Chapter Twenty-One
“What you assert,” he said, “upon your honour, requires no other testimony.”
Maria was not kept long in suspense by T. Cheney. She managed to wait until two days had passed before walking to the Angel Inn, Mrs. Ellsworth accompanying her as far as a bookseller’s in the High Street.
“This came yesterday,” the clerk informed her, placing the letter on the counter in exchange for her tuppence.
Maria spent another precious minute putting in Miss Hancock’s reply to a schoolteacher position, but when it was done she hurried away.
Supposing T. Cheney had wanted to see her this morning, and she had missed it!
Here was another stumbling block, for she had given no thought to such things.
Could she ask Adela to write one? Surely not, because T.
Cheney would doubtless ask Maria’s relation to Mrs. Gerald Weatherill of Keele’s School, and confessing they were sisters was probably worse than presenting no testimonial at all.
Lord Dere would have been perfect, but Maria did not dare to write to him because Mrs. Dere would find out, sure as sixpence, and give him no end of grief. Mrs. Terry the rector’s wife, perhaps?
Turning on her heel, Maria was on the point of dashing back to the Angel Inn to request pen and paper when the cooler hand of reason stopped her.
Why, even if she could compose a note to Mrs. Terry on the spot, it would be the next day at the earliest when she would receive a reply, and she did not wish to wait another whole day, lest T.
Cheney fill the post. And how could she possibly scribble the first words which came to mind, when she must surely explain why she wanted a testimonial, and that could only be done—if it were done—after she made all the necessary apologies for the disgrace she had brought upon herself which prevented her walking into the village and presenting her request in person, etc.
etc.! Not to mention, Mrs. Lamb the postmistress would see the letter and certainly have something to say about it, and then Mrs. Terry would be put in the unfair position of having to keep Maria’s secret whether she approved of it or not.
No.
It could not be done.
Stuffing the letter in her pocket, she sighed, staring unseeingly at the usual hubbub of the innyard.
She would simply have to appear in Bear Lane with no testimonials. If T. Cheney sent her away with a flea in her ear, so be it.
“Oh—I do beg your pardon.”
The speaker was not addressing Maria but rather one of the passing ostlers, who staggered under the weight of a trunk.
All the same, when Maria glanced over, her eyes flew wide and she hastily shrunk behind a post. For what could Miss Verity Allen be doing here?
Had she discovered her cousin’s secret already and hoped to intercept her letters?
Keeping out of sight, Maria watched Miss Allen leave the innyard to take her way along the High Street, but she didn’t dare follow because the girl turned and glanced back more than once.
Only when she calculated Miss Allen would be past University College did she finally set out herself for the bookseller’s.
“Did you receive a reply?” asked Mrs. Ellsworth when they were reunited.
“I intend to go this very afternoon,” Maria declared after all had been explained. “Because suppose someone else applied but went yesterday! I have already lost a day.”
“If it is not this one there will be another,” Mrs. Ellsworth assured her.
But Maria was too anxious to believe this, and she begged her mother-in-law to pose practice questions to her in the remaining hours until she could describe her education and explain her lack of testimonials without too much fumbling.
“I had better be there right at two,” she announced, when the clock chimed at a quarter to the hour. “Because I want to be back before dinner, or I will have to explain to Benjamin where I was.”
“Go then, my dear. Go. You will be good for nothing until you do. And I will sit at the window on tenterhooks until you return.”
14 Bear Lane proved to be a five-minute walk from Pembroke Street, and very near Keele’s.
A good thing, since Maria did not want to arrive early, so she spent some of the extra minutes walking back and forth between the two.
If T. Cheney employed her, she might stop at Keele’s every day afterward and tell Adela how it had gone!
Soon enough the many bells and clocks of Oxford began to sound, and when Maria trusted it was well and truly two o’clock, she returned to 14 Bear Lane and knocked.
A round maid answered who eyed Maria up and down, took her name and her business, and marched her down the passage. Flinging open the door to a small, old-fashioned parlor lined with dark wood, she bellowed, “Mrs. Benjamin Ellsworth to see you, Miss Cheney.”
Miss Cheney reminded Maria of a bedpost, being tall and straight, with pale eyes and hair almost the same shade as her sallow skin. She wore a dress of browny-yellowy poplin slightly darker than the rest of her, and the general effect was not one of youth or health.
