Chapter Nine #2
To further her goal of winning him, Maria played a game with herself to see if she could be the very opposite of how she had been the day before.
Namely, she would wait to speak until he first spoke to her, and when she did speak, she would say nothing controversial.
Her family members would have been astonished by her endurance, for she lasted until they were drinking their tea that evening.
Then, he having removed to the desk to write letters and having said nothing for at least an hour, she could not wait any longer to have her own questions answered.
“Mr. Ellsworth,” she began, “As you will resume your duties at New College tomorrow, may I ask what I should expect from you? Will you go after breakfast and return for dinner, or will you take dinner in your common room, or even tea there?” She strove to sound only lightly curious, and not at all as if her new life yawned emptily before her.
Benjamin felt a surge of relief when she addressed him.
She had been so quiet all day that he had grown quiet in return, not knowing what to make of her reserve after their previous rows.
Had she not, in fact, pardoned him? Or was this her usual state, unless provoked?
Small talk had its place, but the possibility of decades of it daunted him.
They should try to get to know each other better, but that required mutual exertion, did it not?
He would have to pay better attention in the common room tomorrow, making note of what on earth people said to each other to fill the time. It had never seemed an arduous task before, but now, if supplying a lifetime’s worth of questions and topics fell to him alone—!
Perhaps they did need a dog. It would give them something to look at and remark on.
“I suppose each day might differ,” he answered presently.
“Certainly nothing begins until after chapel and breakfast, so I will not walk over until then.” In his straitened bachelor days, breakfast had rarely been more than toast and ale from the buttery, hardly tempting, compared to Mrs. Chop’s offerings.
This must be how it begins, he supposed. How one gets used to being a kept man.
“But what about chapel?” asked Maria. “If you are to keep your fellowship, mustn’t you attend?”
“In truth, attendance there can be…irregular,” Benjamin admitted. “Not only my own, but everyone’s. More conspicuous would be any absence from the procession and high table at dinner.”
“Then I will let Mrs. Chop know not to expect you,” she announced with the same forced cheerfulness.
“…That might last until four or five,” he continued, “followed by time spent in the senior common room. Altogether, I expect I would return between six and seven on an ordinary day.”
She nodded. “Before tea, then. Very well, I will ask them to make dinner lighter for just me, and then to include sandwiches with the tea because you will have eaten your dinner earlier in the day.” As she said this, she collected their empty cups, returning them to the tray for Rundell.
It felt essential that she escape the room as soon as possible.
Not that she meant to do anything so silly as to cry herself to sleep, but the urge was there.
“And—what will you do with your time, madam?” he asked, when she was at the door. “Will you call at Keele’s again?”
Even had no lump obstructed her throat she would have found confessing her hope of making a friend impossible and humiliating. Therefore, with a brief nod, she hurried toward the stairs.
Maria’s luck began to improve the very next morning, after Mr. Ellsworth departed and Rundell brought the post.
She read the letters from her mother and sisters first, comforted by their good wishes and their eagerness to hear from her, but it was the letter from Mrs. Terry, the Iffley rector’s wife, which changed everything.
“My very dear Mrs. Ellsworth,” she wrote, “you will doubtless be surprised that I should take up pen to write to you, the two of us never having boasted any especial friendship beyond the affection I feel for all Barstows and which your family (I pray) returns. Out of that general affection, however, I would like to express my regret that Mr. Terry could not perform your marriage ceremony, having known you from your childhood years, and I said as much to Mrs. Markham Dere. She believes the less said in Iffley about your union the better, for gossip’s sake, but I disagree with her.
I told her the secrecy and attempts to quash gossip only made it worse and that you had done nothing deserving censure.
For if we are to be held responsible for what happens to us when we lie unconscious and asleep, not even minding our own business, much less anyone else’s, what hope is there for anyone?
Mrs. Lamb the postmistress, for one, had been stirring the coals at every opportunity, you will understand, but I have shared my opinion with her as well, not without effect.
“In any event, Mrs. Ellsworth, be assured that I will continue to champion your cause and intend to invite you and your husband to dinner at the rectory before Easter, which falls late this year.
Much can be done in a few months to revive your reputation, and your mother and Mrs. Langworthy and I intend to do it.
By Easter, my dear, you will be free to visit Iffley again!
“Forgive me if I have disturbed you with my candor, Mrs. Ellsworth. Mr. Terry read what I have written so far and tells me I should strike the line about Mrs. Lamb. But I told him if you did not already guess how she would enjoy such a scandal, you were not as clever as I supposed.
“Let me conclude, however, with a bit of news I learned a few days ago which I hope will please you better: our own George Denver writes to say he is engaged! It will likely be a long engagement because his salary at St. Andrew’s is small, and his intended has no fortune, but you can imagine the rejoicing in the rectory for our beloved former pupil.
First a living, and now this! We have not yet met the young lady, and with his new responsibilities it may be some time before we do, but he tells us it happened very quickly.
George met Miss Hancock while she was visiting her grandmother in Headington, but she has since returned to Oxford to act as companion to her cousin.
Having been a poor relation and sometime companion myself in my younger years, I understand the difficulties Miss Hancock might face.
Mrs. Ellsworth—dear Maria—would it be too much to ask that you call upon her?
I beg you would and was even reckless enough to write to George and promise it!
If Miss Hancock might have one friend her age, it would make all the difference in the world.
Anyone our George likes must be a girl worth knowing, I am certain, and now (again, forgive me!) she will be expecting you…
“You may find her at St. John’s College, where her grandfather’s cousin or something of that sort is the president. You have only to ask for the Marlows.”