Chapter Fourteen #2
“The cofounder of Balliol College. Her husband, John Balliol, was required to fund schooling for the poor at Oxford Uni. After he died, Dervorguilla established a permanent endowment and formal statutes for the college. A brooch of hers is kept on display in our Hall. Even if it didn’t possess extremely potent magic, it’s beloved by all Balliol members. ”
“What kind of magic?”
“The kind I’m not allowed to talk about,” Caleb said, and Amelia raised her eyes heavenward (noticing an interesting lightshade but being too distracted to estimate its age and value).
Caleb was absolutely allowed to talk about Dervorguilla’s brooch; there existed any number of brochures and books describing it, and the only reason she could think of that he wasn’t sharing the information with Vanity was that he was trying to be interestingly mysterious.
And apparently this worked, for Vanity gave a pretty little gasp, hands pressing against her heart. “Gosh! Have you touched it?”
Never before had Amelia heard such an active verb. She nearly cleared her throat meaningfully but managed to stop before exposing herself as an eavesdropper.
Caleb’s laugh this time sounded uncomfortable. “No, it’s kept on display at the college, within a virtually unbreakable enchanted glass dome.”
“Gosh.” The exclamation practically stripped itself down to silk lingerie and rubbed itself against Caleb. “I would love to have a thorough tête-à-tête with you about it.”
“Ha ha,” Caleb said through a smile comprised of clenched teeth.
“Ha ha,” Vanity answered coyly.
“Ahem.” Sergeant Sheffield cleared his throat in a loud, ragged manner that suggested Amelia was not the only one whose nerves were set on edge by the conversation.
Throckmorton, on the other hand, was watching Vanity with a look on his face that Amelia found even more disturbing than the girl’s silliness. He seemed amused. As if he was about to chuckle indulgently. As if Vanity flirting with Caleb was endearing.
A muscle in her jaw twitched, and not just because of all the italics. “Excuse me,” she announced with smiling calm to the room in general, “I’m going to…” Making the vague gesture that is universally translated as I’m going to the loo but am too embarrassed to say so outright, she departed.
Walking upstairs with the same smiling calm, she entered her bedroom.
Sitting at its small table, still smiling, still calm, she looked out at the surrounding countryside, where hills shrouded in gray drizzle served as a reflection of her mood.
Then, with a calm that was beginning to make her facial muscles ache from so much smiling, she tore a page from her notepad and took up a pen to write.
Dear Professor Ottersock…
“Imbécile!” King John’s ghost shouted, looking over her shoulder, and Amelia jolted, her comma turning into a flourish.
“I don’t know if you’re referring to me or Ottersock,” she told him.
“But quite honestly, you’re right either way.
” She ought to have written this letter months ago.
Now, without further thought…other than to consult her inner thesaurus for the most exact word…
and to remind herself of a semicolon’s proper use…
she proceeded to inform the faculty head of her intention to resign.
It has been an honor to teach at England’s finest university, she wrote as her smile slowly faded.
In fact, it had been more than an honor: from childhood, she’d dreamed of being a teacher, thereby having a professional reason to read endlessly about the great people and events from history, and to indulge an imagination that was the very antithesis of a Tarrant’s nature.
A professorship at Oxford University represented her very most idea of heaven.
She could not bear the thought of leaving.
But I must resign, she wrote, and carefully added a gentle, discreet full stop so that she did not betray her feelings with too heavy a mark.
Watching Throckmorton being entertained by Vanity’s flirtation with Caleb confirmed what Amelia had always, deep down, suspected.
The man hadn’t really cared if she herself and Caleb were in a relationship.
He hadn’t been motivated by some genuine principle of social rectitude.
He obviously, and quite simply, did not like her.
And he felt that dislike so strongly, he’d maneuvered to imperil her job by spreading those cursed rumors that she and Caleb hugging was the tip of a far more scandalous iceberg.
The fact that Professor Ottersock had grabbed hold of those rumors with such determination suggested that he disliked her also (except when she was saving the Queen, no doubt, and getting ninety-eight percent pass rates with students).
