Chapter 2 #2
By the fourth draft, her fingers were ink-stained and her patience threadbare, but something about remembering the gentleman in the bookshop, how he'd dismissed her initially, then had been forced to respect her knowledge, sparked not anger exactly, but determination.
She wouldn't apologize or lecture; she would simply be better qualified than any other applicant.
Your Grace,
In response to your request seeking a cataloguer for your library, I wish to submit my application for consideration.
I possess fluency in Latin, Greek, French, and Italian, with sufficient German for translation purposes.
My education encompasses classical and modern literature, history, philosophy, and theology, gained through extensive private study with Professor Emeritus Blackwood of Oxford, whose letter of recommendation I enclose.
My practical experience includes the complete cataloguing and organization of my late father's library of three thousand volumes, employing a cross-referencing system by subject, author, and date of publication.
I have completed numerous translations, including a rendering of Plutarch's "On the Education of Children.”
I enclose samples of my work and I am prepared to submit to any examination of my capabilities you deem necessary. I am available for interview at your convenience.
I remain, Your Grace, your obedient servant,
She paused, her quill pen hovering over the paper at this moment of decision. She could sign it clearly, "Miss Eveline Whitcombe," and likely have her application dismissed unread, or...
The pen moved almost of its own accord:
E. Whitcombe
There. Let him assume what he would, Edmund, Edward, Everett, E... could be anything. If her qualifications were sufficient for a man, why should they be insufficient for a woman? She would get her interview on merit, not be dismissed on prejudice.
However even as she sealed the letter, she wondered what would happen when the Duke discovered her deception. Would he be amused, outraged, would those cold eyes that society whispered about flash with anger or something else entirely?
She stopped herself mid-thought, because all these thoughts were entirely irrelevant to her purpose. This was about books, employment and nothing more.
Still, as she prepared the packet with her samples, the Plutarch translation, the Homer analysis, even a rather clever piece on Ovid that Professor Blackwood had particularly praised, she found herself thinking of the bookshop gentleman again, remembering the way he'd genuinely laughed, when she'd described Mr. Harland's agricultural courtship attempts.
She'd probably never see him again, as London was vast and men like that, clearly wealthy, probably titled, didn't frequent the same circles as impoverished bluestockings. But somehow, preparing this application felt connected to that encounter, as if his dismissal had catalyzed something larger.
You're quite the philosopher, Miss...?
He'd never gotten her name, which was just as well, because men like that didn't need to know the names of sharp-tongued spinsters who accosted them in bookshops.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Eveline?" Her mother entered, carrying tea and wearing that particular expression that suggested she already knew everything. "You missed supper."
"I was working."
Her mother glanced at the sealed packet on the desk with the air of someone confirming suspicions. "The application?"
There was no point in prevaricating when her mother had a sixth sense for secrets. "Yes."
"To the Duke of Everleigh?"
"Yes."
Her mother sat down, arranging her skirts with the careful precision that always indicated she was thinking deeply. "Your father would be horrified."
Eveline's shoulders sagged. "I know."
"He would also," her mother continued with a small smile, "be secretly proud, because he didn't educate you to waste that education on embroidery samplers."
"Truly?"
"Oh, he'd forbid it, certainly. But late at night, when he thought I was asleep, he used to worry about what would become of you. 'Too clever for her own good,' he'd say, 'too clever for this world.'"
A lump formed in Eveline's throat. "I miss him."
"As do I, every day." Her mother reached over to squeeze her hand with gentle understanding. "Send your application, my dear, but be prepared for disappointment, as the world rarely rewards women who refuse to stay in their prescribed places."
"I'd rather be disappointed for trying than for never trying at all."
"Spoken like your father's daughter." Her mother stood with a rustle of silk. "Though perhaps don't mention this to Charles just yet, as you know how he fusses."
After her mother left, Eveline stared at the sealed packet that contained either her future or her folly. Tomorrow she would post it, and then she would wait to see if the Duke of Everleigh, whoever he was, would look past the careful ambiguity of "E. Whitcombe" to see the qualifications beneath.
She thought again of grey eyes and sardonic smiles in a bookshop, and how that gentleman would probably laugh if he knew what she was attempting. A woman, applying to organize a duke's library, the absurdity of it all.
But then, she'd made him acknowledge her intelligence, hadn't she? Made him admit his assumptions were wrong, and if she could do that with a random stranger in a bookshop, perhaps she could do it with a duke through a carefully worded letter.
Perhaps.
The next morning dawned grey and drizzling, fitting weather for posting a letter that might change everything or nothing at all. Eveline walked to the post office herself, unwilling to trust such important correspondence to a servant who might gossip about the address.
"Special delivery?" the clerk asked, noting the quality of the paper.
"Regular post will suffice." Special delivery would seem too eager, too desperate, too much like someone trying too hard to be noticed.
"Very good, miss."
And with that mundane exchange, it was done. Her application was winging its way to Everleigh Manor, where it would land on some assistant's desk and probably be dismissed as the ramblings of an overeducated nobody.
Or perhaps not.
Perhaps E. Whitcombe would intrigue someone, mayhap those qualifications would outweigh the eventual surprise, perhaps...
"You're wool-gathering in the middle of the street," a familiar voice said.
Eveline turned to find Harriet, armed with an umbrella and a concerned expression that suggested she'd been lying in wait.
"It's done," Eveline said simply. "I've sent it."
"Oh, Evie." Harriet linked their arms with the air of someone preparing to offer comfort for an inevitable disaster. "Well then, we'd better go to Gunter's and eat an obscene amount of ice while we wait for either triumph or disaster."
"It's ten in the morning."
"Impending social ruin calls for ice at all hours."
As they walked, Eveline wondered what the Duke was like; cold, society said, proud and bitter from his broken betrothal, the sort of man who'd probably burn her application the moment he discovered her deception.
But then, society said a lot of things. They said women couldn't understand Latin, shouldn't read philosophy, mustn't aspire to more than marriage and motherhood, and so many other things that Eveline disagreed with.
"You're smiling," Harriet observed with suspicion. "That's either very good or very bad."
"I'm imagining the Duke's face when he realizes E. Whitcombe isn't Edmund or Edward."
"He'll probably have an apoplectic fit."
"Quite possibly." Eveline's smile widened with anticipation. "Won't that be interesting? But in all honesty, it is far too unlikely that I shall even be considered.”