CHAPTER ELEVEN THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN
Eleanor had required twenty-four years to become invisible as a woman and less than twenty minutes to become interesting as a man. The transformation began before Dr. Finch reached the second page of his lecture.
Seated among the junior scholars near the rear of the Royal Antiquarian Society hall, Eleanor kept her shoulders broader than habit preferred, her knees slightly apart beneath the loose academic robe and one ink-stained hand resting upon a notebook.
The padding Frances had sewn into the coat concealed the shape of her breasts, while the high cravat disguised the delicate line of her throat.
Dark powder thickened her brows. Plain spectacles enlarged the bridge of her nose and cast faint shadows beneath her eyes.
No one looking at Mr. Elias Fenwick saw Miss Eleanor Finch.
Gabriel had. The knowledge remained at the edge of her concentration like heat behind a closed door.
He had recognised her across a crowded lecture hall without hesitation.
The instant his gaze reached her, his entire body had gone still.
Anger, fear and something far more intimate had moved through his face before discipline concealed all three.
Then he had risen. Eleanor had expected him to cross the hall, expose the disguise and demand she leave. Instead, Julian caught his sleeve.
The exchange between them lasted no more than ten seconds.
Gabriel bent, Julian spoke without looking at him and Gabriel slowly resumed his seat.
He had obeyed. For now. On the stage, Dr. Finch described a Thessalian religious fragment in the tone of a man revealing truth to a grateful civilisation.
The manuscript case rested upon the table behind him, its brass corners catching the light whenever he moved. Eleanor knew the case.
She had used it as a child to transport her first translations from the upstairs schoolroom to her father’s study.
Dr. Finch had once called it too fine for a girl’s rough copies.
Tonight it supposedly contained the work with which he intended to purchase his release from Vesper.
Eleanor lowered her gaze to her notebook and recorded each alteration in his lecture.
The first quotation came from her unpublished research.
Her father changed the speaker from a priestess to a priest.
The second removed a reference to women holding communal property. The third inserted language concerning inheritance through male authority. He was not merely presenting her work and was making it acceptable to the men before him. A scholar seated to Eleanor’s right leaned closer.
“An unusual reading,” he whispered.
He was young, perhaps twenty-five, with thinning pale hair and spectacles considerably more expensive than Elias Fenwick’s. Eleanor lowered her voice into the register Sophia had taught her.
“Unusual or inaccurate?”
The young man glanced toward the stage.
“Inaccurate, I should think. The speaker is plainly feminine in the oldest copy.”
Eleanor looked at him. For one disorienting moment, she expected him to resent the correction. Instead, he smiled.
“You noticed it as well.”
“As would anyone familiar with the Larissa fragments.”
“Are you?”
“I have made a study.”
The scholar shifted to offer Eleanor more room upon the bench.
“Thomas Hales. Magdalen.”
“Elias Fenwick. Derbyshire.”
“Are you attached to a college?”
“No.”
“Independent?”
“Copyist.”
The answer should have lowered his interest. It did not.
“A copyist with better Thessalian Greek than half the men in this hall,” Hales said. “What do you make of Finch’s claim concerning the inheritance line?”
Eleanor stared at him. He was asking her opinion.
Not inviting her to copy a reference, locate a misplaced page or confirm what her father had already concluded.
He expected an intellectual answer and was prepared to listen to it.
Liberation arrived first. Anger followed so closely that she could not separate them.
“The phrase does not concern inheritance,” she said. “It concerns custodianship. Finch has substituted a later masculine construction for the original feminine form.”
Hales’s face brightened.
“Exactly.”
A second scholar seated in front of them turned.
“Forgive me. Are you discussing the phylakē passage?”
“Yes,” Hales said. “Fenwick believes Finch’s rendering is anachronistic.”
The older man looked directly at Eleanor.
“And your evidence, Mr. Fenwick?”
Mr. Fenwick. Eleanor curled her fingers beneath the notebook.
“The dependent participle appears in three ritual inventories from Thessaly,” she said. “All describe women holding objects or funds on behalf of a community. None concerns hereditary possession.”
The older scholar considered this.
“Then Finch’s reading implies ownership where the source intends stewardship.”
“Precisely.”
“Interesting.”
He turned back toward the stage and wrote something upon his notes.
