CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE PRICE OF HER NAME #2
Eleanor looked toward the locked manuscript boxes.
“Then we take copies.”
“No,” Gabriel said.
She turned. His face held the first edge of command she had seen since the archive. He recognised it too. The expression changed.
“The originals are your strongest proof,” he said more carefully. “But displaying every page together creates unnecessary risk.”
Eleanor considered.
“Two originals,” she decided. “The earliest complete draft and the final corrected version. Copies for everything else.”
Gabriel inclined his head. No argument. No attempt to replace her decision.
The small act of trust moved through her more warmly than triumph would have done.
Frances watched them with unconcealed satisfaction.
Eleanor ignored her. For another two hours, they prepared.
Clara numbered each exhibit. Sophia organised the order of witnesses.
Amelia drafted a notice demanding that Harcourt suspend every Finch edition until authorship could be reviewed.
Catherine arranged sympathetic patrons in the audience, while Beatrice coordinated the side exits with Julian’s men. Arabella selected Eleanor’s clothing.
Not red. Not midnight silk. Not the masculine robes of Mr. Fenwick or the seductive elegance of Mrs. Grey. A plain dark blue gown with long sleeves, a modest neckline and no jewellery except the small silver pendant that had belonged to Eleanor’s mother.
“You should appear respectable,” Frances objected.
“I should appear myself,” Eleanor said.
Arabella nodded once. That ended the debate.
Shortly before they left, Eleanor entered the smaller morning room to fasten her gloves.
Gabriel followed. He closed the door but did not lock it.
The room held no one else, though servants and Society members moved in the corridor beyond.
Eleanor stood near the window while he remained by the mantel, watching her struggle with a stubborn button at her wrist.
“May I?”
She held out her hand. Gabriel approached.
His fingers closed around the glove button, fastening it with a precision that made the ordinary task intimate.
The backs of his knuckles brushed the sensitive skin inside her wrist. Eleanor’s pulse quickened.
He felt it. His thumb rested there for one heartbeat, echoing the conclusion of their first agreement. Her heart had raced then too.
“So has mine,” he had implied without saying it.
Now he looked at her face.
“Are you afraid?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want comfort, advice or neither?”
The question warmed her.
“Comfort.”
Gabriel lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist. The touch was gentle.
Her body remembered less gentle things. Heat moved through her breasts and lower belly with startling speed.
Eleanor imagined his mouth travelling higher along her arm, his hands opening the plain gown and reminding her beneath it that she belonged wholly to herself.
Gabriel’s eyes darkened. He had followed the same thought.
“This is a poor time,” he murmured.
“Remarkably.”
“After?”
The single word carried desire and uncertainty together. Eleanor moved closer. Her skirts brushed his legs.
“After depends upon what happens before.”
His free hand settled at her waist.
“Then I have discovered a powerful interest in academic justice.”
She almost laughed. Gabriel’s forehead touched hers. No kiss. A kiss might have become hunger, and hunger might have made leaving the room difficult. Instead, they shared one breath.
“You do not need to prove anything to me,” he said.
“I know.”
“You do not need to protect me from what the room thinks.”
“I know.”
“If Peregrine moves, I will follow him.”
“And I will continue speaking.”
“Yes.”
“Do not interfere unless someone is in danger.”
Gabriel’s mouth curved faintly.
“That definition may become contested.”
“Physical danger.”
“Reluctantly agreed.”
Eleanor touched his face. He leaned into her palm before he could stop himself. The trust in the movement tightened her throat.
“Stand beside me,” she said.
“As long as you choose.”
Then they left for the Royal Society.
* * *
Dr. Finch had filled the hall. Scholars occupied every row.
Newspaper editors crowded the side aisles with notebooks prepared.
Patrons, politicians and university officials sat beneath the painted gallery, while several physicians had been invited to lend authority to the account of Eleanor’s alleged collapse.
Upon the stage, a large table displayed Dr. Finch’s published works.
Her work. Behind it stood the leather case intended for the Thessalian exchange.
The brazier near the side curtain had been lit despite the mild evening, supposedly to warm sealing wax.
Eleanor knew better. Peregrine would use it if recovery failed.
The Society entered through the main doors.
Conversation faltered. Eleanor walked first. She wore no mask.