Dummersby had made it clear the British Museum staff did too.
The Terrifying Scholar. She’d heard people say it…
well, twice, but that was two times more than her shy, soft heart could bear.
It echoed inside her so often, they might as well have been following her around with a bullhorn, repeating it hourly.
She was a woman with a sharp brain: that alone was worrisome to her male colleagues.
The fact that she did not hesitate to employ said brain without artifice or apology inspired the real terror.
How could a man easily dominate such a woman?
How could he have command over her realm of knowledge when she was already well educated?
It was the academic equivalent of marrying a woman who’d enjoyed sex with other men and knew what she should expect from it.
Then again, Amelia was aware of other women professors in England who succeeded in their role.
For example, her brother Gabriel’s wife, Elodie, must never have faced prejudice from her male colleagues, considering how confident she was.
Amelia admired that tremendously (albeit maintaining a preference for tidier clothing).
And recently her cousin Devon married an award-winning young woman professor, Beth Pickering, whom all Oxford celebrated, and who without a doubt had never been demeaned in her position, forced to do such things as washing dishes in the faculty lounge simply because she was female.
With a drooping little sigh, Amelia realized the only logical conclusion could be that she personally was the problem.
After all, her family had sent her off to boarding school in an effort to fix her. And no matter how perfect her grades, they’d never brought her home again for longer than a summer holiday. Ergo, she was inherently at fault.
If only she could prove that she wanted nothing more than to do good for others.
To please her parents, fix broken things, ensure people had correct information.
Not one student finished her course without being educated to an extent where they could easily pass an exam if they only didn’t oversleep on the day.
Not one waitress at Jabbercoffee was left ignorant of how to make a really good cup of tea.
And if there existed in Oxford any student known to be cold or hungry, Amelia hunted them down with sandwiches and a coat.
But apparently she did it all wrong. Or perhaps it just wasn’t enough. The one thing she had no idea how to fix was her own self.
Of course, Caleb didn’t hate her—there was that.
Some nights, the thought of his friendship was all that kept her daring to face the next dawn.
And yet, and yet, he’d rather pretend to hate her than let the world know she was his dear friend.
He fought with her rather than fighting for her.
Amelia did not doubt his genuine care. She just wished…
Well, it didn’t matter. The one thing she definitely got from her Tarrant heritage was practicality.
Wishes were a waste of time. Signing the letter, then folding it with a precision that put Ottersock at risk of getting a paper cut when he opened it, Amelia gazed out the window once more, letting the rain do her crying for her.
The smile had fallen in sharp pieces to the pit of her stomach, where it dug into the vulnerable, secret dark therein.
The letter lay before her like an inevitability.
“I’ve always considered myself a strong person,” she told King John.
“I survived negotiating with the curator of Miss Mulberry’s Charming Olde Museum over their Regency-era milk jug.
” (No one in academia was more stubborn, or more disposed to the violent use of a knitting needle, than an elderly woman who volunteered to look after a private museum filled mostly with junk.) “I survive every Christmas with my extended family,” (including the world’s most obnoxious aunt, who’d never met an accomplishment she couldn’t belittle), “but I do believe mailing this letter is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. ”
“Merde,” King John sympathized, shaking his head gloomily.
Returning downstairs, Amelia placed the letter on the mail tray for delivery, then turned toward Sir Nigel’s study.
After a dozen steps, however, her brain forced a halt.
Apparently, writing out her emotions had created space for good sense to return, and it did so with gusto.
Why should she sacrifice her beloved career, for which she’d worked incredibly hard, just because of a few men?
! She’d not given up when her parents insisted that she turn to a “proper education” (i.e.
, science) if she wanted them to fund her tertiary education.
She’d applied for a scholarship instead, and they’d backed down before anyone supposed them too poor to pay her way.
She’d not surrendered every time a teacher ignored her in class on account of her gender.
She’d kept going even in the face of Ottersock’s cruel insistence that she choose between friendship and a career.
Unlikable she might be, but Amelia knew that she was also brave. And tenacious. And a damned excellent antiquarian.