CHAPTER NINE WHAT THE SCHOLAR STOLE #3
“For whom?”
“For both of us.”
Eleanor stared at him. Her father seemed genuinely convinced by the argument. He had repeated it to himself for so many years that exploitation had become service in his memory.
“No serious publisher would place a young woman’s name upon a critical translation,” he said. “No society would invite you to lecture. The universities would dismiss you. Through me, your ideas reached scholars across Europe.”
“And through me, your name survived scrutiny.”
Dr. Finch’s face reddened. Gabriel stepped forward. Eleanor caught his wrist. The contact halted him instantly. She did not release him. Her father watched their joined hands.
Contempt entered his expression. “This is what has filled your head. Not scholarship. Vanity and scandal.”
“No,” Eleanor said. “Scholarship filled my head. You placed your name upon it.”
“I gave it form.”
“You gave it a title page.”
“I corrected your youthful excesses.”
“You introduced errors because Vesper paid you.”
Dr. Finch’s gaze flicked toward Gabriel. The reaction confirmed he knew the name. Eleanor’s grip tightened around Gabriel’s wrist.
“Vesper threatened to expose us,” her father said.
“Expose you.”
“Do you imagine society would have celebrated you? They would have called you deceitful. Unnatural. They would have said you copied my private papers and attempted to humiliate your father.”
“That is precisely what you now intend to say.”
Silence followed. Dr. Finch’s gaze became colder.
“You have read the contract.”
“Yes.”
“It was never signed.”
“You corrected the salary.”
“The appointment would have secured our future.”
“Your future.”
“You would have accompanied me to Vienna.”
“In what capacity? Daughter? Assistant? Unstable copyist?”
His mouth thinned. Eleanor felt grief beneath her anger now, which made every word more difficult.
“Did you ever intend to acknowledge me?”
Her father looked away. The movement answered before he spoke.
“It would have ended both our careers.”
“Only one of us was permitted to have a career.”
“You had access to books, travel and the finest scholars in England.”
“I had access because I made myself useful to you.”
“I provided a home.”
“You provided paper and called it ownership.”
Dr. Finch struck one hand against the desk.
“You speak like a spoiled child.”
Gabriel’s body tightened beside her. Eleanor maintained her hold upon his wrist.
Her father continued, “Do you know what it costs to preserve a scholarly reputation? Years of correspondence. Patronage. Public lectures. Associations with men who would not listen to a woman regardless of her ability. I carried your ideas into rooms from which you were excluded.”
“And locked the door behind you.”
“I made them matter.”
“They mattered before you stole them.”
Dr. Finch’s face altered. For a moment, shame appeared. Then pride buried it.
“You benefited from my name.”
“I survived beneath it.”
“Without me, you are an unmarried woman with no income and no position.”
“I have a publishing business.”
“A childish experiment financed by another woman’s husband.”
“It is controlled by women.”
“Until the duke loses interest.”
Gabriel spoke for the first time.
“He will not.”
Dr. Finch turned upon him.
“You have no place in this conversation.”
Gabriel’s voice became quiet. “You made your daughter part of an intelligence conspiracy. You sold coded material affecting government officials and private citizens. My place is no longer your concern.”
“You.”
Recognition sharpened Dr. Finch’s gaze. Society might see only the rake, but her father had read enough correspondence to understand Gabriel’s association with Julian and Hargreaves.
“You are one of Calder’s men.”
Gabriel smiled. The expression held no charm.
“I am Eleanor’s escort tonight.”
The answer mattered. He did not claim authority. He did not expose his role. He defined himself by the position she had chosen for him. Dr. Finch looked at Eleanor.
“If you remove those papers, I will report theft.”
“They belong to me.”
“Legally, anything produced beneath this roof belongs to the head of the household.”
“Then the law protects theft.”
“The law protects property.”
“I am not your property.”
“Your papers are.”
Eleanor released Gabriel’s wrist and stepped toward the desk. Her father drew himself upright, confident again now that the law, publishers and academic institutions stood invisibly behind him.
“If you challenge me publicly,” he said, “I will explain that you copied my drafts as part of your education. Harcourt will confirm it. Professor Alderton saw you working beneath my direction. Every letter concerning publication bears my name.”
“Because you prevented mine from appearing.”
“Can you prove that?”