“You’re married, then,” said Miss Cheney when they were seated, Maria on the front edge of her chair, which proved to be a mistake because the legs were uneven, and it rocked. Clump clump!
“Yes,” Maria replied, trying unobtrusively to slide a few inches back on the seat. Clump clump!
“And does your husband have a profession?”
“He is a fellow at New College for one more year. We were only recently wed.”
Maria hoped Miss Cheney would not ask too many questions on this subject, and she was relieved to see the woman give one short nod which might possibly have indicated satisfaction.
“You brought your testimonials?”
“I’m afraid not. I haven’t held a post before, so I haven’t any testimonials, but I can write to the rector’s wife for one, if you will wait a few days.”
“Rector’s wife?”
“Yes. Mrs. Alan Terry. Mr. Terry is the rector of St. Mary the Virgin in Iffley.” Clump—(Maria tried to keep her weight in place to prevent the second clump, but she failed and fell back) clump.
“I see. You have never been a lady’s companion, then, or a governess or a teacher?”
“No. But I come from a large family, and we were always entertaining ourselves with reading or music or needlework or games. And, of course, walks.” She did not think Miss Cheney sought a companion for herself, although her age was difficult to determine.
Surely she did not consider herself “elderly”?
All soon became clear. “My mother has lost much of her undulation and mobility,” said Miss Cheney.
“She is somewhat hard of hearing as well, so reading to her would be difficult, but she can hear music when it is played fortissimo.” She nodded toward the upright pianoforte in the corner, which being also made of dark wood and currently shut up, had escaped Maria’s notice. “Do you play, Mrs. Ellsworth?”
“I do, but I have grown a little rusty from having no instrument at present on which to practice.”
“I give music lessons myself,” continued Miss Cheney.
“Here, mainly. But I could take on more pupils if I could call on them. That is, if I had someone to keep Mama company two or three mornings a week, for, say, three hours per day. She had a stroke of palsy at Christmas—her second. She can understand but not talk much. Would that make you uncomfortable?”
Did this mean she wanted to hire her? Not wanting to assume, Maria merely looked her willingness and said, “I understand. Er—my late father had a stroke of palsy.” Before he died, she meant.
“Really what Mama most desires is not to be left alone,” Miss Cheney explained.
“She adores company. I have three siblings who take it in turns to call upon her—well—two of them call, but their visits are not regular enough for me to depend on them. Therefore a companion to sit with her at the same time every week. She will listen to music; she will listen to you talk about anything you like, since she won’t catch much of it; she will look out the window; and then she will likely doze. ”
“I see.”
“If you were found suitable,” Miss Cheney went on in the same stiff manner, “I would propose two shillings per three-hour day. I keep short accounts and would pay promptly at the end of every week. What would you say to such terms?”
With an effort Maria tried to hide her eagerness. Two shillings per day! Why, if she worked three days every week, that would be six shillings, and in a month she would have saved over a pound!
“They sound quite reasonable,” she managed.
Miss Cheney unbent the slightest degree, and Maria almost thought her lip trembled. “Then let me fetch Mama.”
The next moment the maid (now introduced as Molly) held open the parlor door, and Miss Cheney wheeled in her mother’s chair.
Maria produced her most cheerful smile, though, in truth, she was intimidated by Mrs. Cheney’s crumpled person.
It was as if her daughter had stolen the mother’s backbone to reinforce her own.
The old lady was neat, however, silver curls tucked in a clean cap and eyes friendly.
Or one eye, rather. The lid was half shut over the other.
“This is Mrs. Ellsworth,” shouted Miss Cheney. “If you like her, she might come to sit with you from time to time. She can play the pianoforte.”
At that Mrs. Cheney visibly brightened, and Miss Cheney stalked at once to open the instrument. “Will you, Mrs. Ellsworth? I know you say you are out of practice, but it need not be a complicated piece—only loud.”
Thankfully, Maria had any number of country dances at her fingers’ ends, all of which she had played a hundred times at Perryfield for her family’s enjoyment, so she sat right down and thundered out a few rounds of Childgrove, followed by the Parson’s Farewell.
When she lifted her hands again and turned on the seat, she discovered old Mrs. Cheney not only smiling (with most of her teeth intact, thank goodness), but even beating a hand on the arm of her chair and humming tunelessly.