TEN
Fiesole, Italy
Just as he had months past, Alis strode out of the steam and smoke of the Maria Antonia railway station with godlike swagger.
Only this time, instead of remaining stock-still and awestruck, Chrissi squealed in delight and ran to him, giggling wildly as he caught her in his arms and spun her in a circle.
“You’re home!” she cried. “I missed you so.”
Laughing, he set her down. “It’s only been three days, lass.”
“Three days of eternity, you mean. I feared some demonic deity had tampered with Time itself, the minutes passed so slowly.” She pressed her palms to the lapels of his coat.
“Och, I paid the demon myself, lass,” he grinned. “I wanted to ensure ye were as miserable without me as I was without your bonnie self.”
Heedless of onlookers, Chrissi kissed him right there, the tang of coal smoke eddying around them. It felt imperative. Necessary, even, to express the loveadorationhappiness overflowing in her chest.
“Tell me!” She pulled back, bouncing on her tiptoes. “I want to hear every detail. Your telegram was ridiculously brief.”
“I told ye the important bit—”
“Success! That is all you said. I want all the details of your—no, our!—triumph!”
She tugged him toward the stand where a carozza could be hailed for the return trip to Fiesole. Her father, ever indulgent, had permitted her to make the short jaunt into Florence alone.
The entire journey had felt so adult. Grown-up.
Another confirmation that hers would not be a life confined to hearth and home as other women.
No, she and Alis would dominate the antiquarian world—researching and publishing side by side. Case in point, he had just returned from meeting with an English publisher of archaeological articles who resided in Rome.
Chrissi had hated that she could not travel with him. Not alone. Well, not without fueling scandal.
“Next time,” Alis had promised, his lips against hers. “Soon, we shan’t ever be apart again.”
Now, Alis handed her into a carozza, giving the driver their direction in Fiesole before stepping into the carriage himself.
Chrissi grabbed his hand in both of hers. “Tell me!”
“Why so impatient, my love?” he laughed. “Do the details truly matter? Your words will be published.”
“Of course details matter.” She kissed his cheek. “This publisher only prints a journal every two years; it’s an honor to be included. I want to hear every last word that was spoken of my brilliance.”
He laughed again, but Chrissi finally noticed that he appeared . . . tense. Nervous, perhaps? His knee bounced in time to the clatter of the carriage wheels, and he kept glancing away, his grip on her hand growing tighter.
She frowned, a trickle of unease chasing her spine.
“Tell me,” she repeated, less exuberantly. “Did the meeting go well?”
“Aye!” His tone too bright. “The publisher very much admired the detail in my illustrations, as well as your clever insights into archeology as a practice.”
As well he should, Chrissi thought.
Alis’s illustrations had been works of art, so precise and lifelike, they seemed to bound off the page.
As for herself, she had spent weeks crafting just the right tone to the paper—insightful and intelligent with droll pops of humor.
In the end, Alis had only offered a few suggestions for correction.
The words of the article were, for all intents and purposes, entirely her own work.
But she didn’t mind sharing the limelight with Alis.
Surely as they continued with their publications and excavations, he would begin contributing to the writing as well.
“But . . .” Chrissi prompted.
Alis took in a long, deep breath. The sort of breath that preceded unpleasant news.
Something that tasted like dread settled into her throat.
“It is just . . .” he began, eyes studying their joined hands on the seat. “The publisher was not willing to permit a woman’s name to be listed alongside mine on the publication.”
Chrissi blinked, her eyelids drifting up and down, and she listed toward him.
Or perhaps it was merely the sense of her entire world tilting on its axis.
“What do you mean?” She tugged her hand free of his.
“Precisely what I said. The publisher will pay handsomely to print the article, but he insisted on my name being listed as its author.”
“But . . .” Chrissi wrapped her arms around her middle. “Surely you explained . . . the writing is all mine—”
“Not all,” Alis protested. “I did help.”
“A sentence here and there!” Her voice rose.
“Let us not forget my illustrations.”
“Yes, and they are lovely. But the ideas, the research, the insights, the very tenor of the argument—those were all my own. What did the publisher say when you told him as much?”
“Chris—” Alis began, voice so very weary.
She sat back against the carriage squabs, her heart a frantic, rabbity thing.
