Chapter Nineteen
There is nothing better than a bosome friend with whome to conferre.
The day after the assembly Maria found herself unexpectedly alone. She woke in the bed, later than usual after their late hours, and hurried downstairs to find her husband and mother-in-law just finishing breakfast.
“Dear me!” she apologized. “How lazy the two of you make me look!”
“I would sleep and sleep too, if I had danced every dance as you did, and if I did not naturally wake up so early now,” Mrs. Ellsworth soothed her. She placed her knife and fork atop her plate and began to pat her fingertips with her napkin.
“You will be all right, won’t you?” Benjamin asked when he gave her his parting kiss on the ear. “I’ve been hired to tutor a couple lads from Nixon’s, then there’s a meeting of the Classics Society, and a formal hall I must attend, so I will be late in returning.”
“And I must make the visit I have been putting off all week,” Mrs. Ellsworth sighed.
“But I cannot think of returning to Winchester without having paid it. I would ask you to come with me, Maria, but Simonette is quite old and not very well, and I fear our gossip would be dull for you. Nor would she be comfortable telling me all her health woes if I bring my blooming daughter.”
“Of course, of course,” agreed Maria. “I am sorry I slept so long, though, if I am to miss you both. But I will write some letters and do some work and perhaps go and call upon my sister Adela again.”
She should have been crushed to spend the day by herself, after all the excitement of the assembly, but with her many plans, Maria secretly rejoiced.
It was the perfect opportunity to call upon Miss Hancock and Miss Allen again at St. John’s College, because what would be more natural than discussing the previous night?
She did feel a pang for not mentioning St. John’s in her plans for the day, but she assuaged this guilt by vowing to confess it later to her mother-in-law.
When the door had closed upon them, the first thing Maria did, however, was to ferret out the copy of Jackson’s Oxford Journal from the library case where she had stuffed it.
Perching in the window seat, she ran her finger down the columns, passing over news of the war, notices about leases and auctions, lotteries and lost mares.
Bankruptcies, publications, a subscription ball in Buckingham at the Cobham Inn…
and then, on the third page in the third column, just below the notice wherein Mrs. and Mistress Hills respectfully informed their friends, that “their SCHOOL will recommence, after the present recess, on Monday the 15th instant,” Maria found what she had been seeking.
“WANTED—a young lady of good morals and genteel education, as a companion to an elderly lady. For further particulars, apply by letter, post paid, addressed to the care of T. Cheney, Golden Cross Inn, Oxford, which will be duly attended to.”
Racing to the desk, Maria retrieved paper and her husband’s steel pen.
That was the easy part. But then, what did one say?
How exactly did one reply? Did “T. Cheney” require proof of genteel education, when Maria had only ever been taught by her mother and older sisters?
More worrying, would T. Cheney consider Maria’s hasty marriage evidence of questionable morals, or did T.
Cheney move in different circles which would not even be aware of it?
Because paper was expensive, she did not dare scribble her dozen possible replies, instead muttering her essays into the empty room while drawing idle circles around the advertisement.
At last, resigning herself to dissatisfaction, she carefully wrote, “Dear sir, I am a married lady of genteel education seeking employment as a companion, available from nine o’clock to two o’clock, Monday through Friday. Please address replies to M. E., care of the Angel Inn, Oxford.”
Maria had fretted over where she might receive correspondence.
Pembroke Street was out of the question, of course, as was the long-familiar Tree Inn in Iffley, and even Keele’s School might raise questions she was not yet prepared to answer, but the Angel Inn seemed safe.
It was so busy an establishment and one so well known to her that she felt no qualms about going there for her mail.
And she could save on the postage for this missive by delivering it herself to Mr. T.
Cheney, care of the Cross Inn, for that establishment stood along the way to St. John’s College.
“Going out, Mrs. Ellsworth?” called Mrs. Chop, bustling from her parlor when Maria reached the ground floor. “Busy day for your family. You might take an umbrella.”
“Thank you. I will.”
“Need Rundell to put that in for you?” the landlady nodded at the letter in Maria’s hand.
“That won’t be necessary. I am going for a walk and will do it myself. Good day to you.”
