CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE PRICE OF HER NAME #4
Men who had praised him for years now avoided his gaze or studied the comparison pages with growing horror.
Editors whispered beside the title pages.
Younger scholars gathered near Eleanor’s manuscripts.
Professor Alderton removed his academic ribbon and placed it upon the chair. Dr. Finch turned toward Eleanor.
“You have destroyed everything.”
She looked at the scorched corner of her manuscript.
“No,” she said. “I saved what was mine.”
He appeared to search her face for the obedient daughter who once corrected his notes before breakfast. She no longer existed.
Julian took the Blackthorn letter from his hand.
Dr. Finch did not resist. He walked from the stage alone.
No applause followed. No one called him back.
Eleanor watched until the hall doors closed.
Then she turned toward the audience. The room remained chaotic.
Smoke lingered near the ceiling. A bullet hole marked the plaster, and several priceless papers lay scattered across the stage.
Gabriel stood behind her, close enough to help and disciplined enough not to take her place.
Eleanor stepped to the lectern. Gradually, the noise softened. She placed the scorched manuscript upon the wood.
“My name is Eleanor Finch.”
Her voice shook once. She allowed it. Bravery did not require pretending fear had vanished.
“The translations published by Dr. Edmund Finch under the titles displayed here belong to me. The original drafts, dated proofs, printer correspondence and financial records are available for independent examination.”
Editors began writing. Eleanor continued.
“Future editions will carry my name or will not be published with my consent. I will prepare corrected versions identifying every deliberate alteration and every error introduced after my drafts left my possession.”
She looked across the hall. Several women sat in the gallery: wives, daughters, assistants and secretaries who had entered only because public lectures permitted female spectators. Some watched her with astonishment. Others with recognition.
“My work is not unique in one respect,” Eleanor said. “Women’s labour disappears beneath male names every day. Daughters translate. Wives edit. Sisters research. Assistants correct arguments and copy manuscripts until another person’s reputation is built upon their silence.”
A murmur moved through the gallery. Eleanor placed her uninjured hand over the manuscript.
“I am establishing a publishing house that will accept evidence from women whose work has been taken by fathers, husbands, brothers, employers or academic patrons. We will examine manuscripts, dates, handwriting and printer records. Where authorship can be proved, we will publish it beneath the name of the person who produced it.”
Harcourt rose from the second row.
“This is outrageous.”
Quinn turned toward him.
“Worried?”
Laughter moved through the younger scholars. Harcourt’s face reddened. Eleanor looked directly at him.
“Your accounts will also be examined.”
He sat down. The laughter grew. For the first time in Eleanor’s life, the room’s amusement served truth rather than silencing it. She looked toward Thomas Hales. He rose.
“Where may evidence be submitted?”
The question was public support disguised as practicality. Eleanor felt gratitude tighten her throat.
“To Quinn’s premises until the new office is complete.”
Another young scholar stood.
“I have correspondence from my sister concerning corrections published beneath my tutor’s name.”
“Bring it.”
A woman in the gallery called, “Will you accept mathematical work?”
“Yes.”
“Botanical notes?”
“Yes.”
“Political translations?”
“Yes.”
The room shifted again. Eleanor’s claim had become larger than Dr. Finch.
The immediate conspiracy remained. Vesper had not been exposed, and Blackthorn Hall waited beyond the coded letter.
Yet the machinery relying upon Eleanor’s silence had broken publicly.
Her name belonged to her. Gabriel watched from several feet away.
His coat was torn, blood marked his lower lip and every person in the hall now understood that his reputation concealed government service.
He had risked the identity protecting his intelligence work.
For her manuscript. For her. Eleanor stepped away from the lectern.
This time, the applause began among the junior scholars.
It spread unevenly. Some senior men remained seated.
Several patrons looked offended. Harcourt appeared ill.
The women in the gallery stood. Then Arabella.
Catherine. Amelia. Clara. Frances and Sophia.
Beatrice joined them last, satisfaction shining through tears she would later deny.
The applause became impossible to dismiss.
Eleanor did not bow. She stood beside her work and received it.
* * *
Outside the Royal Society hall, evening air cooled the burn upon Eleanor’s palm.
A physician had wrapped the injury in linen and declared it superficial.
Gabriel’s split lip required no treatment beyond cold water, though Hastings would undoubtedly summon someone regardless.
Carriages crowded the street. Editors hurried away toward printing offices, carrying enough scandal to occupy London for weeks.
Scholars gathered beneath the portico, arguing over authorship, evidence and whether the female mind could survive the evening’s exertions.
The Society had gone ahead to Rothmere House with the manuscripts.
Julian and Hargreaves remained inside examining Peregrine’s papers.
Eleanor stood beneath a stone arch. Gabriel waited several feet away.
For once, he appeared uncertain whether he possessed permission to approach.
The distance was absurd after everything they had shared.
It also belonged to the choice he promised her.
Eleanor closed it. Gabriel looked at the bandage around her hand.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“I should have reached the brazier first.”
“I was closer.”
“I should have prevented Peregrine from moving.”
“You were stopping him.”
“He struck you.”
“The fire struck me.”
“That distinction offers no comfort.”
Eleanor almost smiled. His split lip had begun swelling. She lifted her uninjured hand and touched the edge of it. Gabriel became still.
“Does that hurt?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His mouth curved beneath her fingertip. The smile was not practised. It carried exhaustion, relief and a longing he no longer disguised well.
“Will the intelligence service remove you?” she asked.
“From what?”
“Your position.”
“I possess no official position to remove.”
“Your usefulness, then.”
Gabriel looked toward the hall doors.
“Several rooms will close to me. Men who believed me drunk may become cautious. Women whose husbands underestimated me may receive warnings.”
“You spent years building that identity.”
“Yes.”
“And exposed it publicly.”
“Yes.”
Eleanor lowered her hand.
“Do you regret it?”
Gabriel’s gaze returned to hers. Street noise moved around them. A carriage driver called to another. Rainwater dripped from the edge of the portico, and somewhere inside the hall a clerk shouted about the damaged ceiling. Gabriel did not smile.
“I regret only that I waited until danger gave me courage.”
The answer entered her quietly. Eleanor looked at the man before her: the rake, the spy, the wounded son and the lover who had finally allowed truth to remain after pleasure ended.
“What courage do you still lack?” she asked.
Gabriel removed every trace of his practised smile.
“Enough to ask you to stay.”