“Oh,” Annabelle said weakly.
“It wasn’t entirely appalling,” Jenkins continued, “but it was notably below your usual standards. Granted, your usual standards are exceptional; in fact, your previous essay was excellent. But I prefer to eradicate the rot before it eats away.”
“Rot,” Annabelle echoed. The man didn’t mince his words with the fair sex. On a better day, she would have appreciated it. But her heart was still thudding in her ears. Beads of sweat trickled between her breasts. Her chemise would turn clammy and itchy before this was over.
“Much as it pains me, rot is an adequate term in this case,” Jenkins said. “Your wording lacks precision in places; I’d go as far as to say it was blurry. Your conclusions? Solid, but not particularly original.”
Mrs. Forsyth had gone notably still in her armchair.
Annabelle breathed deep.
It quelled the wave of nausea rising from her stomach.
Jenkins took off his glasses, unleashing the full force of his disapproving eyes. “I got the impression that your thoughts were slurred. So I must ask—was this just a miss, or do you partake in spirits?”
She took a moment to form a reply. “Are you asking whether I . . . drink?”
“I am,” Jenkins said, his fingers now drumming on the desk. “Morning, or evening?”
She almost laughed. The world expert on the Peloponnesian Wars thought she was writing her papers intoxicated. That was of course a common enough behavior among the male students, but it hardly softened the blow. If she now lost her mental faculties, what did she have left?
“No, sir,” she said, “I do not drink.”
“Hm.”
She could tell he was unconvinced.
Briefly, she was tempted to tell him the much more simple truth behind her rotting standards.
She had written the excellent essay in Claremont, where she had evidently soared happily on wings of great delusion. But ever since her return, she had gone tired and hungry. Selling Mabel’s dresses had given her enough coin to pay Gilbert for January, but sitting for Hattie’s portrait meant fewer hours working for money. It meant fewer pennies, and less food.
She could hardly admit any of that to him.
“I will pay close attention to the next piece, Professor.”
As if on cue, her stomach growled loudly. Mortified, she clasped a hand over her belly.
Jenkins frowned. “Did you know the brain requires nourishment? Eating feeds the mind as well as the body.”
“I appreciate the advice, Professor.”
“I myself tend to forget it,” he said, “but you must be disciplined about it.”
“Certainly, Professor.”
She felt the weight of his stare on her midriff and realized that she was still clutching her belly.
And then she noticed a dawning understanding in Jenkins’s eyes.
She bristled. Letting a man know she was in dire straits could only lead to worse situations.
Jenkins pushed away from the desk and wandered toward the nearest bookshelf, his slender fingers skating over leather-bound spines. “You are familiar with the expedition I’m planning to Pylos Bay in April?”
“Yes.”
He turned and looked at her poignantly. “I’m in need of an assistant to prepare the excursion.”
There was a disapproving little huff from the direction of Mrs. Forsyth.
Annabelle blinked.
“Miss Archer?” He mouthed her name carefully, as if addressing a person hard of hearing. “What say you? Is that a position you would find interesting? It would cover a range of tasks: letter writing, coordinating the logistics—an utter nightmare, I grant you, since Mediterranean people are involved, chaotic lot—but also translations and archive work.”
Her hands curled around the chair’s armrests. She couldn’t imagine a better position if she tried, but why ask her? He must have more qualified candidates to pick from.
“I believe it’s a very interesting position, sir.”
“Well, of course it is,” he said. “That leaves the matter of compensation—how much do you think your work would cost the faculty?”
Her thoughts fell over each other. Instinct urged her to set the sum low, to make sure that he would hire her. But if she worked for Jenkins, there wouldn’t be time for anything else, and Gilbert would still demand his two pounds in full every month.
“Two pounds a month,” she said.
Jenkins tilted his head. “Reasonable. So that’s settled.”
He wandered back to the desk, pulled open a drawer, and picked something up.
“Excuse me for a couple of minutes,” he said.
He strode toward the door, but in passing he put something in front of her.
An apple. A bit shriveled from hibernating in a dark basement since autumn; still, her mouth began to water, and she could practically taste the tart, crisp flavor.
The thud of the heavy door falling shut sounded behind her. It wasn’t a stretch to assume that Jenkins was giving her some privacy to eat.
“Be careful, gal,” came Mrs. Forsyth’s quiet voice.
Annabelle turned on her chair. “It’s just an apple,” she said.
Caesar was staring at her, too, his stony countenance radiating disapproval.
Her stomach cramped, from an emotion much more powerful than hunger.
To defy, or to cry. She kept her eyes on the emperor as she reached for the apple and sank her teeth into it.
Chapter 20
The Scottish chapters have agreed to come down to London for the demonstration.”
Save the sound of rain tapping softly against the windows, a cautious silence greeted Lucie’s announcement. The suffragists had gathered in Hattie’s plush sitting room. The embers were fading on the grate and steam rose from a dozen dainty cups. It wasn’t an atmosphere that lent itself to discussing illicit demonstrations.
“Well, that’s exciting,” Hattie finally said.
Lucie shot her a wry glance.
Catriona took off her glasses. “Do you think it will make a difference, Lucie?”
“With the other chapters we have mobilized, we currently have around fifteen hundred women marching on Westminster during a Tory pre-election meeting,” Lucie said. “So yes, I believe we are going to be in every newspaper of the country.”
“But the northern chapters held such events before,” Catriona said. “It only seems to agitate people.”