The Golden Cross stood on Cornmarket, just past the Carfax and High Street. By this hour the morning coaches to London and Bath had gone, so when Maria passed under the gateway into the courtyard she did not need to dodge teams of horses or ostlers carrying heavy trunks.
“For T. Cheney, eh?” said the crabbed clerk at the desk, taking the letter and inspecting Maria impudently through his tiny round spectacles.
“Yes,” she replied, proud of how offhand she sounded. “Have there been many others?”
“For T. Cheney?”
For whom else? The King? But she gave a patient nod.
“Only one other, and that was at least ten days ago,” he shrugged. He tucked her letter in a slot and was called upon by the next customer, and the deed was done.
Only one other applicant? Maria could have hugged herself as she continued up Cornmarket, too pleased to mind the rain.
And if the advertisement remained in the newspaper, surely that other person had proven unacceptable.
Imagine if she were to get the position!
Would she tell Benjamin, or would it be more fun to surprise him with her wages?
Or suppose she took her wages and purchased a second sofa at one of the many auctions she had seen in the Journal?
Of course, it sounded quite dreary to spend hours a day, every day, with an elderly lady who was likely quite cross, but perhaps it need not be every day, and perhaps she would not be so very cross?
With such thoughts swirling, Maria found herself sooner than expected at the gate of St. John’s, and the porter recognizing her, she was the next minute being led again across the Front Quad to the President and Mrs. Marlow’s apartments.
Music carried to her ears when the maid preceded her into the elegant parlor, where she found Miss Allen at the harp, surrounded by a handful of gentlemen, all of whom were known to Maria after having danced with them at the assembly: Mr. Gleek (long like a pencil), Mr. Butchart (red-faced like a butcher), Mr. Hoppe (stocky and not at all hoppy), and Sir Redford Botte, an elegant man who never spoke but whose tailoring made up for the lack.
Indeed, Maria thought the only young men missing might be the Ellsworth brothers and George Denver!
Miss Allen’s fingers paused in their strumming as courtesies were exchanged, but it was clear to Maria that her appearance made little difference to anyone but Miss Hancock, who abandoned her seat and her needlework on the fringe of the circle to walk about the room with her.
“How glad I am you’ve come,” she said with a smile. “I was going to ask Verity if she wanted to call upon you, but then the first gentleman was announced and the next and the next! And now they will try to outlast each other.”
“How many conquests she has made,” Maria laughed. “But I feel I am owed some credit for her success because whenever I danced with any of those young men, I said something complimentary about her.”
“Did you really? How generous of you! At least, you were more generous than I, because even having gained George’s heart, it never occurred to me to try to add to Verity’s share.”
Maria liked Miss Hancock even better for her candor and gave her arm a swing. “So which one does her aunt Mrs. Marlow favor, with so many to choose from?”
“Guess.”
“The baronet, I suppose? He certainly has an air, and his coat is so fine I almost wish I were a man, that I might wear it.”
“Isn’t he terrifying?” whispered Miss Hancock, stifling a giggle.
“When I danced with Sir Redford I became as clumsy as George. And I was grateful he never spoke because I accidentally stepped on his toes and his grimace was bad enough.” She winced in imitation. “But yes, Mrs. Marlow likes him best.”
“And he clearly likes Miss Allen, or he wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, if he does have another reason for calling, we’ll never learn it from him.”
The girls smothered another burst of amusement.
“I am surprised she does not look more triumphant, however,” Maria resumed, “Sir Redford being such a catch, to say nothing of the others.”
“Mm.”
“Perhaps none of them are to her taste?”
“Mm,” grunted Miss Hancock again, if young ladies can be said to grunt. Then, with a glance back at Miss Allen entertaining her swains, she gave a tug on Maria’s arm. “Come look at this view, Mrs. Ellsworth.”
Oh, no no no, thought Maria. She is going to tell me Miss Allen loves none of these men because she loves B— And, to forestall the words being spoken, she hissed, “Does she prefer the absent Mr. Eddings, then?”
“Mr. Eddings?” echoed Miss Hancock with unfeigned surprise.
She waved a hand in dismissal. “I tease her about him, but she only danced with him to spite her mother. He is a distant cousin, and from what I understand there has been a rift with that side of the family for decades. Something about Mr. Eddings’ father swindling Mr. Marlow’s father out of a piece of property, or some such. ”