Page 40 of Two Wars and a Wedding

—Miss Betsy Hayes ’96 to Ava Saltonstall ’96

Athens, Greece

January 1897

Betsy battled irregular verbs and her own worse nature.

She attended every lecture by Dr. Dörpfeld of the German School, dutifully trailing him around the Acropolis every Saturday as he pointed out this inscription and that statue. She sat in the library of the American School, poring over her tattered copy of Jane. She haunted Dr. Richardson’s office.

And yet. The answer was always the same.

“I don’t understand,” Betsy complained to Ethel. “Professor Sterrett commended us especially. He even said our pluck and courage deserved high praise. We climbed Mount Helicon! What more is Dr. Richardson waiting for? The oracle at Delphi to speak?”

“Or for you to get tired and go away.” Ethel looked pointedly at Betsy over the book that she had been trying to read, unsuccessfully, for the past half hour. “Have you ever thought that Professor Richardson would be more likely to give way if you battered at him a little less?”

“Don’t tell me you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. I don’t want to catch flies. I want to be treated with the basic professional courtesy that Richardson extends to the men.”

Ethel narrowed her eyes at Betsy. “The men don’t bang on his office door.”

“The men don’t need to bang on his office door.”

Ethel controlled herself with an effort. “All I’m saying is that you might want to take . . . a more diplomatic approach. Don’t pester Professor Richardson quite so directly. Let Professor Sterrett intercede for you. Or Monsieur de Robecourt?”

Just hearing his name unsettled Betsy. She’d tried so hard not to think of him. Which, of course, meant she thought of him constantly.

“Maybe I should just make Professor Richardson coffee,” Betsy shot back.

Ethel closed her book and looked long and hard at Betsy. “The boys like it when I make them coffee. It makes them more comfortable with having me here.”

“Because you’re skivvying for them!”

“I’m being part of the group,” said Ethel, through gritted teeth.

“Is any of them making coffee for you? Is that what you want, to be kept on as a sort of cook-housemaid?”

“At least I’ll still be here!” Ethel was on her feet, her knuckles white on the spine of her book. “Whereas the way you’re going— Did you ever stop to think that you might be ruining it for everyone else, pushing the way you do? After you, we’ll be lucky if they ever accept another woman to the school!”

Betsy gaped after her as Ethel stomped off, her book clamped under her arm. She hadn’t—all she had done was asked to be treated as an equal. Was that what Ethel wanted? To be accepted on sufferance so long as she made herself pleasant and useful? Ethel would undoubtedly publish her articles using only her first initial and last name, because heaven forfend a male academic read something by an Ethel rather than an Edward. What kind of career was that?

An actual one. Betsy bit down hard on her lip, feeling shaky and more than a little like crying. What if Ethel was right? What if she was ruining it for herself and everyone else, all those girls at Smith behind her?

The boys didn’t invite Betsy to lectures with them. She wasn’t one of the crowd around the coffeepot. Professor Richardson hid when she knocked.

The only person who had listened to her, who had taken her seriously, was Monsieur de Robecourt.

And look how that had turned out.

She hadn’t seen him since Delphi. Family matters had called him away, Aikaterini said, not quite meeting Betsy’s eyes as she said it. Betsy didn’t know what Aikaterini knew and couldn’t bring herself to ask.

Betsy alternated between hating Monsieur de Robecourt and hating his wife and hating herself, none of which was terribly pleasant.

In a moment of weakness, Betsy sent off a set of first-class tickets to Ava.

Yes, she knew Ava had steadfastly said she couldn’t leave her position as a companion, but how could she not, when Betsy needed her so much? And it was for Ava too, she told herself self-righteously. If she didn’t intervene, Ava would be stuck winding wool forever. But it was mostly for herself. She couldn’t talk to Aikaterini about Monsieur de Robecourt—they’d been friends long before Betsy had ever come to Athens. It wouldn’t be fair.

Betsy knew what Ava would tell her. Ava would tell her he was just a distraction and she should focus on her studies. But now—after what Ethel said, Betsy felt painfully self-conscious in the school. She’d known Ethel didn’t exactly love her, but she’d never realized just how much Ethel disliked her. No, worse than disliked her, thought she was a threat to female scholars.

Betsy found herself shirking the unfriendly halls of the American School for the far more receptive atmosphere of Aikaterini’s salon, thronged with government ministers and court ladies, where one could hear the latest news before it made it into the papers. And was there news! The Greek-speaking world was in foment, the bits of it still under control of the Ottoman Empire on the point of rebellion. Anti-Turkish secret societies were forming in Macedonia; the Turks were oppressing Greeks in Crete; there were rumors that the king of Greece, in defiance of international accords, was secretly sending arms to Crete.