CHAPTER ONE THE INVISIBLE SCHOLAR #2
“The Feast of Hermes promises to be more entertaining than last year’s affair,” he said. “Wexford’s Jupiter theme was impressive, but one tires of thunderbolts.”
Professor Alderton chuckled. “The Mercury Club has always preferred subtler amusements.”
“The upper gallery was not subtle.”
“No, but it was profitable.”
The younger scholar leaned closer. “Is it true they conduct literary auctions?”
Pemberton glanced toward him. “You have heard too much.”
“Or not enough,” Alderton said.
The men laughed. Eleanor drank her tea and listened.
“The masquerade is held in three weeks, is it not?” the younger man asked.
“Provided the committee settles its disagreement concerning guests.”
“Women?”
“Companions,” Pemberton corrected. “Widows, actresses, discreet wives. The usual ornaments.”
“Lady scholars?” the young man asked, smiling as though he had made a daring joke.
Professor Alderton’s brows rose. “My dear boy, what purpose would a lady scholar serve at a private literary auction?”
“Taking notes?”
“Women are perfectly suited to copying,” Alderton said. “Patience, neatness and obedience are feminine virtues. Original scholarship requires a different constitution.”
Eleanor looked into her tea. A dark leaf floated upon the surface.
The younger scholar attempted the Greek title of her father’s translation and placed the accent on the wrong syllable.
Eleanor corrected him without lifting her gaze.
The words left her quietly enough that the nearby men fell silent and looked around before realising she had spoken.
Professor Alderton stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“The accent falls upon the penultimate syllable,” Eleanor said. “The form you used would alter the grammatical construction.”
The young scholar flushed.
Professor Alderton’s surprise softened into indulgence. “Dr. Finch has taught his daughter very well.”
Eleanor looked at him then. She considered telling him that Dr. Finch had once mistranslated the title of Herodotus because he was distracted by an argument concerning the household coal bill.
She considered explaining that her father had not taught her Greek so much as placed books within reach and discovered too late that she could read them better than he could. Instead, she smiled faintly.
“My father is a celebrated scholar.”
The men accepted that as agreement. Lord Pemberton glanced at her more carefully than the others.
His gaze paused upon her face before moving to her father across the room.
For one uncomfortable moment, Eleanor wondered whether he had seen her listening.
Then a woman in peacock-blue silk approached him, and his attention shifted at once.
Eleanor remained where she was. The conversation resumed.
“A printer has been found for the private texts,” Professor Alderton said.
“Quinn?” Pemberton asked.
“No. Someone more reliable.”
“The damaged premises have made Quinn cautious.”
“Poverty makes every man cautious eventually.”
“Not every man.”
“There was a considerable investment,” Alderton murmured. “Enough to purchase silence as well as paper.”
The younger scholar looked eager again. “Whose investment?”
Pemberton’s expression hardened. The young man took a sudden interest in his wine.
Eleanor fixed the phrases in her memory.
The Feast of Hermes. Three weeks. Upper gallery.
Literary auctions. Special translations.
A publisher receiving unexplained funds.
Her father had produced an altered translation using Mercury Club imagery.
Someone intended to print a private edition.
The club’s members were paying scholars and publishers.
The pattern was taking shape, though she could not yet see its centre.
“Eleanor.”
Her father’s voice reached her from behind. She turned. Dr. Finch approached with Lord Pemberton beside him. Up close, her father looked pleased and slightly tired, the expression he wore after any successful public appearance.
“You have been hiding,” he said.
“I have been drinking tea.”
“Near a cabinet.”
“The cabinet did not object.”
Lord Pemberton smiled. Dr. Finch’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. He disliked Eleanor’s dry remarks in public, particularly when other men found them amusing.
“My daughter has an unfortunate habit of mistaking obscurity for wit,” he said.
“It is fortunate I have so many excellent instructors,” Eleanor replied.
Pemberton’s smile broadened.
Her father placed several pages into her hands. “See that these are returned to my case. Professor Alderton has asked for a copy of the notes on the final fragment, so you must prepare them tonight.”
Eleanor looked at the pages. They were her original notes, though her name appeared nowhere upon them.
