They had taken Effie home, where she had been pressganged into returning to Rivenhall, his sister stubbornly refusing to take no for an answer and, in case she changed her mind, had dispatched her carriage again to fetch her to be certain. And early to boot, which was probably why their obviously uncomfortable guest was wearing one blue sparkly earring and one red, when the lovely gown she had paired them with was green.
Tonight, Eleanor had crowned herself queen of the knowing looks, which she shared much too frequently with her husband, Adam. Adam, to his credit, was attempting to make conversation with his mother to fill the painful silences while Max wished himself invisible, the blasted meal over with so he could finally have some privacy to talk to Effie and clear the air.
Assuming, of course, that he could clear the air. It was entirely feasible she was furious at him for taking liberties and this almost guaranteed she bitterly regretted it. She hadn’t been able to look him in the eye since, which was no mean feat when she was sat directly opposite him at the table thanks to his blasted sister’s blatant matchmaking and was soldiering through her dessert with such speed she clearly wanted to be gone. Frankly, he couldn’t blame her. If he’d had somewhere else to go and hadn’t felt obliged to support Effie in Purgatory, he’d be atop Drake right this minute galloping towards the furthest point on any map just to escape. Scotland had never appealed more. Or Dublin. Or even France, despite the bitter war with Napoleon.
But alas, he was stuck, hoisted by his own petard, and desperate to make things right again. To that end, he had a little speech all worked out to avoid the inevitable ritual humiliation, which largely blamed the heat of the moment and the excitement of the find for kissing her like a starving man feasting at a banquet and giving his meddlesome sister all the ammunition she needed to royally embarrass the pair of them. Because Eleanor might not have witnessed the actual kiss, but she had certainly seen the two, large, muddy handprints on Effie’s breeches like the mark of Cain damning him for all eternity and announcing to the world that he had been the one to put them there.
To make matters worse, it had, in all reality, been the briefest of kisses. Seconds rather than minutes, yet intensely significant all the same. If he was going to be shot for a wolf rather than a lamb, then at the very least his damn sister could have postponed her unwelcome rescue a little longer so he could have prolonged the experience before it all came crashing down around his ears.
‘Surely the Society of Antiquarians will have to take you seriously now you have found the shieldandthe bracelet, Effie?’
She shot him a very furtive, very awkward look before she answered his sister. ‘One would hope. I have certainly never read about anyone finding anything similar.’
‘It’s staggering, isn’t it, to think that people lived here—at Rivenhall—two thousand years ago and that their belongings still exist even though they are long gone?’
‘I suppose even then this was the perfect sight for a settlement. The Fens would have been fertile hunting ground with an excellent source of water. It was why the Abbey was built here in the Middle Ages. The church and the aristocracy always built on the prime spots...’ Her eyes wandered again to his and swiftly dipped. As if suddenly remembering the events of the afternoon was too awful to hold them.
‘You need to write that paper, Effie! Write it and submit it and we shall all march on their offices if they dare to send it back again! We could carry placards and protest outside until they relent.’
She smiled at his sister weakly, then glanced at him again, looking entirely horrified this time before she stared dejectedly at her empty plate. ‘Maybe they will read it this time without the need for all that fuss.’
‘I think we should make the fuss regardless. It will serve them right!’
‘Forgive my wife, Effie,’ said Adam, smiling in apology. ‘She’s always had a radical streak. But she is right—you do need to write about your discoveries. But if the blinkered society of crusty old men will not publish it, I know a few publishers who might.’
Eleanor beamed at her husband. ‘He does, too, Effie! Wouldn’t it be better to write a whole book which will be read by hundreds rather than an academic journal likeArchaeologiathat is only seen by a select few?’
‘I suppose...’ Her eyes only made it as far as his chin this time before she tore them away.
‘Just think of it... All leather bound with gilt lettering. Sat in bookshops and on library shelves all over the country as well as mine. It would certainly be a splendid way to thumb your nose at those crusty old antiquarians.’
‘Would these publishers baulk at an academic history written by a woman?’ Max saw hope blossom in her lovely eyes briefly before Adam unwittingly and insensitively quashed it.
‘They do not need to know you are a woman. We can give you a male pseudonym or just use your first initials rather than your Christian name to muddy the waters. There are ways around these things.’
These things being all the same ludicrous things the idiots at the society used to obstruct her at every turn. ‘I think it should say Euphemia Nithercott and be damned!’ Without thinking Max slapped the table so hard the crockery rattled, which garnered another swift knowing look from his sister to her husband. ‘It’s Effie’s work and she should get all the credit.’ She almost smiled at him.
‘Thank you, Max.’
‘She should—but I am a realist.’ He was going to strangle his brother-in-law. ‘Even if we could find a publisher who would use Effie’s name, the general public will not buy a serious history book written by a woman. And the academic establishment will be up in arms. It would be a bit different if she were writing fiction. That market is much more forgiving of female authors—for the right sorts of books, of course.’
Oblivious of the damage he had just done to Effie’s dreams, Adam hammered one final nail into the coffin. ‘Or you could publish the work in your father’s name. An academic of his gravitas would guarantee it was taken seriously for sure and doubtless it would fly off the shelves.’ He patted her hand and Max found himself fuming at the gesture. Not out of jealousy, but sheer outrage because despite being well meant—Adam Baxter did not have a mean bone in his body—it was both paternalistic and patronising while completely diminishing all that she was. ‘We’ll find a way around it, Effie, I promise. But first you need to write the thing.’
‘I suppose...’ Her usually animated eyes and tone were flat and Max’s heart broke for her. How demoralising must it be to hit barricade after barricade on your quest to move a single step forward? How galling must it be to be continually put in your place by men who possessed less than a quarter of Effie’s intellect? He had never been so ashamed of being a man in his entire life.
‘I think it’s time we left the ladies for our port, don’t you, Max?’
This was the absolute last thing he wanted to do when all the light had dimmed in Effie’s eyes and he finally understood with perfect clarity what she had meant when she had said he had numerous choices and she had so few. The world was made for men and brutally unfair to a woman as brilliant as her. ‘Perhaps we should stay with the ladies tonight?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Eleanor’s eyes were dancing. ‘We have urgent gossip which must be shared and dissected. Isn’t that right, Effie?’
A statement which caused her to visibly pale. But as trapped as he was, she, too, stood and trailed after his sister and Adam’s mother like a condemned prisoner on the way to the gallows.
The two parties split at the door and he decided it was telling she did not look back. Before he and Adam turned the corner to his study, he heard Effie’s voice in the distance. ‘I shan’t be a minute. I need to visit the...’
‘Yes, of course.’ Eleanor this time. ‘Sherry or cordial, Effie?’
‘Sherry, please.’
