"I doubt you do, actually," he said gently. "You see, I find myself in the position of being thoroughly disgusted by society's treatment of you. Here is a scholar of remarkable ability, someone who has contributed more to the preservation and organization of human knowledge than most people do in alifetime, and she's being pilloried for what? For being caught in a storm? For accepting shelter from her employer? The hypocrisy of it makes my blood boil."
Eveline stared at him, genuinely shocked. She'd expected many things from this visit, like curiosity or veiled propositions of the sort ruined women sometimes received. She had not expected righteous indignation on her behalf.
"That's... that's very kind of you to say, Mr. Browne, but the fact remains that society has made its judgment. My reputation is in tatters, my prospects for employment virtually nil. No respectable family will hire a governess or companion with my particular scandal attached."
"Society is composed of fools and hypocrites," Theodore said with surprising vehemence. "Half the ton has committed far worse indiscretions but they simply had the fortune not to be discovered, or they simply had the protection of rank and wealth to shield them from consequences."
"Unfortunately, I have neither rank nor wealth to shield me," Eveline pointed out. "Only a scandal that grows more elaborate with each retelling. By next week, I'm sure the gossips will have me conducting occult rituals in His Grace's library, possibly while dancing naked around a bonfire of first editions."
Theodore's lips twitched. "Now there's an image. Though anyone who's seen your careful handling of rare texts would know you'd die before allowing a single page near an open flame."
Despite everything, Eveline found herself almost smiling. "True. If I were going to conduct occult rituals, I'd use cheap gossip papers. No sense in destroying valuable manuscripts for a dark ritual."
"Precisely the sort of practical consideration that marks a true scholar." His expression grew serious again. "Miss Whitcombe, I need to ask you something, and I hope you'll forgive the impertinence. What are your plans? Given the current situation, I mean."
Eveline gestured toward her desk, littered with half-finished letters. "I've been writing to various institutions—libraries, universities, private collectors. Surely someone, somewhere, needs a cataloguer or translator who won't mind a bit of scandal attached."
"And the responses?"
"Silent as the grave, most of them. Though I did receive one reply from a gentleman in Yorkshire who seemed quite eager to hire me, until I realized his interest was less in my cataloguing abilities and more in what other services a ruined woman might provide." She tried to sound matter-of-fact about it, but the memory still stung. "I burned his letter. It seemed the most hygienic response."
Theodore's face darkened. "The man's name?"
"Why? Are you planning to challenge him to a duel on my behalf?" The question was meant as a jest, but something in his expression suggested he was actually considering it. "Mr. Browne, while I appreciate the sentiment, I hardly think violence would improve my situation."
"No, but it would improve mine immensely. There's something deeply satisfying about the thought of horsewhipping a man who would prey on awoman's misfortune." He seemed to catch himself, color rising slightly in his cheeks. "Forgive me. That was inappropriately bloodthirsty."
"On the contrary, I found it rather charming. It's been some time since anyone wanted to defend my honour. Most people seem to think I haven't any left to defend."
They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their tea. Eveline found herself studying him over the rim of her cup. He was not at all what she'd expected from a classical scholar; no dusty, doddering old man lost in ancient texts, but someone vibrantly present, engaged with the world around him. There was something steady about him, she realized, something that suggested deep waters running still.
"Miss Whitcombe," he said suddenly, setting down his cup with decisive motion. "I'm about to say something that may shock you. I ask only that you hear me out before making any judgments."
"That's an ominous beginning," she said, trying for lightness despite the sudden acceleration of her pulse.
"Perhaps. But I believe in directness, so I'll simply say it: I would like to offer you a position."
"A position?" She blinked, hope rising despite herself. "You have a library that needs cataloguing?"
"In a manner of speaking." He removed his spectacles, cleaning them with his handkerchief—a gesture that seemed more nervous habit than necessity. "I have a modest estate in Hampshire which is nothing big but it is comfortable. The library there is considerable, some eight thousand volumes, and in desperate need of proper organisation. Moreover, I've recently acquired a collection of medieval manuscripts that require expert attention."
"That sounds wonderful," Eveline said carefully, sensing there was more to come. "But surely you could find someone without my particular... complications."
"I could find someone, certainly. But I couldn't find you." He replaced his spectacles and met her gaze directly. "Miss Whitcombe, I've been searching for an intellectual companion for years. Someone who could share my passion for ancient texts, who could challenge my translations, who could bring fresh perspectives to my research. Every time Professor Blackwood wrote of your accomplishments, I thought, 'Here is exactly the sort of mind I've been seeking.'"
"Mr. Browne..."
"Pray, let me finish." He held up a hand, and she noticed his fingers were ink-stained—the mark of a true scholar. "I'm not offering you mere employment, Miss Whitcombe. I'm offering you partnership. Marriage."
The word fell between them like a stone into still water, sending ripples through the quiet room. Eveline stared at him, certain she'd misheard.
"I... what?"
"Marriage," he repeated, calm despite the slight color in his cheeks. "I realise this must seem sudden, even opportunistic given your current circumstances. But I assure you, my interest is not born of pity or some misguided attempt at gallantry. I've admired your work for months, your mind for longer through ProfessorBlackwood's descriptions. Recent events have simply provided the impetus to speak what I've been considering for some time."
"You can't be serious." The words came out without thought, propelled by pure shock. "You don't even know me. We've been sitting here for less than an hour..."
"I know your work," he interrupted gently. "I know that you approach texts with both rigor and imagination. I know that you can read Byzantine Greek as easily as most people read English. I know that you have opinions about the proper storage of vellum that border on the passionate. I know that Professor Blackwood, who has praise for almost no one, considers you the finest mind he's ever taught."