“I had intended to visit Mr. Quinn this afternoon.”
“That may wait.”
“It cannot. The new type must be ordered before the end of the week.”
Her father’s expression suggested she had mentioned an enthusiasm for arranging seashells.
“This publishing experiment of yours has already consumed more attention than it deserves.”
“It has not yet consumed any of your attention.”
“Precisely. You should be grateful.”
Lord Pemberton looked between them.
Eleanor held her father’s gaze. “The notes will be ready tomorrow morning.”
“I said tonight.”
“And I said tomorrow morning.”
A faint silence opened around them. Her father did not like being contradicted, but he liked public scenes even less.
Pemberton lifted his glass. “Miss Finch appears to have inherited scholarly determination.”
“She has inherited an unfortunate inability to distinguish determination from obstinacy,” Dr. Finch said.
“Only when the distinction is explained badly,” Eleanor replied.
Her father’s eyes cooled. Lord Pemberton laughed.
Eleanor felt no triumph. Public victories over her father always created private consequences.
He would criticise her manners during dinner, remind her who paid for the roof above her head and perhaps withdraw access to a manuscript she required.
He never shouted. He did not need to. Authority was most efficient when spoken softly.
“I shall expect the notes in the morning,” he said.
Eleanor inclined her head. He departed with Pemberton, already describing the difficulty of raising an intellectual daughter.
Eleanor looked down at the papers in her hands.
A smaller sheet had become caught between two pages.
She slid it free. It was printed upon heavy cream card.
At the top appeared the winged staff of Mercury, and beneath it, in Greek, a line from the Odyssey.
The quotation was wrong. Eleanor’s pulse quickened.
A date had been printed at the bottom, three weeks hence, followed by a single phrase:
THE FEAST OF HERMES
She folded the programme and slipped it inside her reticule. For once, her father’s habit of treating her as a servant had proved useful.
* * *
Tobias Quinn’s printing premises still smelled faintly of smoke.
The fire that damaged the rear workshop during the Vesper investigation had blackened two beams, warped part of the staircase and destroyed a quantity of paper that Quinn continued to mourn as though each sheet had been a relative.
Repairs were underway, but the front room remained cluttered with type cases, ink pots and pieces of machinery that Eleanor could not yet name without assistance.
The rooms above the workshop were smaller, cleaner and intended to become the offices of a new publishing enterprise.
At present, they contained one scratched desk, three mismatched chairs and a large window overlooking an alley.
Eleanor considered them beautiful. She stood near the window with her gloves removed, studying a ledger while Quinn paced between the desk and fireplace.
“We need another press,” he said.
“We have one.”
“We have half of one. The lower platen sticks, the screw requires replacing and the frame makes a noise like a dying bishop whenever it is used.”
“Have you heard many bishops die?”
“Three.”
Eleanor looked up. Quinn’s face remained grave.
She returned to the ledger. “The repair estimate is twelve pounds.”
“The repair estimate is fiction. The repair will cost twenty.”
“Then we shall offer fourteen and appear wounded when asked for sixteen.”
“You have been spending too much time with Lady Beatrice.”
“Her Grace negotiates by threatening to publish a tradesman’s unpaid accounts.”
“And does it work?”
“Usually before she completes the sentence.”
Quinn rubbed one ink-stained hand across his jaw.
He was a compact man in his late thirties, with dark hair permanently disordered by his fingers and the wary expression of someone who had printed too many controversial opinions to believe any knock at the door was innocent. He looked at the figures again.
“Even with Calder’s money, we cannot purchase equipment, pay writers and maintain distribution for more than six months.”
“The money does not belong to Calder.”
“It came from Calder.”
“It came through a trust established by Beatrice and the duke. The trustees are women.”
“His name will still frighten creditors into patience.”
“Then his title may be useful without granting him ownership.”
Quinn smiled faintly. “You are determined upon that point.”
“I am determined upon every point involving a man giving money to a woman and subsequently behaving as though he has purchased her decisions.”
“Has Calder attempted to interfere?”
“No.”
“Then you object in anticipation.”
“Preparation is simply objection made useful.”