Dear Professor Ottersock…
“Imbécile!”King John’s ghost shouted, looking over her shoulder, and Amelia jolted, her comma turning into a flourish.
“I don’t know if you’re referring to me or Ottersock,” she told him. “But quite honestly, you’re right either way.” She ought to have written this letter months ago. Now, without further thought…other than to consult her inner thesaurus for the most exact word…and to remind herself of a semicolon’s proper use…she proceeded to inform the faculty head of her intention to resign.
It has been an honor to teach at England’s finest university,she wrote as her smile slowly faded. In fact, it had been more than an honor: from childhood, she’d dreamed of being a teacher, thereby having a professional reason to read endlessly aboutthe great people and events from history, and to indulge an imagination that was the very antithesis of a Tarrant’s nature. A professorship at Oxford University represented her very most idea of heaven. She could not bear the thought of leaving.But I must resign,she wrote, and carefully added a gentle, discreet full stop so that she did not betray her feelings with too heavy a mark.
Watching Throckmorton being entertained by Vanity’s flirtation with Caleb confirmed what Amelia had always, deep down, suspected. The man hadn’t really cared if she herself and Caleb were in a relationship. He hadn’t been motivated by some genuine principle of social rectitude. He obviously, and quite simply, did not like her. And he felt that dislike so strongly, he’d maneuvered to imperil her job by spreading those cursed rumors that she and Caleb hugging was the tip of a far more scandalous iceberg.
The fact that Professor Ottersock had grabbed hold of those rumors with such determination suggested that he disliked her also (except when she was saving the Queen, no doubt, and getting ninety-eight percent pass rates with students).
Dummersby had made it clear the British Museum staff did too.
The Terrifying Scholar.She’d heard people say it…well, twice, but that was two times more than her shy, soft heart could bear. It echoed inside her so often, they might as well have been following her around with a bullhorn, repeating it hourly. She was a woman with a sharp brain: that alone was worrisome to her male colleagues. The fact that she did not hesitate to employ said brain without artifice or apology inspired the real terror. How could a man easily dominate such a woman? How could he have command over her realm ofknowledge when she was already well educated? It was the academic equivalent of marrying a woman who’d enjoyed sex with other men and knew what she should expect from it.
Then again, Amelia was aware of other women professors in England who succeeded in their role. For example, her brother Gabriel’s wife, Elodie, must never have faced prejudice from her male colleagues, considering how confident she was. Amelia admired that tremendously (albeit maintaining a preference for tidier clothing). And recently her cousin Devon married an award-winning young woman professor, Beth Pickering, whom all Oxford celebrated, and who without a doubt had never been demeaned in her position, forced to do such things as washing dishes in the faculty lounge simply because she was female.
With a drooping little sigh, Amelia realized the only logical conclusion could be thatshe personallywas the problem.
After all, her family had sent her off to boarding school in an effort to fix her. And no matter how perfect her grades, they’d never brought her home again for longer than a summer holiday. Ergo, she was inherently at fault.
If only she could prove that she wanted nothing more than to do good for others. To please her parents, fix broken things, ensure people had correct information. Not one student finished her course without being educated to an extent where they could easily pass an exam if they only didn’t oversleep on the day. Not one waitress at Jabbercoffee was left ignorant of how to make a really good cup of tea. And if there existed in Oxford any student known to be cold or hungry, Amelia hunted them down with sandwiches and a coat.
But apparently she did it all wrong. Or perhaps it just wasn’t enough. The one thing she had no idea how to fix was her own self.
Of course, Caleb didn’t hate her—there was that. Some nights, the thought of his friendship was all that kept her daring to face the next dawn. And yet,and yet, he’d rather pretend to hate her than let the world know she was his dear friend. He fought with her rather than fighting for her. Amelia did not doubt his genuine care. She just wished…
Well, it didn’t matter. The one thing she definitely got from her Tarrant heritage was practicality. Wishes were a waste of time. Signing the letter, then folding it with a precision that put Ottersock at risk of getting a paper cut when he opened it, Amelia gazed out the window once more, letting the rain do her crying for her. The smile had fallen in sharp pieces to the pit of her stomach, where it dug into the vulnerable, secret dark therein. The letter lay before her like an inevitability.
“I’ve always considered myself a strong person,” she told King John. “I survived negotiating with the curator of Miss Mulberry’s Charming Olde Museum over their Regency-era milk jug.” (No one in academia was more stubborn, or more disposed to the violent use of a knitting needle, than an elderly woman who volunteered to look after a private museum filled mostly with junk.) “I survive every Christmas with my extended family,” (including the world’s most obnoxious aunt, who’d never met an accomplishment she couldn’t belittle), “but I do believe mailing this letter is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Merde,”King John sympathized, shaking his head gloomily.
