“Of course.It was my duty to know.Andrew knew also.He volunteered for the mission.”
“He volunteered for the mission perhaps but not the army.He never volunteered for the army, did he?”She kept her gaze steady, daring him to deny her words.
An odd expression flitted across his face.It might have been compassion.It might have been guilt.It disappeared quickly and took the gentle face of her beloved brother with it.Only the mighty Marquess of Glenaire remained.
“He made his own choice,” he declared, eyes hard as steel, “and he did well.His service made him a wealthy man.”
Wealthy?she thought.Perhaps, but what had war cost him?She wondered how much he earned with each of his scars.
Richard’s eyes were implacable, and it was Georgiana who broke eye contact at last.Andrew made his own choice.Andrew, at least, had been given one.She had no choice at all.Her eyes dropped to her plate.
“Really, Georgiana, none of this is a fit subject for a lady.I won’t have it.”
Ask me about my work then.“What shall we discuss if notthat, brother?How is our esteemed father?How goes the estate?”
“His Grace is well, and Sudbury thrives—as I believe we discussed this morning.”He spat it out impatiently.
That was it then for family intimacy.Richard was one more man who didn’t care to inquire about what really mattered to her.
“I beg you to excuse me.There is work to do before bed.”
She thought he might ask, “What work?”Instead he saw her gone with a bow and relief he didn’t bother to hide.
Alone in her room, Georgiana leaned against the door.‘The French were not kind,’her brother had said.Andrew’s scarred body flashed through her mind.The French were brutal.Richard knew.Richard sent him.
Emotional collapse accomplished nothing and held no place in Georgiana’s universe.She forced herself upright and picked up her inlaid lap desk and the heavy portfolio with it, both thoughtfully arranged on her bedside table by Richard’s servants.
She flipped through pages of vellum until she located her most recent translations of Praxilla of Sicyon’s fragmentary poems.The work looked adequate, but Georgiana no longer settled for adequate.There was no eros here, merely domestic concerns.She closed her eyes momentarily, forcing her mind into Praxilla’s world.Blank walls greeted her in every direction.She knew nothing of Praxilla’s world.She damned her lack of education for the thousandth time.
A moment later she picked up her quill and began to write notes for the partner she could no longer see, the colleague she could no longer debate.
She wondered if he also worked alone by lamplight in the house on Little Saint Mary’s Lane.It gave her comfort to imagine him there.A slight smile relaxed her face and eased her heart.She listed questions for Andrew and began to anticipate his answers.He would answer.He wouldn’t fail her.
* * *
Sir Isaac Newtonglared down at Andrew from his pedestal on the end of the book shelf.He, Sir Francis Bacon, and marble busts of the other distinguished Cambridge alumni seemed to view Andrew’s work with great skepticism.They were cold comfort and no substitute for Georgiana’s wit and enthusiasm.He ignored them.
A familiar voice broke into his concentration.“All these wonders and you wish to read Praxilla?Isn’t she the dreadful poet who?—”
“—dared put cucumbers and the sun and moon on an equal footing?”Andrew capped Geoff Dunning’s quote, the well-known assessment of the poet.“Good morning, Dunning.How are you?”Pleasure flooded him.There had been no one to speak to in over a week—not since Georgiana left, taking half the work and all his heart.Company felt good.
“I am well, Andrew, but surprised to see you here.Good to see you working, though.”The greeting appeared to be equally sincere.Geoffrey Dunning may be a bit of a fuzzy academic, but he was a kind man and an excellent scholar.“But Praxilla?I thought old Selby had you on the Neoplatonists.”
“This isn’t for Selby.I finished a passage for him two days ago.He doles his bounty out slowly.I’m still waiting for another.”
Dunning nodded sympathetically.“But Praxilla?”he asked.“A diversion?”If Dunning suspected Andrew was helping Georgiana, he didn’t say.
“Have you actually read Praxilla?”Andrew asked.
“No, no.Goodness no.Her work isn’t much studied,” Dunning said, shaking his head.“Zenobius put her in her place two thousand years ago.You just quoted him—cucumbers and all.”
“Yes, I know what Zenobius said.‘Only an idiot would put cucumbers on a par with the sun in the same verse.’”Andrew thought Zenobius as narrow-minded as Watterson and the others.They maligned Praxilla as they maligned Georgiana.
“Does seem a bit strong.Perhaps Zenobius mistook her meaning.Did she really write about cucumbers?”Dunning’s suggestion stunned Andrew.
“Listen to this verse, yourself, Dunning.Tell me what you think of it.
The fairest thingI leave is the light of the sun
