Chapter 20
Two weeks into their new understanding, Eveline had developed a routine that would have scandalized proper society and delighted the romantics.
Her days were spent in genuine scholarly work—cataloguing, translating, losing herself in the Byzantine manuscripts that continued to yield fascinating secrets.
But threaded through the academic pursuits was something else, something that made every moment shimmer with possibility.
They no longer maintained careful distance.
Adrian would lean over her shoulder to examine a translation, his breath warm against her neck, his hand resting lightly on the back of her chair.
She would seek him out when puzzling over a difficult passage, perching on the edge of his desk while they debated interpretations, their knees occasionally brushing.
It was still professional. They still accomplished prodigious amounts of work. But now it was also warm, intimate, charged with acknowledged feeling rather than denied passion.
"You're humming," Adrian observed one morning, looking up from his correspondence with a smile that made her stomach flutter.
"Am I?" She hadn't realized, but now that he mentioned it, she could feel the melody still thrumming in her chest. "It must be the Sappho. Her rhythms tend to stay with one."
"Sappho makes you hum Handel?" His eyebrow rose in that way she'd come to adore. "That's either a very liberal translation or a fascinating psychological phenomenon."
She laughed, crossing to show him the passage she'd been working on. "It's the meter. See how the Sapphic stanzas create this rising and falling pattern? It reminded me of 'Where'er You Walk,' and now I can't get it out of my head."
He studied the text, then looked up at her with an expression that made her breath catch. "Sing it for me."
"What?"
"The Handel. Sing it." He leaned back in his chair, watching her with that intensity that still made her knees weak. "Unless you're shy? Though given how boldly you argue about Byzantine scribal practices, I can't imagine a little music would intimidate you."
"That's different," she protested, though she could feel heat rising in her cheeks. "Academic discourse is..."
"Is another form of performance," he finished. "Come now, we've established that I'm desperately in love with your mind. Let me appreciate your voice as well."
The casual declaration of love still made her heart flutter, even after two weeks of this new honesty between them. She cleared her throat, feeling absurdly nervous, and began softly:
"Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade..."
Her voice was untrained but true, and she saw something shift in his expression as she sang. By the time she reached the second verse, he'd risen from his chair, moving toward her with the inevitable gravity of tide toward shore.
"Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade..." She faltered as he stopped just before her, close enough to touch but not touching, the space between them humming with restraint.
"Don't stop," he murmured. "Please."
She finished the verse, her voice growing breathier as his proximity overwhelmed her senses. The last note had barely faded when he cupped her face in his hands, kissing her with a tenderness that made her eyes sting with unexpected tears.
"You undo me," he whispered against her lips. "Completely and utterly undo me."
"The feeling is entirely mutual," she managed, her hands coming up to rest against his chest.
They'd gotten better at this; at taking these moments of connection without letting them derail the entire day. He kissed her once more, softly, then stepped back with visible effort.
"Now then," he said, his voice not quite steady, "you were explaining about Sapphic meter?"
She laughed, shakily but genuinely. "You're impossible."
"Impossibly in love," he corrected, returning to his desk with a grin that was boyish and ducal in equal measure. "Now teach me about Greek poetry before I forget myself entirely."
The morning progressed in this vein. Productive work interspersed with moments of connection that ranged from tender to passionate to simply companionable.
Morrison had become a regular fixture, his enthusiasm for the French manuscripts infectious.
He'd also proven unexpectedly useful as a distraction when the attraction between Adrian and Eveline threatened to overwhelm their good intentions.
"Miss Whitcombe!" The young man burst into the library just as Adrian was demonstrating exactly how much he appreciated her translation of a particularly sensuous passage of Ovid. They sprang apart, though not with the guilty haste of their earlier encounters.
"Mr. Morrison," Eveline said, smoothing her skirts while Adrian straightened his cravat. "You seem excited."
"I am! I've found something extraordinary in the French collection. A palimpsest. The under-text appears to be classical, possibly Aristotle? But I need your expertise to confirm."
