Chapter 17
"Harwick, I need you to clear your schedule for the remainder of the day. We have considerable work ahead of us."
Adrian's solicitor, a man who'd weathered twenty years of Everleigh family business without so much as a raised eyebrow, actually blinked at the urgency in his employer's tone.
Adrian had burst into the Inner Temple chambers like a force of nature, still damp from the morning drizzle and carrying what appeared to be hastily folded papers in his coat pocket.
"Your Grace," Harwick began carefully, setting aside the brief he'd been reviewing, "might I inquire as to the nature of this urgent business? The last time you arrived in such a state, you were attempting to break a betrothal without causing a Continental war."
"This is rather the opposite problem." Adrian withdrew the translation samples from his pocket, smoothing them on Harwick's mahogany desk with hands that betrayed only the slightest tremor.
"I need to create a position, a legitimate, respectable scholarly position with contracts and terms that would stand up to the closest scrutiny. And I need it done within two days."
Harwick's eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline as he examined the papers.
His expression shifted from skepticism to interest as he read, occasionally murmuring appreciation at a particularly elegant turn of phrase.
"This is quite sophisticated work. Ovid, isn't it?
The translator shows remarkable sensitivity to both meaning and metre. "
"Miss Eveline Whitcombe," Adrian said, watching his solicitor's face carefully. "I trust you've heard the name?"
"Ah." Harwick's expression grew carefully neutral, the look of a man who'd navigated too many society scandals to show surprise. "The young lady who catalogued your library. There has been some... discussion about her circumstances."
"Discussion." Adrian's laugh held no humor.
"Is that what we're calling the systematic destruction of an innocent woman's reputation?
She's been offered a position as a governess in Manchester, Harwick.
A governess. One of the finest classical scholars in England, and she's being forced to teach basic Latin to mill owners' daughters because society has decided she's unfit for anything else. "
"Your Grace," Harwick said slowly, "while I sympathize with Miss Whitcombe's plight, creating a position simply to..."
"Not simply to do anything." Adrian began pacing the small office, energy crackling from him like electricity before a storm.
"I want to establish her properly, legitimately, in a role that utilizes her abilities and provides her the recognition she deserves.
Think, Harwick! What positions exist for scholars of her caliber? "
"Well, there are university posts, but women..."
"Cannot hold them, yes. What else?"
"Private librarians, though that's what caused the current difficulty. Translators for publishing houses, perhaps, though they typically work on contract rather than salary. Museum positions, possibly, though again the gender question..."
"What if we created something new?" Adrian stopped pacing, an idea taking shape with the kind of clarity that only came from desperation mixed with inspiration.
"What if we established a position that combined all of those elements?
Private scholar and translator, with a salary and proper contracts, but also with connections to legitimate institutions? "
Harwick leaned back in his chair, fingers pressed together as he considered. "It would need to be carefully structured to avoid any appearance of impropriety. The position would need genuine duties, genuine oversight, genuine production of scholarly work."
"Then we'll make it genuine." Adrian pulled out a chair and sat, leaning forward with intensity.
"I want you to draw up contracts for the position of Senior Classical Scholar and Translation Specialist. The role would involve completing the Everleigh library catalogue, but also translating and preparing classical texts for publication.
She would have the right to publish under her own name, with a percentage of any profits from sales. "
"That's quite generous."
"I'm not finished. I also want provisions for her to lecture—privately at first, perhaps at ladies' educational societies or scholarly gatherings.
A schedule that allows for research trips to other collections.
An annual budget for acquiring texts relevant to her work.
Essentially, Harwick, I want to create the kind of position that should exist for scholars of her caliber but doesn't because of society's ridiculous limitations. "
Harwick had begun taking notes, his legal mind clearly engaged by the challenge. "The salary?"
"Two hundred pounds per annum to start, with increases based on publication success."
"Your Grace, that's more than many university professors..."
"And considerably less than her work is worth." Adrian's tone brooked no argument. "Draw it up, Harwick. Make it ironclad. I want no one to be able to suggest this is anything other than a legitimate professional arrangement."
"And is it?" Harwick asked quietly. "A legitimate professional arrangement?"
Adrian met his solicitor's knowing gaze steadily. "It's an attempt to keep one of England's finest classical minds from being wasted in Manchester. Whatever else it might be is irrelevant to the legal documentation."
"Very well." Harwick dipped his pen in ink, beginning to draft with the speed of long practice.
"I'll need several hours to prepare the initial documents.
There's also the question of references and institutional support.
A position of this nature would carry more weight with endorsements from recognized authorities. "
"Leave that to me." Adrian rose, already mentally cataloguing his connections in the scholarly world. "Have the papers ready by this evening. I'll handle the endorsements."
He left Harwick's chambers with renewed purpose, his next destination already clear. Paternoster Row housed many of London's publishing establishments, including Cadwell kind enough, practical, focused on ensuring her daughters could make good matches by acquiring just enough education to appear accomplished without becoming threateningly intellectual.
"We don't need them reading Cicero in the original," Mrs. Harrington had explained with a tinkling laugh that suggested the very idea was absurd.
"Just enough Latin to impress at dinner parties.
Perhaps a bit of French—proper French, mind you, not any of that revolutionary nonsense.
And of course, the usual accomplishments.
Watercolors, perhaps a bit of harp, deportment. .."
Eveline had sat through two hours of such discussion, smiling and nodding and dying by degrees as the full reality of her future crystallized before her.
She would teach conjugations to girls who didn't want to learn them, French phrases to be parroted without understanding, just enough education to make them marriageable but not enough to make them think.
"The position is yours if you want it," Mrs. Harrington had concluded, naming a salary that was generous for a governess but felt like thirty pieces of silver to Eveline.
"We'd need you to start within the week.
The house in Manchester is quite comfortable, and you'd have every Sunday afternoon to yourself. "
Every Sunday afternoon. To do what? Read? Translate texts no one would publish? Slowly forget everything she'd learned about Byzantine manuscripts and classical poetry while teaching basic grammar to indifferent pupils?
"Thank you," Eveline had managed. "Might I have a day to consider? It's a significant decision."
"Of course, dear. Though don't wait too long. Good positions don't remain available forever."
Now, back in her lodgings with Harriet hovering anxiously nearby, Eveline felt the full weight of her choices pressing down upon her. Accept the position and consign herself to genteel servitude, or refuse and face an even more uncertain future?
"The interview went well, then?" Harriet ventured, setting down a tea tray with rather more force than necessary.
"Splendidly. Mrs. Harrington thinks I'm exactly what her daughters need; educated enough to teach but not so educated as to give them ideas.
" Eveline sank into a chair, suddenly exhausted.
"She actually used the phrase 'properly feminine learning.
' I wanted to ask if that meant conjugating verbs while maintaining an appropriately submissive posture, but I suspected irony might disqualify me. "
"Oh, Evie." Harriet pressed a cup of tea into her hands. "It wouldn't be forever. Just until the scandal dies down, until you can find something better."