Chapter Eight #3
Eager to move on from this thorny subject, she returned to his earlier question.
“I can’t compare the Carfax Church to St. Aldate’s because we didn’t visit the latter.
But I can say that St. Martin’s is rather dilapidated.
St. Michael at the North Gate was better kept, though I’ve never attended a church that grand, and Della says St. Aldate’s is just as large.
I would get used to it, I imagine, but the one I liked better than all the others is just a little bit farther—perhaps a half mile from here… ”
“A half mile is nothing,” he declared. “It might be inconvenient on a rainy or frosty morning, but that would only make it perhaps a fifteen-minute walk, rather than ten.”
“You forget I have spent my life outside of large towns,” she said, smiling again.
“In Iffley we thought nothing of walking twice as far to Perryfield or Greenwood Hall.” (Not to mention, in inclement weather, Lord Dere usually offered to send his coach, but Maria knew better than to open Pandora’s Box again after they’d finally got the lid shut.)
“Very well, Mrs. Ellsworth, what is this church you have found, which I will stretch my town legs to the utmost to reach?”
“Will you?” Setting down her fork, her hands gathered in delighted fists.
“Because it’s charming! It stands on its own little island in the middle of the street!
Not Cornmarket Street, because I think the name changes there.
But the church is called St. Mary Magdalen.
And though we didn’t have time today, Della says just a little past it is St. John’s College, where the gardens and grove are lovely to walk—Gracious, Mr. Ellsworth! Are you all right?”
He waved his napkin, eyes bulging and face red.
Alarmed, Maria half stood. Did a chunk of cutlet lodge in his throat?
If he had been her brother Gordon, she would have flown around the table to administer bone-jolting thumps on the back (if he were not already being pounded upon by other family members), but with Mr. Ellsworth that seemed an unwarranted liberty. But if it were between that and death—?
To her unspeakable relief, the next instant he succumbed to an explosion of coughs, drawing loud gasps between fits, his eyes now streaming tears.
Thanking God, Maria sagged against the back of her chair.
If he could do so much, he was in no danger of expiring, and nothing she could do would speed his recovery.
In fact, had she been in his position, she would have wished with all her heart to be utterly ignored.
Attention would have only increased her mortification.
Therefore, after a hesitation, Maria noisily spooned another portion of turnips onto her plate.
Then she refilled her glass and his. She would have hummed a tune, if one had come to mind, which it didn’t, so instead she rearranged the serving dishes on the table.
Rundell had built a cozy fire, and Maria proceeded to admire it.
At last he began to grow quieter, the spells between his coughs stretching. Swabbing his face, he took a gulp of wine.
“Perhaps you might visit St. John’s gardens in the spring,” he rasped. “No need to walk so far for leafless trees and dormant prospects. Those can be found nearer at hand. Paradise Gardens, say, or Christ Church Meadow. Merton Grove.”
“Oh.” His use of “you,” rather than “we,” discomfited her. She had of course assumed they would attend church together, after which the gardens of St. John’s would only be a few hundred yards onward…
How difficult he was to read! Now friendly, now remote.
Now encouraging, now discouraging. Now let-us-be-friends, now go-and-walk-by-yourself!
When he was anything in the first category, Maria thought she liked him very much—possibly too much, considering his inconsistency and his attachment to another.
But when he put her off, she hardly knew what to think.
“Do you mean—you would not like to see the gardens?”
“No,” he said simply. “I would not. But you and your sister may enjoy them. And, on second thought, it might be wiser simply to attend church within our own parish. For as long as we will be living in Pembroke Street, these will be our neighbors, and it would be good to make their acquaintance.”
“That is a good point.” Maria did her best to sound sincere. It might have been true, but she was too conscious of the sting of rejection to consider it properly.
One thing was clear: if her primary goal was to win her husband’s affection (a task which might require years and possibly be a game not worth the candle), she must set a second, corollary goal for her own sake.
One more likely within reach and conducive to her own happiness: she must make a friend.
Because she knew already she didn’t want to wander Oxford alone, matronly freedom or no, and Adela was too occupied with the school and her three children to play her constant companion.
Yes. She would make a friend and conquer her husband’s heart, and all would be well.