Edmund Thornbury's office was exactly what one would expect of a senior museum scholar. Books stacked on every surface, artifacts in various states of cataloguing, and the man himself resembling nothing so much as an amiable owl who'd been disturbed mid-thought.
"Miss Whitcombe!" He rose from behind his desk, nearly upsetting an inkwell in his enthusiasm. "How delightful! I was hoping you'd come by. Please, sit, both of you. Tea? I'm sure there's tea somewhere. Johnson! Where's that boy gotten to?"
A harried-looking young man appeared, was dispatched for tea, and vanished again before Eveline could properly process the warmth of her reception. Thornbury had cleared two chairs of books through the simple expedient of moving the stacks to the floor, creating new obstacles in his already hazardous office.
"Now then," he said, settling back with obvious pleasure, "I must tell you how impressed I was with your observations on the Byzantine manuscripts. That note about the scribal variations suggesting multiple copying centers—brilliant! I've been puzzling over that for the better part of a decade."
"You're very kind, Mr. Thornbury, but I'm sure someone would have noticed eventually."
"Nonsense! Do you know how many scholars have examined those same manuscripts? Dozens! And not one of them saw what you did." He leaned forward eagerly. "Tell me, what made you first suspect multiple scriptoriums?"
Despite her nervousness, Eveline found herself drawn into the scholarly discussion. She explained her reasoning, the tiny variations in letter formation that suggested different hands trained in the same style but not the same place. Thornbury listened with rapt attention, occasionally interjecting questions that pushed her analysis deeper.
"Remarkable," he said finally, after she'd explained her theory about regional differences in Byzantine copying practices. "Simply remarkable. His Grace was right. You're exactly what our manuscript collection needs."
"About that," Eveline said carefully. "I wanted to discuss the specific terms of the consultancy. The position sounds wonderful, but I need to understand exactly what would be expected."
"Of course, of course! Business matters, very important." He shuffled through the papers on his desk, eventually producing a document covered in his spidery handwriting. "Two days per week to start; Tuesdays and Thursdays if that suits. Primary focus on our Byzantine collection, though if you notice things about other manuscripts, we'd certainly welcome your observations."
"The compensation?"
"Ah yes. Thirty pounds per annum, paid quarterly. Not princely, I'm afraid, but the museum's budget..." He shrugged apologetically. "The real value, as I mentioned to His Grace, is in the association. Publications under our imprimatur, access to the collection, collaboration with other scholars."
"Speaking of publications," Eveline said, "would I have freedom to publish my findings independently? Or would everything need museum approval?"
Thornbury blinked, clearly not having expected such a specific question. "Well, I suppose... that is, traditionally consultants work under museum oversight..."
"I understand the need for oversight," Eveline pressed gently. "But I also have other publication commitment—a translation contract with Cadwell & Associates, for instance. I wouldn't want there to be conflicts."
"No, no, of course not." He considered for a moment. "What if we said that findings directly related to museum holdings would be published through our journal, but your broader theoretical work could be published independently with acknowledgment of your museum affiliation?"
"That seems fair. And I would retain rights to my work?"
"Certainly! We're not in the business of stealing scholarship, Miss Whitcombe." He paused, studying her with those keen eyes that missed very little despite his scattered demeanor. "You're quite right to ask these questions. Too many young scholars assume terms without clarifying them. Your care speaks well of your professionalism."
They spent another half hour working through details—access hours, which collections she could examine, procedures for handling the most delicatemanuscripts. Harriet, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up.
"Forgive my ignorance, Mr. Thornbury, but this seems like specialized work requiring extensive expertise. Why only thirty pounds per annum?"
Thornbury had the grace to look embarrassed. "Museum budgets, my dear young lady, are not designed with proper compensation in mind. We rely rather heavily on the notion that scholars will work for love of knowledge rather than monetary gain."
"How convenient for the museum," Harriet observed dryly.
"Indeed." He turned back to Eveline. "I should mention, however, that successful consultants often find their positions expanding. More days, more responsibilities, and yes, more compensation. Start modestly, prove your worth, which I have no doubt you will, and doors tend to open."
"Doors that are currently closed because...?" Eveline let the question hang.
"Because you're female, frankly." His honesty was refreshing. "The board required considerable convincing to approve even this limited consultancy. But once they see your work, once your publications start bringing credit to the museum... Well, prejudice tends to fade when faced with undeniable excellence."
"I appreciate your candour, Mr. Thornbury."
"Bah! No point in pretending otherwise. The world is what it is, Miss Whitcombe. Our job is to slowly make it better through persistent competence." He stood, extending his hand. "Shall we consider it settled then? You'll start Tuesday next?"
Eveline shook his hand, feeling a small thrill at the reality of it. "Yes, I believe we shall."
They left the museum with Eveline clutching her official letter of appointment, signed and sealed with authority. Harriet had been quiet since the compensation discussion, and Eveline could guess why.
"Thirty pounds," her friend said finally. "For work that would pay a man three times as much."
