Page 66 of The Ladies Least Likely
“Our father was a rector in the small parish of St. Cleer in Cornwall, where we grew up. My mother was the daughter of a lens maker, and Joseph was their first child.” She opted not to mention that her father was the younger son of a baronet; she did not wish to introduce Reuben into the conversation.
“After our parents died, I was sent to live with a cousin while Joseph went up to Oxford.”
She gave the young duke a smile that included his siblings. “My upbringing was quite modest. I have never had occasion to interact with a ducal family.”
“My mother was a haberdasher’s daughter,” Grey said, and Amaranthe wondered if he meant the remark to establish that he, too, had humbler origins.
She was intensely curious what a duke’s heir had seen in a haberdasher’s daughter.
That it had ended unhappily for Grey’s mother was unfortunately the way of the world, a warning of what awaited if a woman attempted to vault too high above her station.
“I have never met a woman who knows Latin,” young Hugh said, “so we have both had a novel experience today, Miss Illingworth.”
Grey raised his brows. “Latin?”
“Miss Illingworth is a copyist,” Ned said, “but she actually reads the old books. Can you fancy!”
“Ah.” Grey helped himself to the chicken fricassee. “I wondered what that setup in your parlor entailed.”
“My workroom.” For some reasons Amaranthe did not want him to think her a mere dabbler, one of those leisured women who had obscure hobbies. She supported their household with her work while Joseph saved his earnings for his eventual marriage, and she took pride in her self-sufficiency.
“But I only reproduce the script, and some of the marginalia,” she added. “My pages go to another artist for the truly intricate illuminations, and then a bookbinder to be sewn together.”
“I see,” said Grey. “And what is the market for such things, might I ask? Reproductions of medieval manuscripts.”
“Of benefit, first, to scholars and antiquarians, who value such artifacts.” And for people like her, who could trade on the value of priceless originals with skillfully made copies. Amaranthe kept her eyes on her ham so guilt would not show on her face.
The secret copies she made of her commissions were meant to begin her own collection, for the purposes of historical preservation and literary enjoyment, but she wasn’t prepared to explain to him what would very well look like stealing to the untrained eye.
“And of value,” she added, “to owners, who may wish to have a duplicate of an original manuscript in the event of unforeseen disasters. Do you know how many priceless books were lost in the fire in Sir Robert Cotton’s library?”
The looks of respectful blankness around the table told her they did not.
“Sir Robert Cotton gathered the collection that became the cornerstone of our National Library,” Amaranthe explained.
“He had innumerable treasures. The Lindisfarne Gospels. The Vespasian Psalter. But in 1731, when a fire broke out at Ashburnham House, where the collection was stored, the loss was devastating. One of the original manuscripts of the Magna Carta was so damaged as to be illegible. Asser’s biography of King Alfred, gone.
And the manuscript holding some of the greatest Old English poems, including that of the hero Beowulf and the Anglo-Saxon Judith—huge portions were lost.”
Her eyes stung, and she blinked quickly. The destruction of manuscripts of inestimable value, a tragedy to her, did not compare to the well-being of children abandoned by their stepmother and left to starve in their own home.
She cleared her throat. “At any rate, I like to think my work helps preserve future knowledge and understanding about our nation’s history and peoples. Joseph ought to have you read Beowulf, if he hasn’t. It’s a ripping good story, though the Old English takes some study.”
“Miss Illingworth.” Ned’s eyes grew wide. “Are you a Blue Stocking?”
Amaranthe laughed. “No, I am not part of Mrs. Montagu’s circle.
Though, like her and her friends, I value literature, history, and useful conversation.
And, like her, I believe that the female mind can be cultivated to a strength and capacity equal to that of a man’s. ” She gave Grey a challenging look.
“As do I!” Camilla exclaimed. “Miss Illingworth, perhaps you can be my tutor!”
“Hmm.” Grey passed about the dish of brandied cherries that Davey delivered to the table with an exaggerated flourish.
She was afraid he was going to dismiss her claim about the strength of the female mind, and she was already assembling her rebuttal when he said, in a teasing tone, “I might need her, Millie, to help me with my readings for the bar, if her Latin is good enough.”
“I’m afraid the law is not my forte,” Amaranthe said, rather stunned that he would make such a cordial suggestion.
Educated men were usually the ones who objected most strenuously that a woman could not be their equal.
Even Joseph expressed polite skepticism as to Amaranthe’s intelligence, though she read twice as many languages as he did.
And the thought that she would work together with Grey on anything was laughable.
The last person she ought to make friends with was someone conversant with the law.
Odd circumstances had thrown them together to see to the care of the ducal children, but once she had discharged her duties to help him hire staff and set the household in order, Amaranthe would return to her usual routine.
Moreover, she had agreed to deliver the breviary soon, so she had to finish her copies quickly. The admixture of gold leaf she had made that day would harden the longer it was exposed to air.
Grey raised his glass in a toast. “To medieval manuscripts.”
Amaranthe joined him in drinking, restricting herself to a small, ladylike sip. The wine, which he called a Madeira, was delicious. Wine had been served with dinner at the baronet’s table, but at home she and Joseph never had such a treat; they drank small beer, such as the children enjoyed.
“To the preservation of history,” Amaranthe replied.
“To fine meals!” Ned said heartily.
“The female mind!” Camilla cried.
Everyone looked to Hugh, the young Lord Hunsdon.
He glanced at Ralph and Davey, who stood at attention near the sideboard, Ralph with a self-important look on his face, Davey’s back as stiff as if he’d been raised to service in grand homes. Then the young lord’s eyes fell on Amaranthe.
“To new friends,” he said, lifting his glass, “who have delivered us from unfortunate circumstances.”
Amaranthe drank, but the delicious wine turned sour in her mouth.
She did not deserve their trust or their confidences, and most certainly not their regard. She must have as little as possible to do with Grey and his family, and she needed to retire from their notice as quickly as she could.
The knowledge stung. It had been a long, long time since she had made new friends. And now, given her past and what she meant to do with the opportunity that had fallen into her lap, she would make no friends here, either.