No spectacles. No disguise. Her dark blue gown was almost severe in its simplicity, but she no longer required clothing to command the room.
She moved as Gabriel taught her during the first lesson: gaze raised, pace unhurried, attention received rather than requested.
Behind her came Arabella, Beatrice, Catherine, Amelia, Clara, Frances and Sophia. Julian and Hargreaves followed.
Gabriel walked last. His presence drew whispers almost as quickly as Eleanor’s.
The rake and the mad scholar’s daughter.
The lovers from the Mercury Club. The woman who dressed as a man.
Every rumour had arrived before them. Eleanor did not lower her head.
Dr. Finch stood behind the lectern. For one moment, father and daughter looked at one another across the hall.
He appeared older than he had the night before.
His face was pale, and exhaustion had deepened the lines around his eyes.
Yet when he turned toward the audience, the grieving scholar replaced the frightened man with practised ease.
“My daughter should not be here,” he said.
The public address had already begun. Eleanor took a seat in the front row. Her father gripped the lectern.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret that a private family sorrow has intruded upon tonight’s scholarly proceedings.
My daughter has suffered greatly under the strain of excessive study.
In recent weeks, fatigue and emotional disturbance have produced a tragic confusion regarding the nature of her assistance. ”
Several editors began writing. Dr. Finch’s voice softened.
“Eleanor has copied my drafts since childhood. She is intelligent, diligent and deeply devoted to scholarship. However, prolonged engagement with difficult material has persuaded her that familiarity with my work constitutes authorship.”
Eleanor listened. Around her, the room shifted between sympathy and appetite.
Her father continued, “I have attempted to protect her dignity. Unfortunately, certain persons have encouraged her delusion for their own political and social purposes.”
His gaze moved toward Julian. Then Gabriel.
“She has been placed among people who value scandal above truth. Her recent conduct—appearing in male attire, entering private institutions and accusing respected scholars—demonstrates the severity of her condition.”
Beatrice’s hand tightened around her fan. Julian placed one finger over hers. Dr. Finch lowered his eyes as though grief had become difficult to bear.
“As her father, I ask only compassion. She will receive appropriate care until reason returns.”
Eleanor stood. The sound of her skirts drew every eye. Her father looked at her.
“Sit down,” he said quietly.
“No.”
The word carried through the hall. Dr. Finch’s face hardened. Eleanor walked to the edge of the stage.
“You have described my knowledge as confusion,” she said. “Will you permit a simple test?”
“This is not the place.”
“You selected the place when you invited newspapers to observe my humiliation.”
Murmurs moved through the audience. Dr. Finch looked toward the Society officers seated beside the stage. One began to rise. Arabella lifted a single gloved hand. The man sat again.
Eleanor continued, “You claim authorship of the translations displayed behind you. You claim I copied your drafts. Then you should be able to explain the methods used.”
“I have explained them in every published commentary.”
“With my notes before you.”
Dr. Finch’s mouth tightened. Eleanor turned toward the audience.
“Sir Malcolm Hargreaves has brought an unseen passage from a private collection. Neither my father nor I have examined it before today.”
Hargreaves rose and carried the sealed transcription onto the stage. Dr. Finch stared at it.
“This is absurd.”
“It is Greek.”
A few younger scholars laughed before silencing themselves. Eleanor met her father’s gaze.
“Translate it.”
He looked toward the audience.
“No serious scholar performs like a circus animal upon command.”
“Then discuss the dialect.”
Dr. Finch glanced at the first line.
“It appears Aeolic.”
“Which regional form?”
“The distinction is immaterial without the full manuscript context.”
“It is Thessalian.”
He looked down again. Eleanor stepped nearer.
“What is the metrical pattern?”
“The passage is damaged.”
“Yes.”
“That prevents certainty.”
“It requires reconstruction. Which syllable has been omitted in the third line?”
Her father’s eyes moved across the page. He could not answer. Eleanor felt no pleasure. Only the terrible finality of watching a man’s borrowed greatness fail without the mind that sustained it.
“Explain the feminine participle in the second line,” she said.
Dr. Finch looked toward Professor Alderton. The older scholar lowered his gaze.
“Why,” Eleanor continued, “does the speaker describe property as communal rather than hereditary?”
“That is one possible reading.”
“What is another?”
Silence. Eleanor turned toward the hall.
“May I?”