She followed him to the corner where he'd set up his informal workspace, aware of Adrian's amused gaze tracking their movement. Morrison's discovery was indeed interesting—faint Greek text visible beneath the medieval French, tantalizing in its partial visibility.
"You're right," she confirmed after careful examination. "This is definitely Aristotelian. See the characteristic terminology here? And the hand is much earlier than the over-text, possibly fifth or sixth century."
"Fifth century?" Morrison practically vibrated with excitement. "But that would make it..."
"Extremely valuable," Adrian finished, joining them at the table. "Well done, Morrison. This is a significant find."
The young man glowed under the praise, launching into theories about how the manuscript might have been reused, which scriptoriums might have been involved, what other texts might be hidden in the collection.
His enthusiasm was infectious, and soon all three of them were deep in scholarly discussion.
It was in moments like these that Eveline felt the true magic of their arrangement.
Here she was, doing work she loved, making real discoveries, being treated as the expert she was.
The fact that she was also desperately in love with her employer had become just another facet of a life that grew richer by the day.
Thursday brought her museum day and with it a new level of recognition. Thornbury greeted her with barely contained glee, practically dragging her to the manuscript room.
"You were right!" he exclaimed before she'd even removed her cloak.
"About your theory about regional variations…
. because I've been examining manuscripts from other collections, and the pattern holds.
Look at this manuscript which shows the same scribal quirks as our MS.341, while this one has the variant patterns you predicted. "
She spent the morning verification his findings, her excitement growing with each confirmed observation. By noon, they had enough evidence to support a major publication on Byzantine manuscript transmission.
"This will revolutionize the field," Thornbury said, adjusting his spectacles to peer at her notes. "Miss Whitcombe, I hope you realise what you've accomplished here. Scholars have been puzzling over these variations for decades, and you've solved it in a matter of weeks."
"I had excellent materials to work with," she deflected, though pride warmed her chest. "And your support has been invaluable."
"Nonsense. The insight was yours." He leaned back in his chair, fixing her with those keen eyes.
"Which brings me to my next point. The board has approved funding for a special project.
Six months, focused on cataloguing and analyzing our entire Byzantine collection with your methodology.
The position would come with a significant increase in compensation and, more importantly, full publication rights. "
"Mr. Thornbury, I..." She stopped, overwhelmed. "That's extraordinary."
"It's deserved. There is, however, one consideration." He fidgeted with his pen, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "The board was... curious about your other commitments. The Everleigh position specifically. They want assurance that you'll have adequate time for museum work."
Ah. Here was the conflict she'd been dreading. "My arrangement with His Grace is quite flexible," she said carefully. "I'm certain we can accommodate increased museum hours."
"I'm sure you can." Thornbury's tone was neutral, but she caught something knowing in his glance. "His Grace has been remarkably supportive of scholarly endeavours lately. There's talk of him funding a new manuscript acquisition for the museum."
"How generous," she managed, though her cheeks heated at the implications.
"Indeed. Well, think about the offer, my dear. No haste, though I confess I'm eager to see what else you might discover in our collections."
She left the museum in a daze, her mind racing with possibilities. A special project. Increased compensation. Publication rights. Everything she'd dreamed of, offered freely based on her work alone.
The euphoria carried her back to Everleigh Manor, where she'd taken to spending Thursday evenings completing work that museum days interrupted.
She found Adrian in the library, of course, but he wasn't working.
Instead, he stood by the window, a glass of brandy in hand, watching the sun set over the London rooftops.
"You're back," he said without turning. "How was Thornbury?"
"Ecstatic. My theories have been confirmed across multiple manuscripts." She moved into the room, setting down her portfolio. "He's offered me a special project. Six months of focused research with increased compensation and full publication rights."
"That's wonderful." He turned then, and she saw pride warring with something else in his expression. "You must be thrilled."
"I am." She moved closer, drawn by the tension in his shoulders. "Adrian? What's wrong?"