CHAPTER ONE THE INVISIBLE SCHOLAR #3
Eleanor turned another page. The sums were discouraging, but not impossible.
The Society had already gathered several manuscripts.
Beatrice had provided essays written under the name Benjamin Bell.
Sophia had collected anonymous accounts from governesses, maids and wives whose experiences respectable publishers would call unsuitable.
Amelia was preparing a guide to marriage settlements with the assistance of a sympathetic solicitor.
Frances had submitted a novel involving a widowed countess, a highwayman and an improbable quantity of French undergarments.
Eleanor had read half of it and suspected the highwayman’s principal criminal activity was the theft of female restraint.
“We begin with three publications,” she said. “Benjamin Bell’s collected essays, the legal guide and one translation.”
“Yours?”
Eleanor’s fingers paused upon the ledger.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because the translation I wish to publish currently bears my father’s name.”
Quinn rested one hip against the desk. “Then publish another.”
“Scholarship is not a pudding. One cannot simply prepare a fresh portion because the first was taken.”
“No, but printers are less particular than scholars. Give me a dead Greek no one has read in a century, and I shall give him a handsome title page.”
Eleanor smiled despite herself.
Quinn’s expression softened. “You should place your name upon something.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“When the work is mine beyond dispute.”
“It is yours now.”
“Truth and proof are not always the same thing.”
He had no answer to that. Eleanor moved toward the stack of manuscripts beside the wall.
She placed her hand upon the uppermost bundle and imagined the room filled with shelves, clerks and printed books carrying women’s names.
She wanted presses running below while writers argued above.
She wanted to pay women for work men dismissed as private amusement.
She wanted widows to publish without surrendering their income to male relatives and wives to record truths that could not be spoken at dinner.
Most of all, she wanted a place where no woman would be required to offer her mind through a man’s name before it could be taken seriously.
“We shall need a distributor outside London,” Quinn said. “Perhaps two. The usual booksellers will refuse anything touching marriage law or female property.”
“Then we shall sell through circulating libraries.”
“They are controlled by the same men.”
“Some are managed by their wives.”
“Who are controlled by the men.”
“Not as completely as the men imagine.”
Quinn considered her.
Eleanor looked toward the window. “Women carry books into houses men cannot enter. Governesses recommend novels. Ladies lend pamphlets. Maids send newspapers home to sisters. A work need not appear in a gentleman’s club to travel.”
“You intend to create a female conspiracy of booksellers.”
“I prefer the phrase distribution network.”
“It sounds less indictable.”
“That is generally useful.”
Quinn laughed. A carriage stopped in the alley below.
Eleanor glanced down and recognised the Calder crest. Several moments later, footsteps sounded upon the stairs.
Beatrice entered without waiting to be announced, copper-coloured hair bright beneath a dark bonnet and the expression of a duchess who had already argued with at least one person that morning.
Marriage had not made Beatrice quieter. Julian Blackwood’s title had merely given her more rooms in which to be difficult.
“Why is there a broken printing press blocking the staircase?” she demanded.
“Because it is too heavy to place upon the roof,” Quinn said.
“An answer both accurate and useless.”
Beatrice removed her gloves and looked at Eleanor. “How bad is it?”
“Manageable.”
“Which means?”
“We require another press, more type, secure storage and enough paper to publish the first three works.”
“And money?”
“Considerably more than we possess.”
Beatrice dropped into the nearest chair. “Julian will provide it.”
Eleanor closed the ledger.
“No.”
“He will not ask to control anything.”
“That is not the point.”
“It is usually the point with men.”
“This business cannot survive by depending upon the generosity of one duke, however enlightened his wife has made him.”
Beatrice’s mouth curved. “Julian would object to the word enlightened.”
“Then he remains capable of recognising truth.”
“He would also say the money is an investment.”
“Investors expect influence.”
“Not if the agreement denies it.”
Eleanor looked at her.
Beatrice leaned forward, her expression becoming serious. “The existing funds are held in trust. Julian cannot withdraw them, redirect them or make decisions concerning publication. Neither can I. You, Arabella and Catherine control the account jointly.”
“I know.”
“Then what troubles you?”
Eleanor considered the room before answering. “I do not want this to become another enterprise society praises because a powerful man permits it to exist.”
