Chapter Ten
He that hath knowledge spareth his words.
Maria did not hesitate.
It gave her a funny little twinge, though, to think of George Denver getting engaged.
George, whom she herself had considered!
Not considered seriously, but considered all the same.
The thought of St. John’s College gave her a second little pinch because her husband had been so odd about it, but though he balked at walking so far himself, surely there could be nothing wrong with Maria going?
It was not as if she had anything else to do.
She had no household to manage yet. No servants to supervise.
No menus to approve. Her mother had given her a little book to keep accounts, and she had duly written the month’s rent and the day’s postage in it.
She had no pianoforte on which to practice.
She had written her letters, and the evening would provide plenty of time for sewing.
This time she strode up Cornmarket with purpose, neither meeting the eyes of the passing men nor avoiding them timidly.
With the start of term the streets were thronged and the coaches pulling into the Golden Cross so full that outside passengers clung to the roofs like barnacles to a hull.
The clink of her pattens blended with the general din of walkers, riders, drivers, vendors, and the ringing of Oxford’s many bells.
Only when she reached the carved wooden doors of St. John’s in their Gothic archway did her eagerness flag, for there before the porter’s lodge stood a pair of women holding baskets, one with clean linens and the other with foodstuffs.
They hushed and moved aside to let her approach, running critical eyes over her.
Nodding at them, she said to the round man in the lodge, “Mrs. Ellsworth to call upon the Marlows.”
“President and Mrs. Marlow?” asked the porter.
Confused by her possible faux pas, Maria fumbled out, “Er—yes. Thank you. President and Mrs. Marlow. Though I am actually hoping to see a Miss Hancock who is staying with them.”
“Miss Allen’s new companion,” spoke up the woman with the food basket, addressing the bedmaker rather than Maria. “Poor relation, poor creature.”
“There are worse things,” pshawed the other. “Wish I had rich relations to be a poor relation to.”
Laughing, they passed into the Front Quad.
“Eddie,” roared the porter to a skinny boy in clothing too small for him. “Go and announce Mrs. Ellsworth.” He frowned at Maria. “You have a card, ma’am?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Eddie scampered away, returning before Maria even perused half the notices and advertisements posted in the gloom. Items lost. Candlemas Feast and Concert.
“You’re to come with me, ma’am.”
He led her across the quadrangle to its eastern side while Maria pretended not to see the curious looks thrown her way by the gowned students and dons passing. At the door he gave it a quick rap before dragging off his cap, bowing, and abandoning her to her fate.
An ancient maid led Maria to the drawing room which, though not as large as Perryfield’s, boasted equal elegance, from its sycamore Sheraton furniture, seats upholstered in yellow brocade and surfaces inlaid with satinwood, to the fancy plasterwork and gilt sconces.
In one corner stood a harp and an upright piano, and countless books filled cases and shelves.
It would have been a room she delighted to inspect more closely, but as it was she had little attention to give it, for two young ladies and an older woman waited to receive her.
Maria’s eye flew first to the young ladies, wondering which was George’s beloved—the tall, gawky one who smiled shyly, or the honey-haired beauty whose lips pressed into a line?
“Mrs. Ellsworth,” the older woman addressed her, when they rose from their curtseys.
“I am Mrs. Marlow. You must excuse my husband—he is at Convocation for the start of term. This is my niece Miss Allen and our cousin Miss Hancock. Miss Hancock tells me you are a family friend of her intended, Mr. George Denver.”
“Yes,” replied Maria, taking the chair indicated by Mrs. Marlow.
She smiled from sheer relief that Miss Hancock was not the more intimidating one.
“And I do apologize for intruding upon you without a prior introduction. It is just, I am new to Oxford myself, and Mrs. Terry—Mr. Denver’s and my mutual friend—suggested I make Miss Hancock’s acquaintance. ”
Mrs. Marlow nodded. She had taken up an elaborate piece of tapestry work. “You say you are new to Oxford? Are you from Littlemore, then, like Mr. Denver?”
“Iffley, madam. Mrs. Terry’s husband is the rector of St. Mary the Virgin in Iffley.
Mr. Denver boarded there when he was younger, at the same time that Mr. Terry taught my younger brother and—and Peter—though now Gordy and Peter are at Keele’s school for their final year.
” She trailed off at the end, having got in a muddle over whether or not to explain who Peter was, and if that would be boastful, and aware of having given a babbling answer to a simple question.
