"Modest, I'm afraid. Perhaps thirty pounds per annum to start? But the real value would be in the association. 'Consultant to the British Museum' carries academic weight that money can't buy."
Adrian nodded, already calculating how this would fit with the other pieces he was assembling. "And she could publish findings under the museum's imprimatur?"
"If her work merited it, certainly. We have a journal; mostly dusty monographs that twelve people read, but still, publication is publication." Thornbury handed back the translations with obvious reluctance. "I must say, Your Grace, this is quite a crusade you're mounting on the young lady's behalf."
"It's not a crusade," Adrian said quietly. "It's simple justice. Her mind deserves recognition regardless of her social standing."
"Hmm." Thornbury's expression was knowing. "Well, whatever your motivations, scholarship will benefit. Send Miss Whitcombe to see me once she's... resolved her current situation. I'll be most interested to discuss those Byzantine observations in detail."
Adrian left the museum with another piece of his puzzle in place. Cadwell Publishing would provide income and public recognition. The museum position would grant academic credibility. His own position would offer stability and resources. Together, they formed a future that no Manchester mill owner could match, a life built around scholarship rather than servitude.
***
By the time Adrian arrived at Eveline's lodgings, he found what appeared to be a small academic conference in progress. Through the parlor door, which stood slightly ajar, he could hear animated voices discussing translation theory with the kind of passion most people reserved for politics or sport.
"...but surely maintaining the meter is less important than preserving the emotional impact," a male voice was saying. "What use is perfect dactylic hexameter if the English reader feels nothing?"
"What use is emotional impact if you've destroyed the very structure that creates it?" That was Eveline, her voice carrying the particular tone she used when someone had said something brilliantly stupid. "You might as well write your own poetry and call it 'inspired by Virgil' rather than pretending it's translation."
Adrian pushed the door fully open to find a scene that made his heart simultaneously soar and clench. Eveline sat in the center of what could only be described as organized chaos. Papers spread across every surface, books open to various passages, teacups forgotten amid the scholarly debris. Cadwell was there, along with another gentleman Adrian didn't recognize, and Harriet presided over it all with the satisfied air of a general whose battle plans were succeeding brilliantly.
"Your Grace," Harriet said, noticing him first. Her tone suggested she wasn't entirely surprised by his appearance. "How fortuitous. We were just discussing Miss Whitcombe's impressive array of opportunities."
Eveline's head snapped up, her eyes meeting his with an expression that contained fury, confusion, and something else he couldn't quite identify. She looked magnificent in her anger though. Color high, eyes sparking, surrounded by the evidence of her brilliance that these men were finally recognizing.
"Your Grace," she said with icy formality. "I should have expected you. Tell me, did you organise this entire gathering, or merely set it in motion and trust momentum to do the rest?"
"I may have made some introductions," Adrian admitted, moving into the room despite the charged atmosphere. "Your work deserved to be seen by people who could appreciate it."
"My work. Which you stole."
"Borrowed," he corrected, unrepentant. "And look what's come of it. Cadwell here wants to publish your Ovid. Thornbury at the British Museum is interested in your Byzantine observations. I believe Mr.—?" He looked questioningly at the unknown gentleman.
"Wickham," the man supplied. "Thomas Wickham, from the Royal Historical Society. Mr. Cadwell showed me Miss Whitcombe's work on Theocritus. Quite extraordinary."
"Mr. Wickham," Adrian continued smoothly, "apparently wants to discuss a lecture series on classical translation theory. All because your work was allowed to speak for itself, without the interference of gossip or prejudice."
"Without my permission, you mean." Eveline rose, stepping carefully around the scattered papers. "Gentlemen, might I have a moment alone with His Grace? I promise not to damage him too severely. I wouldn't want to deprive you of your patron."
The men departed with varying degrees of reluctance, Cadwell pressing his card into Eveline's hand with a reminder to consider his offer carefully. Harriet was the last to leave, pausing at the door with a meaningful look.
"Try not to throw anything irreplaceable," she advised. "The teapot is only Staffordshire, but the books are first editions."
Then they were alone, and the air between them crackled with tension that had nothing to do with scholarship and everything to do with the morning's stolen kiss and purloined translations.
"You had no right," Eveline said quietly, and somehow the control in her voice was worse than shouting would have been. "Those translations were mine, private, not meant for..."
"Not meant to be hidden away while you exile yourself to Manchester?" Adrian interrupted. "Not meant to be wasted teaching Latin basics to indifferent children? Tell me, Eveline, what exactly were they meant for if not recognition?"
"That wasn't your decision to make!"
"No, but someone had to make it, since you seemed determined to bury your light under the provincial bushel of industrial England." He moved closer, noting how she held her ground despite the anger vibrating through her. "Do you know what Thornbury said about your Byzantine observations? That scholars have spent decades trying to understand what you noticed in an afternoon."
"Thornbury? Edmund Thornbury from the British Museum?"
"The same. He's prepared to offer you a consulting position. Two days a week to start, with potential for more. You'd have access to their entire manuscript collection, the ability to publish findings in their journal..."
"Stop." She held up a hand, and he could see her trembling with the effort of containing her emotions. "Just stop. Do you think this fixes everything? That you can steal my work, parade it before half of scholarly London, create positions out of thin air, and I'll fall gratefully at your feet?"