“You didn’t tell him.” She could hear the heartbreak in her voice.
“Who wrote what or how much . . . it simply didn’t come up.”
“Didn’t come up?! Women writing academic articles is not a place conversation naturally leads, Alis. You must direct the conversation there—”
“And what would ye have had me say, Chris?! Oh, see here, sir. My betrothed actually wrote this, and I insist her name be on it as well?”
“Yes! Yes, yes, yes! That is precisely what I would have you say!”
“And what then? Be made to feel like a laughing stock? That I am so henpecked, my betrothed directs all my endeavors?”
Chrissi was appalled to feel tears pricking her eyes.
“No,” she choked. “You would say such things because you are proud of my accomplishments. Because you are honest. Because you wish my work to be acknowledged. Because you see me as more than chattel or a mere possession that—”
“What does it hurt to work together under one name? When we marry, we will become one under the law. What is yours will become mine regardless.”
“Yes! Under your name. I will cease being a legal person entirely!”
“Ye ken well that isn’t how it is, Chris. Not between yourself and me.”
“But the world is not just you and me, Alis. You delude yourself if you think it is anything but that. You know my feelings on this matter—how important it is for me to retain my sense of self, even within marriage. To have you trample on my wishes like—”
“There is nothing to be done at this juncture. The publication is done and dusted.” Alis threw up his hands. “I already signed a contract under my name and—”
“You what?!”
“I already signed the contract,” he repeated, exasperated.
“Why? We could have tried another publisher—”
“Who? There are few publishers of this sort of antiquarian research and certainly no others in Italy. I would have to return to London, and even then it could take years, given the snail’s pace of publication schedules.
This publisher will have the article to print in just two months.
We can begin to establish ourselves as a force to be reckoned with now. ”
“But . . .” Chrissi trailed off.
“What’s done is done, Chris.” He pinned her with his dark eyes. “And truly, once we are married, it will be as if our efforts were joined. Because we will be joined!” He motioned between them.
Aghast, Chrissi could only stare at him.
This was what he thought of her?
No matter all the pretty words they had exchanged—goals and aspirations she had thought they both shared—he felt justified in claiming her hard work as his own.
And how could she marry him, knowing this was his true nature? That he would never view her as an equal?
“When we write our next article,” he continued, “we can negotiate better how to proceed with—”
“Another article?! Why would I trust you enough to attempt this a second time?”
“Chris . . .”
“No! Do not Chris me, as if I am a child you need to reprimand. You knew how I would feel about this, and yet you acted anyway. You have shattered the trust between us, Alis!”
He blanched and then, just as quickly, scowled.
“I think that might be a wee bit dramatic, lass. Ye must be more pragmatic about this. In order to establish a household, we need the money and recognition now, not in five years. Ye be a woman, Chris. A brilliant one, aye, but a woman nonetheless. A female attempting to publish in an academic world. It simply isn’t done.
It should be enough to know that a publisher thought your ideas fine enough to pass as my own—the man you will take as your own! ”
“So that is your true opinion, then? That I should simply be grateful that my work was esteemed so fine, a man might have done it? Those are the lofty heights to which I should aspire?”
“Aye! That is the reality of the world in which we live. Ye are usually so level-headed. I thought ye would understand the practical nature of this.”
“Practical nature?! I have a dowry, Alis. You cannot convince me this is only about money.”
Scowling, Alis turned to look out the window. “Let us discuss this once we have both had some time to think more rationally.”
Chrissi stared at his profile, her stomach a tangle of rope—twisted and pulling.
What was she to do? How could she marry him—despite the love still burning in her chest—when he assumed she would be happy to work in his shadow? When he cared more about finances than honesty?
The very thought was a beast’s claws sinking into her breast.
Because there was only one conclusion to be reached here—
Alistair didn’t know her. Not truly. He certainly didn’t understand her—not the yearnings that drove her heart, the desires that gave her life meaning and breath.
Nor, if his current attitude were to be believed, did he wish to understand her.
Oh dear.
She bit her trembling lip.
No!
Her heart angrily rejected the conclusion her brain had already determined.
And yet . . .
She couldn’t.
She simply could not marry Alis. Not like this.
Time.
Perhaps they both simply needed . . . time.