Chapter Twelve
Railing is usually a relief to the mind.
The next morning, when her husband took courteous leave of her, saying he would try to return earlier than the day before, Maria smiled and replied with equal courtesy, and then watched from the window until he turned the corner into St. Aldate’s Street and disappeared from view.
Then she threw on her cloak and dashed down the stairs before Mrs. Chop or Miss Pork or Rundell could intercept her.
She had forgotten her pattens in her haste, but fortunately it had not rained the night before, so that she only slipped once or twice in frosty spots as she hurried up Cornmarket to the Weatherills’ school.
“Miss Bar—Mrs. Ellsworth!” exclaimed the maid Paulson when she answered the door.
“Good morning. Is Mrs. Weatherill home?”
Della was, and already in the middle of her day’s work, her children clamoring about her while she discussed the menu with the school cook and Bonkers with the nurse.
“Yes, mince the roast, but better leave the potatoes plain because you know at the moment Chester will only eat foods which are not mixed or touching each other, and that way he will at least not starve. Yes—dear me, Nurse—that is indeed another tooth coming. No wonder he is so cross! Where is his gum-rubber? Here, you take him and Ranulph too. Now, now, Bonkers, you will do very well. Here’s a kiss.
And Ranulph, you can tell Mama what you learn today.
Go on. Kiss kiss.” At last she turned to her sister, beaming. “Maria! I was just thinking about you.”
“Were you?” Maria wondered, returning her embrace. “I am amazed you had a moment’s peace in which to do so.”
“Whatever do you mean? Come, sit down. It’s just the start of term.
Now that Gerry has returned to his lessons Ranulph has been lonely, but I told Nurse to give him the primer and a slate, and I daresay he will know as much as his brother, if only because he hates to be left behind.
Come,” she coaxed again, patting the chair nearest her.
“Tell me how you are liking married life. Have you reconciled? Does he love you yet? I’m afraid we will be interrupted shortly because one of the pupils is late in returning.
It seems Davey’s entire family caught a dreadful cold during the Christmas vacation, so he and his parents only arrive today by the ten o’clock coach.
They don’t like him to travel by himself anymore, after some unscrupulous waiter ate most of the meal they ordered for him beforehand the last time… ”
Thus bidden and afraid her tale would be cut short by this Davey’s arrival, Maria hurried to unburden herself: the exchange of apologies; how he did not think she would meet his parents until the long vacation; his peculiar behavior about which church to attend and how they ended at St. Aldate’s; how lonely she would be; Mrs. Terry’s news—
“—And so of course I was eager to meet this Miss Hancock because then I might have a friend my age. I went straightaway to St. John’s,” she continued at breakneck speed, “only to learn Miss Hancock is the cousin of a Miss Allen, who is the daughter of the president of the college!”
“My goodness! Well—then you and Miss Hancock should get on well,” Adela remarked, “both of you knowing what it is like to be a young lady of modest means, with connections richer than herself.”
“But that’s just it, Della,” wailed Maria. “Miss Hancock and I cannot be friends at all! In fact, I can never see her again because I learned—I learned—I learned Miss Allen is the selfsame young lady Mr. Ellsworth loves!”
Before Adela could find words, Maria went on, hardly pausing for breath, as if the sheer relief of confession robbed her of all power to stop.
At last, at last, when all was told, down to the moment she fled St. John’s grounds, she fairly collapsed against her sister’s shoulder.
“You see, Della? Why I may not pursue the friendship with Miss Hancock? But when Mr. Ellsworth got from me that I had called upon her, he suggested we invite George and Miss Hancock to dinner! Even if I could invite her without inviting Miss Allen, Miss Hancock would inevitably talk of Miss Allen, and all would be lost.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” her sister assured her.
“Absolutely. No more Miss Hancock. If George or Mrs. Terry ask about it, Mama or I will simply have to explain. Oh! I cannot believe you told Miss Allen the circumstances of your marriage! Not that it could be avoided. I understand, sweeting, but—oh!” She had her arm around Maria and patted her frantically.
“And if Mr. Ellsworth asks again, you must say Gerard and I hoped you would dine with us first, but we will take our time about it until he forgets you ever mentioned any Miss Hancock.”
