"Translation samples?" Eveline's confusion deepened. "Mr. Cadwell, I think there must be some mistake. I haven't submitted any work to your firm."
"No? How curious." He reached into his leather portfolio and withdrew several familiar sheets of paper. "These aren't yours? Because I must say, if they're not, then someone is doing a remarkable job of forging brilliant classical translation."
Eveline recognized her own handwriting immediately, her notes on Ovid that had scattered across the landing this morning when Adrian had... Her face flamed as understanding dawned.
"He took them," she breathed. "That impossible, high-handed, interfering..."
"Ah," Mr. Cadwell said with the air of someone who'd stumbled into a drama he didn't quite understand but found intriguing nonetheless. "Well, regardless of how they came to my attention, I'm rather glad they did. Miss Whitcombe, your translation work is exceptional. The way you maintain the poetic structure while preserving meaning, your sensitivity to the nuances of the original—it's quite simply some of the best I've seen."
"You... you truly think so?" Eveline sank back into her chair, overwhelmed.
"I don't think, I know." He took the chair Harriet offered, his manner becoming more businesslike. "I've been looking for someone to undertake a new translation of Ovid's complete works. The existing translations are either too literal, losing all the poetry, or too loose, losing the meaning. Your work strikes the perfect balance."
"Mr. Cadwell," Eveline began carefully, "I'm deeply flattered by your interest, but I should tell you that my name carries certain... complications atpresent. I wouldn't want to damage your firm's reputation."
He waved a dismissive hand. "My dear young lady, I publish books, not gossip sheets. What matters to me is the quality of scholarship, and yours is undeniable. Besides," his eyes twinkled, "a bit of scandal might actually help sales. Nothing sells classical texts quite like a hint of impropriety, it makes people feel they're reading something slightly dangerous."
Despite everything, Eveline found herself almost smiling. "I hardly think Ovid needs help being considered dangerous."
"True enough. The man could make a shopping list sound lascivious." Cadwell leaned forward, his expression becoming more serious. "I'm prepared to offer you a contract for the Ovid translation, with the possibility of future projects if this goes well. Payment of fifty pounds upon completion, with royalties on sales, and—this is important—publication under your own name."
"My own name?" Eveline's voice came out strangled. "But surely that would..."
"That would what? Acknowledge that a woman can be a classical scholar? Heaven forbid." His tone was gently mocking. "Miss Whitcombe, the scholarly world is changing, slowly perhaps, but changing nonetheless. There are lady antiquarians, lady botanists, even lady mathematicians publishing under their own names. Why not a lady translator?"
"Because those ladies haven't been publicly ruined?" Eveline suggested.
"Have they not? My dear, you'd be surprised how many brilliant women have weathered scandal to achieve recognition."
Harriet, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly spoke up. "Evie, this is exactly what you've always wanted. A chance to see your work in print, under your own name, judged on its merits rather than your social standing."
"I know, but..."
"But nothing." Harriet's tone was firm. "You were just lamenting that your mind doesn't matter to society. Here's someone saying it does matter, scandal be damned."
***
Adrian stood in the reading room of the British Museum, watching as Edmund Thornbury examined Eveline's translation notes with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics. The elderly scholar had been a friend of Adrian's father, one of the few academics the late duke had genuinely respected, and his opinion carried weight in circles that mattered.
"Remarkable," Thornbury murmured, adjusting his spectacles to peer more closely at a marginal note. "Her observation about the scribal variations suggesting multiple copying centers...I've been puzzling over that for years. And she just... noticed it?"
"In the course of cataloguing my library, yes." Adrian tried to keep the pride from his voice and largely failed. "She has an exceptional eye for detail and a mindthat makes connections others miss."
"I should say so." Thornbury set down the papers carefully. "Your Grace, scholars spend decades developing this level of expertise. That she's achieved it so young, and without formal university training... it's quite extraordinary."
"Then you'll consider my proposal?"
Thornbury leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced in academic contemplation. "A consulting position with the museum's manuscript collection, specifically focusing on Byzantine texts. It would be unprecedented as we've never had a female consultant before."
"There's a first time for everything."
"Indeed." Thornbury was quiet for a moment, clearly weighing considerations both scholarly and social. "The scandal, of course, is unfortunate. There would be those who object."
"Since when has the British Museum bowed to the prejudices of small minds?" Adrian interrupted. "Your charter is to preserve and share knowledge, is it not? Miss Whitcombe has knowledge that could benefit scholars for generations. Would you deny that contribution because some gossips clutch their pearls?"
"You make a compelling argument." Thornbury picked up the translations again, reading a passage that made him smile. "And these really are exceptional. Very well, Your Grace. I'll propose a consulting arrangement to the board. Limited hours at first—say, two days per week? Focusing on our Byzantine collection. If her work is as good as these samples suggest, we can expand from there."
"The compensation?"