Beatrice’s face softened. Below them, something heavy crashed, followed by Quinn swearing with impressive creativity. Beatrice waited until the noise ceased.
“Julian did not give the money because he believes your work requires his permission,” she said. “He gave it because his family profited for generations from a system that denied women property, education and independence. He considers repayment overdue.”
“That sounds suspiciously like something you told him.”
“I used shorter words.”
Eleanor smiled.
Beatrice stood and crossed to the manuscripts. “Take the funds you need, but preserve the structure. No man controls the business. If Julian develops an opinion concerning typefaces, we shall distract him with Parliament.”
“That seems cruel.”
“He enjoys suffering in silence. It makes him feel noble.”
Quinn reappeared in the doorway. “Your Grace, one of the workmen wishes to know whether the duke’s contribution extends to supporting damaged floors.”
“Did the floor damage the press?”
“The press damaged the floor.”
“Then charge the press.”
Quinn stared at her.
Beatrice glanced at Eleanor. “Men become helpless when confronted with complex accounts.”
“Women are useful only as patient copyists,” Eleanor said.
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “Who said that?”
“Alderton.”
“I dislike him already.”
“You have met him twice.”
“I was efficient.”
Eleanor took the Mercury Club programme from her reticule and placed it upon the desk. Beatrice’s amusement vanished.
“Where did you obtain that?”
“My father’s lecture.”
Quinn closed the door. Eleanor explained the altered translation, the conversation she overheard and the private printing connected to the Feast of Hermes.
Beatrice listened without interruption, which was how Eleanor knew she was alarmed.
When Eleanor finished, Beatrice picked up the card by one corner.
“The same emblem.”
“Yes.”
“And the evening star.”
“Yes.”
“Does your father know what the wording means?”
“I do not know.”
“Do you believe him involved?”
Eleanor looked at the programme.
“My father changes my work when he wishes to make it sound more impressive. He also makes errors because he reads too quickly and assumes no one will challenge him. This was neither. The line was altered deliberately.”
Beatrice’s expression hardened. “We should take it to Arabella.”
“The Society meets tonight.”
“I shall send word that the others must attend.”
Eleanor folded her hands upon the ledger, though she still felt the imprint of the programme against her fingertips.
“He presented the phrase publicly,” she said. “If it is a message, he delivered it to a room filled with scholars and patrons.”
“Perhaps he did not know.”
“Perhaps.”
Beatrice studied her. “You do not have to defend him merely because he is your father.”
“I am not defending him.”
“No. You are constructing every possible explanation except the one that might hurt you most.”
Eleanor met her gaze. Beatrice had become more perceptive since marrying Julian, or perhaps she had simply grown less tolerant of other people’s self-deception after being forced to confront her own.
“I require evidence,” Eleanor said.
“Then we shall obtain it.”
Eleanor looked around the unfinished office. She had intended the room to represent her future. Instead, her father’s shadow had followed her inside.
* * *
The hidden library at Rothmere House had acquired two new lamps, four additional locks and a cabinet Frances claimed contained emergency disguises.
Arabella refused to confirm the final point.
Eleanor stood at the narrow table with the Mercury Club programmes arranged before her.
Arabella sat at the head in black silk, elegant and composed.
Catherine occupied the chair to her right, one hand resting beside a glass of wine.
Amelia had brought a notebook. Clara had brought three ledgers.
Sophia sat near the concealed passage, where she could hear anyone approaching.
Frances had arrived wearing a green gown and the expression of a woman hoping the evening would involve crime.
Beatrice sat opposite Eleanor. Since her marriage, society had begun calling her the Duchess of Calder with increasing respect and decreasing affection. Among the Society, she remained Beatrice, which she appeared to consider one of its greatest virtues.
“The quotations are not decorative,” Eleanor said. “Nor are they selected merely because the club calls itself Mercury.”
She placed the newly acquired programme beside two others recovered during the investigation into Vesper.
“The first programme quotes the Homeric Hymn to Hermes. The printed English translation differs from the Greek in five places. Each altered word corresponds to a letter when matched against the line number.”
Amelia leaned forward. “A substitution cipher?”
“Partly. The method changes according to the text. In this programme, the incorrect words provide instructions.”
Eleanor turned the page so the others could see the notes she had written.