Eleanor remained still. A year earlier, she had made the same observation at her father’s dining table before Professor Latham and two visiting scholars.
Latham had looked through her, continued eating and repeated the argument ten minutes later as if the conclusion had occurred to him spontaneously.
Now the older man in front of her turned again.
“Latham,” he whispered. “King’s College.”
Eleanor looked at the profile she knew so well.
Professor Latham had once advised Dr. Finch not to encourage his daughter’s “feminine enthusiasm for disputed material.”
He showed no sign of recognising her.
“Fenwick,” she replied.
“You should publish that observation.”
The anger became almost too large for the disguise. Eleanor lowered her gaze before it showed.
“Perhaps I shall.”
Dr. Finch continued speaking. The lecture hall offered Mr. Fenwick everything it had denied Eleanor.
Scholars shifted to make room for him. Men who would have considered Miss Finch immodest for speaking without invitation asked whether he wished to examine their notes.
During a brief pause while her father accepted water, an archivist approached the rear benches and distributed access cards for the private manuscript viewing afterward.
He handed one to Eleanor without question.
“Junior scholars may enter the archive room after the final bell,” he said. “Your reference?”
“Reverend Thomas Fenwick.”
The archivist glanced at Sophia’s forged letter and nodded.
No demand for proof of family permission.
No reminder that fragile manuscripts required masculine supervision.
No concerned inquiry about whether late hours might compromise her reputation.
A male name and a plain coat had granted Eleanor more freedom in one hour than twenty-four years of study.
She wanted to laugh and wanted to overturn every marble bust in the building.
Instead, she placed the access card inside her coat and continued taking notes.
On stage, Dr. Finch concluded with a claim Eleanor had written at nineteen.
Applause filled the hall. Her father bowed. Eleanor did not move her hands.
* * *
The crowd separated after the lecture. Patrons moved toward the reception room, where wine and compliments awaited Dr. Finch.
Senior scholars gathered around the stage.
Junior men queued beside the archive corridor, comparing access cards and attempting to appear unimpressed by the opportunity to view manuscripts ordinarily denied to them.
Eleanor joined the queue. Thomas Hales fell into step beside her.
“Will you examine the Thessalian case?” he asked.
“If it is made available.”
“Finch may reserve it for the senior members.”
“Then the senior members may misunderstand it privately.”
Hales laughed. The sound drew Professor Latham’s attention. He approached while adjusting the ribbon upon his spectacles.
“Fenwick, was it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You mentioned the Larissa inventories. Have you seen the privately held copy from the Bellamy collection?”
“I have read a transcription.”
“Whose?”
“Miss Finch’s.”
The name passed through Eleanor like a blade. Latham frowned.
“Finch’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Finch’s notes, surely.”
“No. Hers.”
The professor looked faintly uncomfortable.
“I was not aware she produced independent transcripts.”
Eleanor held his gaze through the plain spectacles.
“Many people are not aware of what women produce independently.”
Hales glanced between them.
Latham cleared his throat. “A fair observation.”
He had dismissed the same truth when it came from Eleanor in a gown. From Mr. Fenwick, it became fair. The privilege was intoxicating. The hypocrisy sickened her.
“Mr. Fenwick.”
Gabriel’s voice travelled through the corridor.
Eleanor’s body responded before she turned.
He stood near an alcove between two marble columns, dressed in formal black with a silver waistcoat and the controlled expression of Lord Ashcombe at his most dangerous.
Julian remained farther down the hall, speaking with Hargreaves beside the archive entrance.
No one observing Gabriel would have guessed he had spent the previous night performing flirtation to wound the woman now dressed as a young man.
No one except Eleanor would have recognised the tension in his shoulders. Professor Latham bowed.
“Ashcombe.”
“Professor.”
Gabriel looked at Eleanor.
“May I borrow Mr. Fenwick?”
The words were polite. The question was not. Hales appeared impressed that a young provincial copyist had attracted the notice of an earl. Eleanor could almost see future speculation forming.
“I shall join you in the archive,” Hales said.
Eleanor inclined her head. Gabriel waited until the scholars moved away.
Then he stepped into the narrow side corridor.
Eleanor followed. The corridor ended near a locked catalogue room.
Wall lamps cast long shadows across the shelves, and the noise of the reception faded behind the heavy stone arch. Gabriel turned.