CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE PRICE OF HER NAME
By nine o’clock the following morning, Eleanor had acquired three expert witnesses, two printers, a paper merchant, a chemist, six boxes of manuscripts and one duke who continued insisting that he ought to address the Royal Society on her behalf.
“No,” Eleanor said for the fourth time.
Julian stood at the end of the long table in Rothmere House’s hidden library, one hand braced beside a stack of financial records. “Finch has already described you as mentally unwell. If you appear without formal support, his allies will claim your presence confirms the accusation.”
“Then formal support may sit behind me.”
“You require someone whose authority the room cannot dismiss.”
“I require evidence.”
“You require both.”
“I possess Arabella.”
The dowager duchess, seated beside the fire in black silk and silver jewellery, lifted her head from the statement she was reviewing.
“At last,” she said. “A practical assessment of rank.”
Julian’s expression did not change. “Arabella cannot speak to the intelligence evidence.”
“Hargreaves can,” Eleanor replied.
“Not without exposing an active operation.”
“Then he may confirm only what the records prove.”
Julian looked toward Gabriel. Gabriel stood near the concealed entrance with his coat unfastened, his arms folded and an exhaustion around his eyes that no amount of immaculate tailoring could disguise.
He had spent the hours before dawn coordinating with Hargreaves, tracking the public statements issued by Dr. Finch and arranging surveillance around the Royal Society building.
He had also remained in Eleanor’s bed until Hastings brought the message. That memory existed beneath everything.
Eleanor felt it whenever Gabriel shifted, whenever his gaze found hers across the crowded library or when his fingers brushed the scar beneath his ribs through his shirt as though remembering her mouth upon it.
She could still feel the slow weight of him inside her, the openness of his face as release overcame him and the astonishing vulnerability of the promise he offered afterward.
I will not disappear before you have the opportunity to choose whether I should stay.
He had kept the promise through the night.
This morning, he appeared determined to keep every other promise she had not asked him to make.
Gabriel looked at Julian. “She said no.”
The duke’s gaze sharpened. “You agree?”
“I have discovered agreement is not required.”
Eleanor felt the corner of her mouth move. Gabriel saw it. For the smallest instant, the exhaustion left his face.
Then Julian returned his attention to her. “Finch intends to stand before scholars, politicians and newspaper editors and describe you as delusional. That is not an ordinary academic disagreement.”
“No. It is a public execution of my credibility.”
“Precisely.”
“Which is why I cannot allow another man to rescue it for me.”
Beatrice, seated beside Julian, touched his sleeve. He looked down at her. She said nothing, but whatever passed between them softened the rigid line of his shoulders.
“He will use every appearance of protection against her,” Beatrice said. “If you speak first, Finch will say Eleanor has been manipulated by Calder. If Gabriel speaks, he will say a notorious lover has encouraged her delusions. If Arabella speaks, he will accuse the Society of feminine conspiracy.”
Frances looked pleased. “That last accusation is accurate.”
“Not helpful,” Catherine murmured.
“I did not say it was unflattering.”
Eleanor placed both hands upon the table.
The evidence had been arranged into categories.
Original drafts in her hand occupied the largest section, each accompanied by the published edition bearing Dr. Finch’s name.
Beside them lay letters from printers confirming that corrections had arrived upon loose pages in Eleanor’s handwriting.
Quinn’s dated notes recorded the days she delivered proofs to his workshop.
A chemist from Fleet Street had analysed the inks, while a paper merchant confirmed several manuscripts predated the editions Dr. Finch claimed to have written.
Clara had prepared side-by-side comparisons of his errors and Eleanor’s corrections.
On the left appeared Dr. Finch’s public interpretation.
On the right, Eleanor’s original reasoning.
The contrast was devastating. Her father repeatedly misunderstood feminine grammatical forms, misidentified dialects and inserted references serving Mercury’s code.
Without Eleanor’s notes, he could not explain the decisions underlying the translations that built his reputation. Amelia held the legal folder.
“Ownership remains the weakest point,” she said. “Finch may argue the papers were produced under his direction and therefore belong to him.”
“Can he succeed?” Sophia asked.
“In a court prepared to treat an unmarried daughter’s labour as part of her father’s household, possibly.”
Frances looked disgusted. “Can we change the law before this evening?”
“Not before luncheon.”
“Then the law lacks ambition.”
