“Precisely what I said. The publisher will pay handsomely to print the article, but he insisted on my name being listed as its author.”
“But . . .” Chrissi wrapped her arms around her middle. “Surely you explained . . . the writing is all mine—”
“Not all,” Alis protested. “Ididhelp.”
“A sentence here and there!” Her voice rose.
“Let us not forget my illustrations.”
“Yes, and they are lovely. But the ideas, the research, the insights, the very tenor of the argument—those were all my own. What did the publisher say when you told him as much?”
“Chris—” Alis began, voice so very weary.
She sat back against the carriage squabs, her heart a frantic, rabbity thing.
“You didn’t tell him.” She could hear the heartbreak in her voice.
“Who wrote what or how much . . . it simply didn’t come up.”
“Didn’t come up?! Women writing academic articles is not a place conversation naturally leads, Alis. You must direct the conversation there—”
“And what would ye have had me say, Chris?!Oh, see here, sir. My betrothed actually wrote this, and I insist her name be on it as well?”
“Yes! Yes, yes, yes! That ispreciselywhat I would have you say!”
“And what then? Be made to feel like a laughing stock? That I am so henpecked, my betrothed directs all my endeavors?”
Chrissi was appalled to feel tears pricking her eyes.
“No,” she choked. “You would say such things because you are proud of my accomplishments. Because you are honest. Because you wish my work to be acknowledged. Because you see me as more than chattel or a mere possession that—”
“What does it hurt to work together under one name? When we marry, we will become one under the law. What is yours will become mine regardless.”
“Yes! Underyourname. I will cease being a legal person entirely!”
“Ye ken well that isn’t how it is, Chris. Not between yourself and me.”
“But the world is not just you and me, Alis. You delude yourself if you think it is anythingbutthat. You know my feelings on this matter—how important it is for me to retain my sense of self, even within marriage. To have you trample on my wishes like—”
“There is nothing to be done at this juncture. The publication is done and dusted.” Alis threw up his hands. “I already signed a contract under my name and—”
“You what?!”
“I already signed the contract,” he repeated, exasperated.
“Why? We could have tried another publisher—”
“Who? There are few publishers of this sort of antiquarian research and certainly no others in Italy. I would have to return to London, and even then it could take years, given the snail’s pace of publication schedules.Thispublisher will have the article to print in just two months. We can begin to establish ourselves as a force to be reckoned with now.”
“But . . .” Chrissi trailed off.
“What’s done is done, Chris.” He pinned her with his dark eyes. “And truly, once we are married, it will be as if our efforts were joined. Becausewewill be joined!” He motioned between them.
Aghast, Chrissi could only stare at him.
Thiswas what he thought of her?
No matter all the pretty words they had exchanged—goals and aspirations she had thought they both shared—he felt justified in claiming her hard work as his own.