Nodding, Maria could have wept with gratitude and comfort. “Because Mr. Ellsworth cannot fall in love with me if he is to see Miss Allen again around every corner, can he?”
“Exactly. And he must love you. We all insist.” With a glance at the mantel clock, Adela drew a quick breath.
“Davey and his parents will be here any minute because the coach puts them down at the Golden Cross. Come, dear. Smooth your hair and dress. But before you go, tell me: what did Miss Allen look like? Anything like you?”
A few minutes later Maria let herself out, and just in time, for she saw a gentleman with a boy in tow striding purposefully toward the school. She felt better, however. A thousand times better, and Della had said she might come back in the afternoon if she wanted to talk again.
Her good mood lasted precisely three minutes, the time it took her to return to Pembroke Street and open the door with her key.
“Mrs. Ellsworth!” called Mrs. Chop before she could reach the stairs.
The aproned landlady scurried into the passage where Maria met her with a polite smile.
“Mrs. Ellsworth, when Rundell carried up your breakfast and the post, I’m afraid this letter fell off the tray.
I discovered it after you’d already gone and was going to have her slip it under your door, but she’s blacking the stove, and that’s a long, dirty job, you know.
But I knew you wouldn’t want to wait for this one, seeing as it’s from your new family—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Chop,” interrupted Maria, plucking the letter from the good woman’s fingertips.
Mrs. Chop clicked her tongue regretfully, her eyes having accustomed themselves to the habitual dimness of the passage.
“Forgot your pattens, I see? Don’t fret about those puddles you’ve made.
Rundell will get to them. Good thing Mr. Ellsworth won’t be back for hours, or he might slip in the wet.
” But Maria was already halfway up the stairs, calling back her apologetic thanks.
The letter was indeed from Mr. Ellsworth’s family.
With trembling fingers Maria carried it to the window in the parlor to examine the direction.
“To Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Ellsworth,” it read.
To the both of them. The postmark indicated it had come either from or via London, and the seal bore an emblem of a shield with three roses, crowned by a bishop’s mitre.
Nothing she recognized, but she suspected this might be from her husband’s wealthy Ellsworth cousins because didn’t only wealthy people and noblemen have seals?
It must be a word of congratulations, for which reason they included her. Still, she hesitated to open it.
Propping the letter on the mantel, she tried to ignore it.
Ignore it while she sewed.
Ignore it while she wrote to her mother and then to Mrs. Terry.
Ignore it while she read a book.
Ignore it while she ate her dinner.
Suppose Mr. Ellsworth lingered in the senior common room for hours, absorbed in a particularly interesting conversation or game? He had said he would return earlier, but—
Suppose his cousins had written to him to say somebody was dying, and Maria just let the news sit there unknown, and the person died before Mr. Ellsworth could get there?
No, no. They would write to his brother Austin as well, surely.
And then Mr. Ellsworth would come thundering up the stairs to announce he must be gone on the next coach.
But—wait—what if they only wrote to her husband because he was the older brother, and they wanted to save both brothers having to pay for the postage?
“This must be how Mrs. Lamb the postmistress feels,” Maria murmured, “if a letter arrives from an unknown correspondent containing unknown tidings for someone in Iffley. I have been too hard on her.”
The next thing she knew, she was standing beside the mantel with the letter in hand, but as the little Dutch clock chimed the hour, she was saved from her own curiosity by the return of her husband, a full hour earlier than the previous day.
With a start, Maria dropped the letter and lunged for her work, so that when Mr. Ellsworth appeared, he found her knitting peacefully in the window seat, her heightened color and a dropped stitch the only signs of her discomposure.
With a second start (this one counterfeited), she looked up and smiled.
“Ah. Good evening, Mr. Ellsworth. I—hope you passed a pleasant day.” Then she remembered she was supposed to be trying an experiment of Miss Allen’s reserve (stop smiling at him like a puppy begging for attention!) and therefore, without waiting for a reply, resumed her work.
The droop of his shoulders escaped her notice. To his polite greeting she gave an equally polite acknowledgement, and his reciprocal question about her own day received a similarly brief and courteous answer.
“Oh,” she then added with studied nonchalance. “Mrs. Chop gave me a letter which was left off Rundell’s tray this morning. It—is addressed to both of us, but I thought I would let you open it. Er—there. On the floor by the fire. It must have fallen down.”