Eleanor looked at the document case hidden near the curtain. Her father followed her gaze. His confidence faltered. She had the originals. Not all of them, but enough. Dr. Finch moved toward the curtain. Gabriel stepped between him and the documents. Eleanor placed one hand upon Gabriel’s arm.
“Let him see.”
Gabriel looked at her. She nodded. He moved aside. Eleanor retrieved the case and placed it upon the desk. She opened it carefully. Her father stared at the manuscripts in her handwriting.
“You cannot take those.”
“I already have.”
“They are evidence of my work.”
“They are evidence of mine.”
“You will destroy both of us.”
“No. I am taking back every word you stole.”
Dr. Finch looked at her as though she had become someone else.
Perhaps she had. Miss Finch would have lowered her voice, gathered only the papers least likely to be noticed and returned to her copying desk while planning another quiet route toward freedom.
Eleanor no longer wished to be invisible to the man who profited from failing to see her.
Her father reached for the manuscripts. Gabriel moved.
Eleanor stopped him with a look. Then she placed both hands over the papers herself.
“You will not touch them.”
Dr. Finch stared at her.
“Leave this house,” he said.
Eleanor’s throat tightened. She had expected the words. They still found the part of her that remembered childhood fevers, winter mornings in the library and the rare evenings when her father read Greek poetry aloud without remembering to claim it.
“Gladly.”
“You will receive no money.”
“I have received none for years.”
“You will lose my name.”
Eleanor lifted the document case.
“No,” she said. “You have lost mine.”
She turned. Gabriel picked up the remaining satchel and followed her from the study. Dr. Finch did not call after them.
* * *
Eleanor did not begin shaking until they reached the street.
The cold struck first, cutting through her cloak as they left the narrow alley and crossed toward the waiting carriage.
Then her knees weakened. Gabriel saw. He did not touch her and opened the carriage door and waited.
Eleanor climbed inside, placed the document case upon the seat and sat beside it.
Gabriel entered after her and gave the driver the direction to his town house. She looked up.
“Why there?”
“Hargreaves knows Rothmere House. Finch may know it as well. My private archive is secure, and no one connected to Mercury has reason to believe you would take the manuscripts to the home of a man incapable of reading Greek.”
“You read Greek.”
“My reputation does not.”
The carriage began moving. Eleanor looked through the rain-streaked window. Gabriel sat opposite her for one street.
Then he said, “I could destroy him.”
She turned. He did not smile.
“A word to the newspapers,” he continued. “Three letters to the correct scholars. Hargreaves can expose the payments without connecting them to Vesper. Julian can ensure Finch loses every patron before breakfast.”
The cold certainty in his voice revealed how effectively he could do it.
For years, Gabriel had entered rooms, learned weaknesses and stored them behind a smile.
He could ruin Dr. Finch without raising his voice.
Part of Eleanor wanted to let him. She imagined her father entering the Antiquarian Society and finding every conversation silent.
She imagined Harcourt cancelling the private edition, Alderton withdrawing praise and scholars whispering that Dr. Finch’s daughter had authored his greatest work.
The pleasure of the fantasy frightened her.
“No.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed.
“He deserves it.”
“Probably.”
“He threatened to accuse you publicly.”
“I heard him.”
“He would have sold your remaining work.”
“I know.”
“Then why protect him?”
“I am not protecting him.”
Eleanor placed one hand upon the document case.
“I do not want revenge performed for me while I stand beside another powerful man and receive the result.”
Gabriel absorbed the words.
“I want ownership,” she said. “I want the manuscripts published under my name. I want evidence no academic society can dismiss. I want Harcourt forced to account for every payment and every edition. I want a business capable of publishing other women before their fathers, husbands or brothers erase them.”
“And Finch?”
“I have not decided.”
Gabriel looked toward the dark window.
“What do you need?”
The question carried no suggestion. No hidden answer. Eleanor’s anger loosened. She had expected him to argue for action, vengeance or safety. Instead, he asked and waited.
“Stand beside me until I decide.”
Gabriel looked at her. The carriage lamp moved shadows across his face.
“Nothing more?”
“Not yet.”
He crossed the narrow space and sat beside her. Their shoulders touched. He did not take her hand or draw her into his arms. He simply stood beside her in the only way possible inside a moving carriage: silent, close and prepared to remain. Eleanor’s shaking gradually stopped.
* * *