“I am very pleased to meet you,” blurted the gawky young lady.
“And I you, Miss Hancock. I—congratulate you on your engagement. We Barstows—that is, my family—we are all quite fond of Geo—of Mr. Denver.”
Then Miss Hancock actually glowed and looked pretty, her lips parting as if she would like to hear a great deal more of George Denver and why everyone loved him, but her cousin Miss Allen struck in with, “You call yourself a Barstow, Mrs. Ellsworth, so you must be married yourself, and rather recently.”
“Oh—yes. Yes, I am. That—is why I’m come to Oxford, though my family is still in Iffley.
Except for my eldest sister and her husband and children at Keele’s, you know.
” They didn’t know, as a matter of fact, and then there were all Maria’s family members who were neither in Oxford nor Iffley, but Maria shut off like a spigot, cursing herself for babbling again.
“There are Ellsworths at New College,” stated Mrs. Marlow, as if this might be news to Maria.
“I believe Dr. Gauntlett told Mr. Marlow about one who wrote a book a year or two ago, perhaps more. A collection of sample letters for young men, to aid them in various correspondence situations. You have heard of it?”
“I have,” said Maria. “Though I have not read the book myself or met the author. I intend to, however. The Ellsworths are a large family with more than one branch—” Again she broke off, scolding herself. For pity’s sake, answer her questions and then be quiet!
“The other New College Ellsworths are cousins of the author one, I believe?”
“Yes.” This time Maria managed the direct answer, but she had to grit her teeth in a smile to hold back the additional words which bubbled up.
“Weren’t you introduced to those cousins at the autumn assemblies, Verity?” Mrs. Marlow pursued, not pausing in her stitches. “Brothers, if I recall correctly.”
“Yes, Aunt,” replied her niece with a tiny shrug. “A Mr. Benjamin Ellsworth and Mr. Austin Ellsworth.”
“I remember. Pleasant young men, one dark and one with reddish hair. We saw the dark-haired one at church only a few weeks ago. Is your husband any relation to these Ellsworths, Mrs. Ellsworth? A cousin, perhaps?”
By this point something sharp and cold had pierced Maria’s midsection, seeming to pin her lung to her backbone so that her breath shortened.
Her mind had been working rapidly as she listened, sliding pieces into place.
Mrs. Marlow and her niece knew her husband already?
Mrs. Marlow and her niece of St. John’s College?
Pinching the palm of one hand with the fingers of the other, Maria tried to master herself.
This must be the mystery young lady, then, this Miss Verity Allen!
She must be the one Mr. Ellsworth had loved or did still love.
The one for whom he wanted his mother’s ring re-set.
This lovely, honey-haired creature sitting with her hands folded in her lap, surrounded by elegance and buoyed by her father’s rank and position.
Why, he would have had to save for years to marry her! The daughter of the college president? Years and years. Even longer than George will have to, to gain Miss Hancock.
The piercing discovery of the lady’s identity yielded with equal rapidity to something entirely different: a devouring curiosity.
Because all at once Maria wanted nothing more than to learn everything she could of this Miss Allen.
(Without her husband knowing anything of it.) If this person had won his heart, what could Maria learn from her? What could she imitate?
All these sensations and thoughts were the product of a few seconds, and then Maria heard herself speak.
“No, madam. That is, my husband is not a cousin to those Ellsworths you refer to because he is those Ellsworths. One of them, I mean. Whom you have met. The older, dark-haired one. He is Mr. Benjamin Ellsworth.”
Miss Allen’s brows rose.
“Your husband!” Mrs. Marlow blinked in surprise. “My goodness. He made no mention of any engagement, did he, Verity?”
“None at all,” answered her niece.
Maria had a choice to make. She could invent a story about how she and Mr. Ellsworth met, became engaged, and married, the last two steps taking place within the month, or she could tell something nearer the truth.
On second thought, was the choice already out of her hands?
If Mr. Marlow was even now at Convocation with the heads of other colleges, what was to prevent Dr. Gauntlett of New College from sharing every last detail of Benjamin Ellsworth’s scandalous marriage?
Of course the college heads must talk, in so small a universe as Oxford, where everyone knew everyone, if only to speak of.
And then, if Dr. Gauntlett’s story did not match with what Maria said now—
Why on earth had she and Mr. Ellsworth not thought to discuss what answer they would give those who asked?