we will sit where she will see us. I would like to see how she likes you when she sees you. Et c’est tout. That is all. Harmless.”
Harmless? Was that a word anyone who knew her applied to his adored mother?
In one thing, at least, he was granted reprieve: she said nothing of the matter to his brother, and when Austin declared he would not join them at St. Mary Magdalen, she only patted his cheek and said they would see him again later in the day, then.
Because of the peculiar island of land the church occupied, the building itself was wider than it was long.
As a result, when the Ellsworths seated themselves in the last pew they could still observe those in the forward ones, especially with the sparse attendance before Michaelmas Term began.
Moreover, Mrs. Ellsworth insisted on arriving early, so that they would be in place before Miss Allen and her aunt and uncle entered.
“Nudge me when they come,” she whispered, but it proved unnecessary.
There was only one honey-haired young lady present that morning, accompanied by an older couple to whom respectful nods and bows were directed.
Miss Allen trailed after her Marlow relations, pausing when they paused and only raising her lowered gaze if she was addressed.
Such modesty did not prevent her glancing in the Ellsworths’ direction, however, and straightening consciously when she found three pairs of eyes on her.
“Very pretty,” said Benjamin’s father.
“Yes,” his wife agreed. Benjamin would have liked to hear more eagerness in her voice, but perhaps young ladies were never deemed pretty enough for beloved sons.
Certainly his mother could find no fault with Miss Allen’s conduct in church.
She sat still and attentive between her aunt and uncle, as if aware she was subject to more than divine scrutiny.
The service concluded, and, ignoring her husband’s hand, Mrs. Ellsworth slid to the end of the pew. There she began to adjust her gloves, keeping her bonnet brim lowered as the Marlow party preceded the other congregants down the aisle.
“Oh, no,” muttered Benjamin, his heart rising to his throat. “What can she have in mind?”
He learned soon enough.
Just as the president of St. John’s College and his wife swept by, his mother sprang up, affecting to catch her foot on the end of the pew, and tumbling against the passing Miss Allen.
“Que je suis maladroite! I beg your pardon for my clumsiness, miss.”
Somehow the clasp of the older woman’s bracelet caught in the fringe of the young lady’s shawl, and Miss Allen and her party must pause while the tangle was sorted out. Miss Allen blushed a becoming pink, her fair brow knitting at this mishap.
“I cannot—would you please—pardon—” murmured Mrs. Ellsworth, tugging at the hook as a little crowd of spectators gathered.
“Goodness! I believe you’re making it worse!”
“Verity, dear, can I help?”
“Leave it alone, Aunt. There are already too many cooks.”
“Dear girl, do you know this person?”
“Pardon me,” blurted Benjamin, hurrying to the scene, his own face as crimson as Miss Allen’s.
“I am an acquaintance of Miss Allen, and this lady is my mother. Allow me to be of assistance.” Bending, he gave his mother’s hand a significant squeeze and gently moved it aside, freeing the bracelet from the shawl in a trice (as indeed, his mother had deliberately been complicating things).
Mr. and Mrs. Marlow regarded him with thin lips while their niece made embarrassed introductions. Benjamin responded in kind, and then a stiff little silence followed.
If he had hoped Miss Allen would throw him a smile or rueful glance, he was disappointed.
“What a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Mr. Marlow at last. “We wish you a good day. Come, Verity.”
“I say, that went well,” remarked Charles Ellsworth dryly, when they retraced their steps along Broad Street.
But Benjamin was in no humor for jokes. “Maman, I am furious with you,” he said heavily. “Why would you do such a thing? Why would you present us in such a poor light?”
Instead of appearing abashed, however, his mother eyed him with defiance.
“I wanted to see how she and her family would treat a humbler person. Someone they did not know, who they perhaps did not consider their equal. Because there is no greater revelation of character than how one behaves to those who can give one nothing, Benjamin. Remember that. And you see the result? Coldness! She did not even spare you a secret look, my love, to say she was sorry for her manner or for Mr. and Mrs. President’s manner.
” Taking his hands in both her own, her expression softened.
“You must marry who you will marry, my Benjamin, but how I wish you would choose a bride who would be proud to be your wife. Who would not think it condescension to accept you!”
“But that’s just it, Maman—she has not condescended to accept me because I have made her no offer, and now when I do, I will have this to overcome, in addition to my poverty!”
“Ah, my dear one,” cried his mother, wringing his hands again, “if you love her, I will love her too, and I will be si gentille with her family, despite their sour looks. Forgive your silly mother! I only want your wife to treasure you, as we do. As I have treasured your father and he me.”
Of course he forgave her, maddening though she had been, and however the conclusions she had drawn vexed him.
Her intentions had been good. But Benjamin had not set foot in St. Mary Magdalene’s since, and he had avoided attending the next assembly at St. Aldate’s.
On the few occasions when he glimpsed his fair one at a distance, he kept that distance.
But he renewed his dedication to moneymaking nevertheless.
This dedication brought him to London, not only to negotiate the terms of the second printing of Letters to Ladies, but also to be “fêted” by the publishers Hartrow and Keith, an experience he would have relished, had he not caught a bad head cold just as he left Oxford.
As it was, his head grew increasingly muddled, he alternated between shivering and perspiring, and aches bedeviled him to the point that he had to excuse himself midway through the lavish supper where none other than Walter Scott was reciting from his wildly popular Lady of the Lake.
Stumbling to his chamber at the inn, he struggled to open his door, finally throwing his entire weight against it until it gave way.
Then, barely managing to remove his boots and coat, head spinning and sight dimming, he collapsed onto the bed, unconscious before his head hit the pillow.