Miss Grimsleys Oxford Career Read Online Free

Ellen decided. Perhaps Aunt Shreve would relinquish two bottles of Fortaleza without a murmur; perhaps Horatia would reconsider and let her be a bridesmaid after all, even if her small stature did upset the symmetry of the other, taller cousins and friends. Perhaps when the wedding was over and Horatia shot off, Mama would relax for a season and not scold and berate her younger daughter because she made no push to secure a husband for herself among the eligibles of the district.
    I am too short for a Grimsley and I have no hunting instincts
, she thought as they stood still and watched Papa race toward the hounds and riders that milled about on a distant, smoky hillside, waiting for the dogs to recapture the scent.
    Brother and sister stood close together and watched the hunters. They leaned forward and listened and then smiled to each other when the hounds began to bay again. Soon the pack, followed by the pink-coated riders, disappeared over the hill.
    The field was theirs again. Ralph sat down on a sun-warmed rock. “I will wait for you here, El,” he declared, and then made a face. “After this morning, I haven't the fortitude for the scold Aunt Shreve is going to give you.”
    Ellen grinned. “Coward!”
    Ralph nodded, unruffled. “Shakespeare would call me a ‘whey-faced loon.’ ”
    Ellen waved to him and hurried toward the village.
    When she was out of sight, she slowed her steps.
Why did I promise Papa that dratted Fortaleza?
she thought.
    She remembered the reading of Grandfather's will, with all the relatives assembled, black and sniffling, or at least holding handkerchief to nose in a show of sorrow.
    Not that anyone had loved Grandfather overmuch before he cocked up his toes. He was a testy old rip who pinched the maids, scandalized his daughter, and infuriated his son by outliving his usefulness. To the best of her recollection, Ellen was the only grandchild to mourn his loss. She missed his stories of battles fought, creditors outrun, and fortunes won and lost and won again.
    She missed him still, even four years after his death. At eighteen, she still mourned the loss of the only relative who had not gawked and gasped when she did not fulfill the promise of her Grimsley heritage and grow to elegant heights. He had not scolded her, as if complaints would add one inch to her stature. He had thoughtfully matched his stride to hers and they had walked and talked over the Cotswold hills until he died.
    She thought again about the will, written in Grandpapa's crabbed handwriting and changed and changed again as relatives fell short of the mark. In a final show of pique against her father, Grandfather had evenly divided all his possessions except land between his only surviving son and daughter, right down to the half case of Fortaleza.
    Ellen closed her eyes, seeing again Papa storming out of the solicitor's office, cheated out of entitlements he felt were rightfully his, muttering about the perfidy of a sister he could name. Aunt Shreve, stung by his anger, had taken instant exception to his blathering and closed her door to him.
    “And mind you, Ellen Grimsley,” Aunt Shreve said a half hour later as Ellen sat in her aunt's cozy sitting room on Porter Street. “Your father sets too great a store by Horatia's wedding to that peabrained excuse of a son and heir to Sir Reginald Bland. A baronet!”
    She spat out the word, as if the tea she sipped suddenly displeased her. “What is that to anything? Grimsleys have managed for centuries without titles in the family and done quite well thank you. Does my brother do this so he can smile and nod and play the fool and introduce his son-in-law, the son of a baronet, to his horse-dealing cronies? I ask you.”
    Ellen knew better than to interrupt a Grimsley tirade, even if this particular Grimsley had long been wedded and widowed by a Shreve. She folded her hands patiently in her lap.
    “And such a collection of foolish parts is our dear Edwin!” Aunt Shreve