Chapter 8
The British Museum Reading Room - Sunday Afternoon
The great domed reading room of the British Museum was bathed in soft, filtered light that fell through the high windows, creating an atmosphere of scholarly reverence.
Catherine sat at one of the polished wooden tables, a leather-bound volume open before her, but her eyes kept drifting from the pages to scan the entrance.
She had arrived early, partly from eagerness and partly from the nervous energy that had plagued her all week.
The memory of that moonlit gallery—the warmth of Alexander's fingers against her jaw, the way his breath had felt against her skin—had replayed in her mind countless times since the Pemberton ball.
The book before her was a recent publication: Observations on the Indigenous Peoples of Southern Africa. She had selected it deliberately, curious to see how closely the academic accounts matched what Alexander had experienced firsthand.
"Researching African culture, I see."
Catherine's heart leaped at the familiar voice. She looked up to find Alexander standing beside her table, dressed more simply than she had ever seen him—a well-tailored brown coat and cream waistcoat that made him look less like a Duke and more like a serious scholar.
"Your Grace," she said, her voice coming out slightly breathless despite her best efforts at composure.
"May I?" Alexander gestured to the chair beside hers—not across the table, but beside. Catherine nodded, acutely aware of how close he would be.
Alexander settled into the seat and leaned forward to examine the open pages. His shoulder nearly touched hers, and Catherine caught the now-familiar scent of sandalwood and something darker that she was beginning to recognize as uniquely his.
"What does it say?" he asked, his voice quiet in the hushed reading room.
Catherine turned her attention back to the text, though she was far more aware of his proximity than the printed words.
"The author claims that the native peoples lack any organized system of governance.
That they live in—" she read directly from the page—"'a state of primitive chaos, guided only by base instincts and tribal superstition. '"
Alexander made a sound that might have been a laugh or a scoff. "Complete nonsense. The people I lived among had remarkably sophisticated governance structures. They had councils, systems of justice, methods of resolving disputes that would put our House of Lords to shame."
He reached across to turn the page, his hand brushing hers. Catherine felt the contact like a spark.
"What about this part?" she asked, pointing to a passage describing agricultural practices. "Is this accurate?"
Alexander leaned closer to read, and Catherine found herself studying his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell slightly across his forehead, the faint scar she had noticed before.
"That section is surprisingly accurate," he said.
"Though the author attributes their farming knowledge to 'fortunate accident' rather than generations of careful observation and experimentation.
" He turned to look at her, and their faces were suddenly very close.
"They were not primitive, Catherine. They were different. There is a considerable distinction."
Catherine held his gaze, finding it difficult to breathe with him so near. "You speak of them with such respect."
"I owe them my life. And more than that — they taught me to see the world differently."
Catherine turned the page slowly, intending to look for another passage. She stopped.
The new section was headed On the Internal Conflicts of the Native Peoples.
She read aloud, quietly: "'These tribes engage in constant warfare among themselves, raid one another for cattle and women, and have for generations participated willingly in the sale of their defeated enemies into bondage.
Their cruelty toward their own kind is matched only by their indifference to suffering. '"
She looked up, expecting his contempt.
Alexander did not give it to her.
"That part," he said, "is largely true."
Catherine blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"I saw all of it. The wars. The raids. Villages that traded their captives down to the coast and to ships flying every flag in Europe, including ours.
" His voice was level. "I lived for nearly a year with men who would have cut my throat for my boots, Catherine, and they did not look like me.
I lived for another year with British sailors who would have done precisely the same, and they looked like the men in this ballroom. "
"Then —" she frowned, "you are agreeing with the book?"
"With the facts. Not with what the author makes of them.
" He closed the volume gently. "He sets those facts down as proof that they are beneath us.
I look at the same facts and see something else entirely.
Cruelty is not a property of one people.
Neither is honor. I saw both, in equal measure, in every group of human beings I lived among.
It was the most disorienting lesson of my time abroad — and the most useful. "
Catherine was quiet. She felt him watching her, waiting, and she did not have an immediate answer.
"That troubles you," he said.
"Yes." Catherine was quiet a moment, ordering her thoughts.
"Though — perhaps not for the reason you imagine.
I will grant you that cruelty exists in every people.
I cannot dispute what you saw with your own eyes.
" She met his gaze. "But at least they are cruel only to one another.
We are cruel to each other and to them. We reach across oceans to inflict it.
They suffer their own cruelty within their own walls; we have made theirs our business and our profit.
Even in their cruelty they are more virtuous than us. "
"You are not wrong," he said quietly.
Alexander considered her with the careful attention of a man choosing his words.
"But the powerless do not deserve better because they are virtuous, Catherine.
They deserve better because they are people.
Wherever they happen to live, whatever they happen to do to each other in their own struggles.
Justice is not a reward for being good. It is owed to the human, regardless.
If you were defending them only because you believed them pure, you would have been defending an illusion.
You are defending them because they are suffering. That stands."
She let the words settle. They did not entirely comfort her — she would carry the unease away, she knew, and turn it over for days — but she could feel something in her chest making room for what he had said.
"And what did you decide, in the end?" she asked. "About them. About us."
Alexander was quiet for a long moment.
"That we are not better than them because we have wealth and structure," he said. "And they are not better than us because they live closer to the earth. We are the same. Only the setting changes."
The reading room maintained its scholarly hush around them. Somewhere a page turned. Somewhere a pen scratched.
"But enough about me," Alexander said after a moment, and Catherine understood that he was giving her ground to stand on after he had unsteadied her own. "I met your parents at the ball. They seemed remarkably open-minded compared to others of your station."
Catherine smiled. "They have always encouraged me to be more than a decorative addition to a drawing room. My father insisted I receive a proper education despite the potential for criticism from society."
"Then you inherited this thirst for knowledge from him," Alexander said. "He is quite admirable for wanting to cultivate your spirit along with your appearance."
"Indeed, he has given me more freedom than what is considered acceptable for a woman of my position," Catherine agreed.
Alexander studied her face. "But?"
Catherine's smile faded slightly. "But even my father will not dare to publicly take actions that would help significantly. He says we cannot save the world. All we can do is protect and nurture the people we care about."
"He cares for his people, as a man should," Alexander said carefully.
"And what about the people who are underprivileged and suffering?" Catherine's voice carried an edge of frustration. "What about those who have no one to care for them? Who will protect them?"
Alexander was quiet for a long moment. Catherine watched something shift in his expression—conflict, understanding, perhaps recognition of a question he had asked himself many times.
"Someone who has nothing of importance to lose," he said finally, his voice carrying weight. "Your father has a family. A position in society. He cannot risk everything without risking them as well."
"Yes, but why?" Catherine leaned forward, her passion evident despite her lowered voice. "Why must there be consequences for wanting to do good? Why do people care more about acquiring another house or more servants than building a society that thrives without suffering?"
Alexander remained silent. Catherine could see him wrestling with the question, could see in his eyes that he had no easy answer. Finally, he met her gaze directly.
"You are quite intelligent, Lady Catherine," he said quietly. "Perhaps more than is your own good."
Catherine felt heat rise in her cheeks. "I take that as a compliment, Your Grace."
"It was intended as one." His fingers moved slightly on the table, close enough to hers that she could feel the warmth of his hand without them actually touching.
"May I ask you something?" Alexander said after a moment.
"Of course."
"Lady Anna is quite different from you in her worldview. How did the two of you become such close friends?"