"But it's thirty pounds for doing what I love, with the promise of more. That's worth something."
"Is it enough? Combined with the publishing contract and whatever Adrian is offering?"
Eveline calculated quickly. "More than enough. Cadwell's contract alone could bring in fifty pounds, possibly more with royalties. Adrian's position..." She trailed off, still uncomfortable with the generosity of those terms.
"Is what you're worth," Harriet said firmly. "Don't you dare feel guilty about it. He's not offering charity, he's offering fair compensation for valuable work."
They walked in companionable silence through the British Museum's entrance hall and as they emerged into the afternoon sunlight, a familiar figure was ascending the steps.
"Miss Whitcombe! Miss Fairweather!" Theodore Browne looked genuinely pleased to see them, though Eveline noticed a new easiness to his bearing that hadn't been there before. "What a fortunate encounter. I was just coming toexamine some new acquisitions."
"Mr. Browne." Eveline felt heat rise to her cheeks, remembering their last encounter at Lady Carlisle's ball. "I hope you're well?"
"Exceedingly so." His smile was warm and, she realized with relief, completely without romantic undertones. "I've heard about your museum appointment...congratulations! Thornbury's lucky to have you."
"You're very kind. I wasn't sure... that is, after the ball..."
"You refused my proposal honestly and with grace," Theodore said simply. "I won't pretend it didn't sting at the time, but upon reflection, you did us both a service. We would have been content together, I think, but contentment isn't love."
"No," Eveline agreed softly. "It's not."
"Besides," he continued with a slightly self-conscious air, "I've recently begun corresponding with a widow in Yorkshire. Mrs. Helena Hale. She's translating Sappho, if you can believe it. Her approach to the fragmentary texts is absolutely fascinating as she considers them almost like archaeological puzzles, piecing together meaning from context and contemporary sources."
"She sounds remarkable," Harriet said, and Eveline could hear the smile in her voice.
"She is. We've been debating translation philosophy through letters for two months now. I'm actually considering a trip to Yorkshire to see her source materials." He colored slightly. "For scholarly purposes, naturally."
"Naturally," Eveline agreed, feeling a weight she hadn't realized she'd been carrying, lift from her shoulders. "I'm glad, Theodore. Truly."
"As am I. And I meant what I said. Thornbury and the museum are fortunate to have secured your expertise." He tipped his hat. "Ladies, a pleasure as always. Miss Whitcombe, I look forward to reading your Byzantine findings. Perhaps you'll revolutionize that field as well."
He continued into the museum, leaving them standing in the afternoon sun. Eveline watched him go, seeing in his eager steps a man looking forward rather than back.
"Well," Harriet said after a moment. "That was remarkably civilized."
"He's a good man. He deserves someone who can match his enthusiasm for Sappho's fragments."
"And you deserve someone who makes you forget about fragments entirely." Harriet linked their arms. "Come, you need to tell Adrian about the museum terms. Unless you plan to negotiate that contract entirely by correspondence?"
The thought of seeing Adrian, of discussing terms and positions and carefully professional arrangements while remembering his declaration of love, made Eveline's stomach perform elaborate acrobatics. But Harriet was right; some conversations couldn't be conducted by letter.
"We could stop for tea first?" she suggested hopefully.
"Procrastination doesn't become you. March, my dear. Time to face your duke."
"He's not my duke."
"No? Then why are you already composing arguments in your head about the salary being too generous?"
Eveline had no good answer for that.
***
Everleigh Manor looked different in afternoon light, less imposing and more welcoming, though that might have been her imagination supplying what her heart wanted to see. Graves answered their knock with his usual expression of dignified suffering.
"Miss Whitcombe. Miss Fairweather." His bow was precisely calibrated to acknowledge their social status. "His Grace is in the library."
Of course he was. Where else would Adrian be when wrestling with questions of contracts and compensation? Eveline smoothed her skirts, aware that she looked provincial compared to the surroundings but determined not to let it matter.