Amelia continued, “Public recognition will not establish ownership legally, but it may make publishers unwilling to print future editions beneath Finch’s name.”
“And evidence of payment?” Catherine asked.
“That exposes fraud and collaboration, though not necessarily theft of authorship.”
Clara pushed forward the copied Mercury ledger.
“Six payments correspond precisely with Eleanor’s completed work. Three were made before publication, three afterward. The dates support a commercial arrangement.”
“Quinn’s evidence is stronger than Harcourt’s,” Beatrice said. “Harcourt will protect himself.”
The printer stood near the bookshelves twisting his cap between ink-stained fingers. Mr. Quinn had closed his damaged workshop for the morning and arrived carrying two ledgers wrapped in oilcloth.
“I’ve the delivery dates,” he said. “Miss Finch brought corrections herself. Dr. Finch never came near my shop except once, when he complained the Greek letters looked common.”
“They were common,” Eleanor said. “You used the wrong type.”
Quinn looked wounded. “We corrected it.”
“After I marked every instance.”
“Which is in the ledger.”
Gabriel lowered his face, but Eleanor saw the smile.
The pleasure of making her laugh remained one of the few desires he did not attempt to conceal now.
Professor Thomas Hales had also agreed to testify.
His letter lay open beside Quinn’s records, describing Mr. Fenwick’s observations at the lecture and confirming that Eleanor had demonstrated knowledge Dr. Finch’s presentation lacked.
Professor Latham’s note was less brave. He admitted having previously received arguments later published under Dr. Finch’s name, though he stopped short of acknowledging that Eleanor made them first in his presence.
“He wants to survive whichever side wins,” Frances said.
“Then he is an academic,” Clara replied.
Arabella set aside the statement she had been reading.
“The hall will be crowded.”
“Harcourt invited editors after Finch announced my collapse,” Eleanor said. “He expects the spectacle to confirm the story.”
“Newspapers prefer female madness to scholarly accounting,” Catherine observed.
“Tonight they may receive both,” Beatrice said.
Eleanor looked at the boxes. Every page represented an hour spent in silence while her father accepted the world’s admiration. The evidence was overwhelming, but evidence did not speak unless someone risked a voice. She had spent her life giving hers away. Tonight, she would take it back.
Julian crossed his arms. “What is your plan?”
“Let my father begin.”
Gabriel’s gaze sharpened.
“He will establish the accusation before you answer,” Julian said.
“Yes.”
“Why permit it?”
“Because everyone in that room must hear precisely what he believes a daughter is.”
Silence settled.
Eleanor continued, “He will call me confused. He will describe copying as authorship and gratitude as obedience. He will explain that his name made my work valuable. If I interrupt too early, his allies will claim he might have offered proof.”
“And after?” Gabriel asked.
“I challenge him to translate a passage he has never seen.”
Quinn shifted uneasily. “What passage?”
Hargreaves entered through the concealed door carrying a sealed portfolio.
“This one.”
Every gaze turned. Sir Malcolm looked more tired than Gabriel and considerably less interested in pretending otherwise. He placed the portfolio upon the table and broke the government seal. Inside lay a transcription of a recently acquired Greek fragment.
“The original is held at the Foreign Office pending ownership review,” he said. “No public scholar has examined it. Three government classicists prepared independent copies yesterday.”
Eleanor read the first lines. Thessalian dialect. Ritual language. A damaged metre requiring reconstruction from context rather than ordinary grammar. It could not have been selected more precisely.
“May I use it publicly?” she asked.
“You may state only that the transcription belongs to a private collection.”
“Does it contain intelligence material?”
“No.”
Gabriel moved to her side. Their shoulders nearly touched as he looked at the passage.
“I understand six words,” he said.
“Seven.”
“Which one did I miss?”
Eleanor pointed.
“That does not mean sacrifice. It means exchange.”
“An ominous improvement.”
Hargreaves cleared his throat.
“There is another matter. Peregrine has not been formally detained.”
Beatrice’s head lifted. “Gabriel left him against a cabinet.”
“An action lacking statutory force.”
“Then the statute should have arrived sooner.”
Hargreaves ignored her. “Vale’s solicitors obtained his release before dawn. He claims Lord Ashcombe assaulted him during a scholarly disagreement.”
Gabriel looked mildly offended. “There was very little scholarship involved.”
“Peregrine will attend tonight,” Hargreaves said. “We intercepted a message instructing him to recover the Thessalian papers or destroy them.”