Page 12 of An Inventor and An Inconvenience (Gentleman Scholars #5)

F aith's quill scratched quietly against parchment as she copied out basic arithmetic exercises, her candlelight casting dancing shadows across her father's study walls. The leather-bound books surrounding her seemed to stand guard over her clandestine work, silent witnesses to yet another night of secret preparation.

She paused, scanning the simple problems she'd written. Would they be too difficult for Lucy? The young housemaid had shown remarkable aptitude for numbers, but Faith was wary of overwhelming her new student. Better to start with something manageable and build confidence gradually.

"What would Mother have done?" she whispered to herself, touching the journal that now lay constantly within reach. Its pages had revealed so much—not just about the hidden chambers of Oxford, but about the woman who had shared Faith's passion for knowledge. Who had understood, even then, that education shouldn't be restricted by gender or class.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor made her freeze. Faith quickly slid the arithmetic exercises beneath a stack of her father's papers, her heart pounding until the steps faded away. Even here, in her father's study where he had finally begun to accept her scholarly pursuits, she couldn't entirely shake the feeling of transgression.

How much riskier would it be to actually teach? To gather girls like Lucy, girls hungry for knowledge but denied access to it, and give them the basic tools of learning? The thought both thrilled and terrified her.

A gentle tap at the door nearly made her knock over her inkwell. Faith quickly moved to answer. Jasper stood outside. Faith let him in, noting the familiar signs of frustration in his rumpled appearance—the way his cravat hung loose, how his hair stood up where he'd run his hands through it countless times.

"Another difficult night with the device?" she asked softly as he climbed through.

"It still won't maintain consistent pressure under load," he admitted, slumping into a chair. "But that's not why I came. I've been thinking about what you said, about making education more accessible."

He glanced at the papers on her desk. "Are those teaching materials?"

Faith hesitated, then nodded. Something in Jasper's expression gave her courage. "Basic mathematics, to start. Nothing complicated—just the fundamental skills a woman might need to manage a household budget or ensure she isn't being cheated at market."

"Or to understand mechanical principles?" Jasper suggested, a hint of his usual enthusiasm returning. "Faith, what if there was a way to combine our goals? My invention—even in its current state—could be used to demonstrate basic scientific principles. The sort of practical knowledge that might help your students see the real-world applications of what they're learning."

Faith's mind raced with possibilities. "You would be willing to help? Even with everything else you're trying to accomplish?"

"I've been questioning lately whether my father's approval is worth pursuing at the cost of everything else that matters." He ran a hand through his already messy hair. "Besides, your students' success might help prove that women are capable of understanding complex subjects. That education shouldn't be restricted by gender."

Faith felt tears prick at her eyes. "That's precisely what Mother believed. Look at this."

She opened her mother's journal to a passage she'd read so many times she nearly knew it by heart. "She wrote about creating a network of educated women who could pass their knowledge on to others. She believed that true change would come not from grand gestures, but from small acts of rebellion—teaching one girl at a time until the weight of evidence became impossible to ignore."

"A revolution through education," Jasper mused. "But where would you even begin? Surely not here at Oxford?"

Faith shook her head. "I've made contact with a widow in town who supports the cause. She has a small room above her shop that's rarely used. With proper precautions..."

She trailed off, suddenly aware of how outlandish it might sound to someone of Jasper's standing.

But he was nodding thoughtfully. "You'd need to be incredibly careful. Perhaps I could devise some sort of warning system? Something subtle that would alert you if anyone unexpected approached?"

Before Faith could respond, they heard the distinct sound of her father's study door opening downstairs. They froze, staring at each other in alarm.

"Quickly," Faith whispered, gathering her teaching materials. "Father sometimes checks his study before he retires."

Jasper slipped out through a window with practiced ease, but paused before leaving. "Faith? Your mother was right. Change does come from small acts of rebellion. And you won't be doing this alone."

As she watched him disappear into the pre-dawn darkness, Faith clutched her mother's journal to her chest. Perhaps this was madness—trying to establish a secret school while also helping hunt for Oxford's lost treasures. But something her mother had written kept echoing in her mind: "Knowledge, once gained, cannot be untaught. Each girl who learns to read, to calculate, to think critically, becomes a lamp lighting the way for others."

