Chapter Nine
I do desire we may be better strangers.
She awoke the following morning with her usual slowness, puzzled by her unfamiliar surroundings, only to have everything rush upon her mind. She was married! She lived in a strange place with a strange person in the next room, and there was nothing which could be done about it!
No—not nothing. That was right. She had made a mental list the night before, beginning after dinner when she sat with Mr. Ellsworth in their parlor, she sewing and he working at the desk on something related to his New College duties, until the tea was drunk and it was time to go to bed.
(Maria announced her retirement first, with an elaborate stretch and yawn, not that Mr. Ellsworth followed her with any haste.)
Now her list had two parts, one for the friend-making and one for the husband-winning.
Under friend-making, Maria put places she might go to meet this friend.
There were always ladies shopping in the High Street, but one couldn’t simply introduce oneself to strangers.
But she and Della on their walk had seen handbills posted, one for a concert hosted by the Oxford Ladies’ Musical Society, and another for a discussion of Mrs. More’s Coelebs in Search of a Wife.
Maria was not so sure about the latter, as she hadn’t read the book, and the “Ladies welcome!” trumpeted below the time and place made her think it might be mostly gentlemen gathered, but she intended to peep in, in any case.
And, if Adela could not join her, Maria hoped to borrow a young maid-servant or scullion from Keele’s for company.
How she would initiate a friendship when she lighted upon a promising person remained to be seen, but one must start somewhere.
And perhaps it was as well that the Ellsworths attend St. Aldate’s—surely there would be women in the congregation, and the clergyman might make introductions, once they made his acquaintance themselves.
So much for the friend-making.
The other was more complicated. If she knew what sort of young lady Mr. Ellsworth preferred, Maria could have taken Miss So-and-So for a model, but as it was…
Still, she could begin with what he did not like.
He did not like feeling beholden to his wife or wife’s connections.
He wanted to earn his own money and live within his means.
Very well. She could certainly be thrifty, and perhaps Lord Dere could be prevented from showering future bounty upon them.
She would write to her mother and ask her to drop hints to this end.
While avoiding further injury to Mr. Ellsworth’s pride would be a beginning, there must be more she could do in terms of allurement!
“Though,” she reminded herself, “if he prefers light hair to dark or blue eyes to brown, I can’t do a thing about it.
” All she could do about her appearance was ensure she was “neat and pretty,” as her mother would say when she kissed her good-morning.
And she could study him. Observe him. What did he like to read?
She could read it too, when he was gone.
What music did he like? They had no instrument, but she could hum and sing or even express her admiration for it.
He didn’t want to walk in St. John’s gardens?
So be it. They would walk where he wanted, go to church where he wanted.
There would be no more loud rows. And she would learn from his brother, if she could, what Mr. Ellsworth most enjoyed in the senior common room, so that his home became an extension of it.
By adapting herself as much as possible to him, he might soon tolerate her presence, and this toleration might then lead to him finding her agreeable, which might then pave the way in turn for affection to develop.
It never occurred to Maria that her plan, even if successful, could not be sustained in the long term.
That it would be impossible, continuously to suppress her opinions where they might be unpopular or unasked for, or to quash her own likes and dislikes, interests and disinterests.
Even if she had been more in the habit of denying herself, which had not been the case.
On the contrary. Life in a big family, though it called for constant compromises and negotiations, equally called for making one’s own preferences known, and the louder the better, if one was to have one’s proper turn.
But there being no shortcuts to gaining wisdom, Maria would have to take her course, as would her husband.
Leaping out of bed that first morning, she stumbled about drowsily, before realizing that her noise might wake Mr. Ellsworth.
Then she crept like a mouse to the mirror to remove her curl papers and prepare for the day.
Growing up with modest means had its benefits: her wardrobe, a few years behind the fashion, still featured round gowns which fastened in front, and she was used to dressing without assistance.
