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All of those new words just waiting to be discovered, mapped to derivatives and cognates, defined and annotated.
Words were her sole passion in life. She explored their origins in the way a painter mixed pigment to render a stormy sea, or a symphonic composer chose reed instruments to re-create birdsong.
She explored words in the way that lovers explored love.
There’d been a time when she’d entertained foolish romantic notions about true love and fairy-tale endings, but she’d discarded her girlhood dreams after they’d been dashed against the rocks of reality.
This was her future: this library, and her dictionary, which might very well take decades to complete. The most comprehensive and well-researched etymological dictionary of the English language ever compiled by man... or wallflower.
The dictionary that, once again, she was sadly neglecting. She settled back at her writing desk determined to make some forward progress. Regrettably, the desk was situated near the open windows and she could still hear Wright and his men talking and laughing.
She dipped her pen resolutely in ink.
Let’s see; she’d finishedintercedeandinterim. Nowon tointerloper.Late sixteenth century, she wrote,a hybrid of Latininterand the old Dutchlandloper, or vagabond.
She tapped her chin with the feathered quill.Mr. Wright is an interloper upon my peaceful countryside retreat.
Thump. Thump. Thud!
The hammering sounded as though it were inside her head.
Stamford Wright, she wrote.SeeRogue.Born and bred in Cornwall. Ship’s carpenter in the Royal Navy.Heavy of hammer and brawny of shoulder. Characterized by excessive virility and boundless arrogance. Believes he’s God’s gift to womankind. Highly distracting and irritating to the scholarly female.
Wellthatwouldn’t be going in her dictionary. She drew a line across the page.
“Oh, Mr. Wright,” Beatrice heard a lilting female voice call. “Would you care for some cider?”
“You go on ahead to the pub, lads,” she heard Wright say. “I’ve something to take care of first.”
“Oh, aye,” came Tiny’s answer. “Something by the name of Miss Jenny.”
More guffaws. Probably some thumping of shoulders and winking.
They must be talking about Jenny Hughes, one of the kitchen maids.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Jenny,” said Wright, much closer now by the sound of it.
“I thought you’d be thirsty, working so hard and so long,” Jenny replied.
The sound of cider being gulped. A soft giggle.
“Mmm. Exactly what a man needs after a hardday’s labor. Did you sweeten this cider with your smile, Miss Jenny?”
“Go on with you now.” Said in a tone that conveyed precisely the opposite instruction.
Of all the infuriating occurrences.
Instead of going to the pub and giving Beatrice a well-deserved respite from his outsize presence, Wright was flirting shamelessly beneath her window.
Beatrice pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. Enough was enough.
You’ve met your nemesis, Wright. From the Greek for retribution. The goddess of vengeance. The personification of divine wrath.
She marched to the windows and opened them wider. She’d drop an inkpot on his head—that ought to douse his ardor. Better yet, a flowerpot.
She peered over the ledge. Divine wrath had carried her thus far, but the sight of Wright’s massive shoulders scrambled her thoughts and sent them running in opposite directions.
He stood directly below her, one dusty black boot propped on a stair to better display his heavily muscled thighs. His white shirt was open at the collar, revealing a triangle of sun-kissed chest.