Faith carefully tucked her teaching materials into a hidden compartment she'd discovered behind one of the study's bookcases. Tomorrow, she would meet with the widow to finalize their plans. But for now, she had just enough time to make it back to her room before the household stirred.

As she slipped through the quiet halls, Faith felt a curious mixture of fear and excitement. She might not be able to change Society's views overnight, but she could follow her mother's example—one student, one small act of rebellion at a time. And now, unexpectedly, she had an ally in Jasper.

The first light of dawn was just beginning to paint the sky as Faith reached her chamber. Soon, the household would awaken, and she would return to her role as the professor's dutiful daughter. But in these quiet moments between night and day, she allowed herself to dream of a future where knowledge knew no boundaries of gender or class—a future she was determined to help create, one arithmetic lesson at a time.

She had just enough time to change her dress and prepare for her morning meeting with Mrs. Henderson, the widow who owned the millinery shop in town.

Faith met Meredith at the corner of High Street, and together they made their way through Oxford's narrow streets. Faith's reticule was heavy with teaching materials she'd prepared, while Meredith carried a carefully organized portfolio of curriculum plans they had developed over several late evenings.

"Are you nervous?" Meredith asked, her voice low despite the bustle of morning shoppers around them.

"Terrified," Faith admitted with a small smile. "But if Mrs. Henderson agrees, we'll have taken the first real step toward everything we've dreamed of since we were girls."

Meredith squeezed her arm encouragingly. "Either way, we'll find a path forward. We always have."

The millinery shop's bell tinkled softly as they entered, and Mrs. Henderson immediately ushered them into the back room, her practiced eye noting their barely contained excitement.

"My dears," the older woman said, her grey eyes sharp with concern, "I've given your proposal considerable thought."

She gestured for the girls to sit at a small table where tea had been laid out. "While I support your mission wholeheartedly, we must discuss the risks."

Faith accepted a cup of tea, noting how her hands trembled slightly. "I understand there are dangers—"

"Do you?" Mrs. Henderson leaned forward. "Your father's position at the university is precarious enough, given his occasional unconventional views. If it became known that his daughter was running a clandestine school, teaching subjects considered inappropriate for females..."

She shook her head. "The scandal could ruin him."

Faith set down her cup with perhaps more force than necessary. "And what of the ruin that comes from keeping half the population in ignorance? These girls—"

"Are vulnerable enough without us adding to their troubles," Mrs. Henderson finished gently. "However." She smiled slightly. "I didn't say I wouldn't help."

Relief flooded through Faith. "Then the room above the shop?"

"Is yours to use, provided we take proper precautions." Mrs. Henderson pulled out a small purse. "I'm also prepared to help with supplies, and perhaps even a small stipend to help some of the poorest girls afford to take time away from their work to study."

Faith blinked back tears. "I don't know how to thank you."

"Thank me by being careful." Mrs. Henderson's expression grew serious again. "We'll need to establish strict rules. The girls must arrive separately, never in groups. They should use the back entrance. And if anyone official comes asking questions—"

"They're merely here to learn millinery," Faith finished. "I've already thought about using sewing lessons as a cover."

"Good girl." Mrs. Henderson patted her hand. "Now, show me these lessons you've prepared. If we're to risk everything, we should at least ensure we're providing the finest education possible."

As Faith and Meredith spread out their carefully copied arithmetic exercises and basic reading primers, she felt a familiar surge of determination. Yes, there were risks—to themselves, to Faith’s father's position, to the girls themselves. But Faith’s mother's words from the journal echoed in her mind: "Knowledge, once gained, cannot be untaught."

She would move forward carefully, build her school slowly and deliberately, and create a space where girls could discover the power of their own minds. And perhaps, with Jasper's help and Mrs. Henderson's support, she might even succeed in changing a few minds along the way.

The bell tinkled again, signalling a customer's arrival. As Mrs. Henderson hurried back to the shop front, Faith gathered her materials, already planning how to arrange the small room upstairs for her first proper class. Soon, these pages of carefully copied sums and letters would become keys, unlocking doors that Society had tried to keep firmly shut.

She straightened her shoulders, embracing both her fear and her resolve. Some dreams were worth any risk.