She had been glad of her sisters’ help for her wedding, of course, but on her own she could put her hair up trimly, leaving curls to frame her face beneath her batiste cap.
She hastened downstairs, thinking what a pleasant picture she would make for Mr. Ellsworth when he woke!
He would descend to find her seated before the fire, stitching away, the image of tranquility.
And so it would have been, except that, when she tripped into the parlor, she discovered she had been anticipated.
For there sat her husband, already dressed, seated in the exact chair she had intended to occupy, reading a book.
He rose at once, shutting the volume, color flooding his face as he greeted her.
Maria failed to note this response, however, because she had turned aside, taken aback by the unexpected and pleasant picture he had made.
Heaven knew what time Rundell had stolen in to build the fires, but the parlor blaze cast a warm glow upon his finely molded features and caused his black hair to shine in places.
He wore a dark blue coat and nankeen trousers, and one glimpse informed her that this coat was her favorite of those she had seen.
Mr. Ellsworth said very little at breakfast beyond small talk: the weather, how she slept, that Rundell would indeed send their letters, and so forth.
And with her resolutions in mind, and not knowing whether even this much conversation was wearisome to him so early in the day, Maria largely held her tongue.
They attended St. Aldate’s that morning, Mr. Ellsworth donning his academic gown of black stuff and Maria her cloak.
As she had expected, both the church building and congregation were a great deal larger than St. Mary the Virgin in Iffley, and the pew-opener directed them to seats toward the rear, the forward pews belonging to regular and well-known communicants.
The curate Mr. Withey was a slight, tired-looking man in a threadbare robe and surplice, but he had a lovely speaking voice which carried all the way to the back.
“Will St. Aldate’s do, Mrs. Ellsworth?” murmured her husband when the sermon concluded.
“Yes, indeed.” And so it would, although she wished there were more ladies there. From where she sat she counted a paltry handful, all of them her mother’s age or older.
After the Creed, Mr. Ellsworth continued in the same low voice, “The salary must be very small, to judge by Withey’s garments. Doubtless he makes ends meet by serving more than one cure.”
Because she had herself on a tight rein, Maria only thought, rather than spoke, her saucy reply: Poor Mr. Withey! If only he had had the good fortune to crawl into my bed—I’ll warrant he would not have complained about Lord Dere’s generosity.
Aloud she whispered, “Would you ever accept a curacy, Mr. Ellsworth?” He would look very handsome in a robe and surplice, and she thought his voice as good as Mr. Withey’s.
On the other hand, it was hard to imagine him sitting at the deathbeds of his fellow academics, prepared to usher them heavenward.
“Not one like this,” he answered. “There are easier ways to earn thirty pounds.”
“So there are,” she agreed. “For instance, you might volunteer to be coated in plaster six more times.”
To Maria’s surprise, Mr. Ellsworth muffled a snort, throwing her an amused glance, and her self-satisfaction soared. See? He could come to like her! If he allowed himself.
Nor did it injure her complacency when they made Mr. Withey’s acquaintance at the door, and he stared at her a moment, before blushing and stammering, “Hondered—that is, honored to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Ellsworth. And Mr. Ellsworth, of course. Mr. and Mrs. Ellsworth.”
“I do believe you’ve made a conquest, Mrs. Ellsworth,” her husband remarked when they regained the street.
They spent a quiet day, his last idle one before his duties recalled him to New College for the beginning of term.
If Mr. Ellsworth had refused her St. Mary Magdalen and the gardens of St. John’s, he seemed determined to make it up to her, taking her instead to Christ Church’s Broad Walk, a long gravel path planted on either side with elms (bare in winter) and, when they returned home, reading aloud to her as she worked on a long-neglected square of knitting.
And if she did not succeed in making him laugh again, she at least did not provoke him. Mrs. Chop had no need to knock any brooms against the ceiling, and Maria hoped their good conduct would eventually make the landlady forget how they had begun.