Returning downstairs, Amelia placed the letter on the mail tray for delivery, then turned toward Sir Nigel’s study. After a dozen steps, however, her brain forced a halt. Apparently, writing out her emotions had created space for good sense to return, and it did so with gusto. Why should she sacrifice herbeloved career, for which she’d worked incredibly hard, just because of a few men?! She’d not given up when her parents insisted that she turn to a “proper education” (i.e., science) if she wanted them to fund her tertiary education. She’d applied for a scholarship instead, and they’d backed down before anyone supposed them too poor to pay her way. She’d not surrendered every time a teacher ignored her in class on account of her gender. She’d kept going even in the face of Ottersock’s cruel insistence that she choose between friendship and a career.
Unlikable she might be, but Amelia knew that she was also brave. And tenacious. And a damned excellent antiquarian.
Her stomach lurched as she realized how close she’d come to letting those men steal not only her career but her self-esteem. Turning so fast she dizzied herself, she went to recover the letter. But a footman had appeared out of nowhere (in fact, from beside the front door, where he had been standing all along) and had taken up the tray. He was sorting through the letters on it, and Amelia saw a mailbox in his eyes. With a murmured apology, she retrieved her letter from atop the stack and tossed it at once into a nearby hearth fire. As she watched it shrivel within the flames, she released a breath she’d been aware of holding, psychologically speaking, for far too long.
Pretending she’d not noticed the footman pretending not to be amused by her antics, she hastened back to the study. The scene that met her was just as it had been when she left. Throckmorton and Dummersby were discussing the possible cause of King George III’s madness (“It was mania!”—“No, it was because he had all those children!”); they gave her a disdainful glance as she entered, then returned to their debate. Sir Nigel was describing the history of a silver dish, indifferent to the fact that no one was listening. Vanity hadCaleb backed into a corner and was quoting at him from Tennyson’sThe Princess, a poem to be lauded for its support of women’s higher education, but equally to be despised for how Vanity was not so much reading it as giggling it. Only Sergeant Sheffield stood quietly, hands clasped behind his back, face bearing the blank detachment of a man who doesn’t care where he is, so long as his shoes are dry and no one talks to him. Amelia was becoming fonder of the fellow with every day that passed and every conversation they did not have.
Feeling another headache coming on, she trudged over to the table of antiques. But so carefully was she not watching Vanity and Caleb out of the corner of her eye that she knocked against a side table, sending its cargo of clockwork dolls into a tumble. A baby doll with enormous eyes began to wave its arms and emit a high-pitched wailing.
“Bloody hell, Tarrant!” Throckmorton shouted, clasping his ears.
“Mind your damned language with ladies present!” Dummersby shouted in response.
Meanwhile, Vanity was shrieking, for no apparent reason other than taking the opportunity to make noise. Sir Nigel ran over to grasp the doll andstop its wailsdescribe its provenance in detail. Amelia turned in search of an escape from the cacophony, but a servant approached her with a tray of drinks, and someone tossed another log on the hearth fire, and Vanity’s shrieks transformed back into giggles that were equally eardrum piercing. And then Sir Nigel said—
“It’s going to be okay.”
Except Sir Nigel never spoke with those beautifully modulated tones, the result of many years’ elocution training. Only one voice was like silk gliding against her skin in that way.Amelia knew she was being rescued a second before Caleb’s hand clasped her wrist, its cool firmness breaking her from the throbbing daze into which she’d fallen. She blinked at the sight of his smile and was horrified when a tear spilled down her cheek. Shenevercried, not even when her mother looked at her in her doctorate graduation attire and said “Jolly well done, dear, even if it is just a DPhil in history.” To her relief, Caleb gave no sign of noticing the tear, however. He began tugging her, and she went with him deafly, which required as much trust as if she went blindly. But then, trust in Caleb was one thing she always had to spare.
“ ’Scuse me,” he said as he plowed a track through the room’s occupants. “Professor Tarrant is about to vomit. ’Scuse me.”
Everyone promptly gave way for them, and within moments Amelia found herself in the cool tranquility of the corridor, with no one around to further trouble her senses (other than servants dusting the light fittings). Introversion breathed a long, pained sigh of relief. Caleb closed the study door, then turned to cup her face in his hands.
“Meely,” he said chidingly, or perhaps gently; she could not tell. He swept a thumb across her cheek, erasing its renegade tear. He had noticed after all.
