Page 75 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
“How odd,” Edward countered. “Here I was under the impression that female servants pass through them every day.”
The dean shifted uncomfortably. “That’s different.”
“Is it? Pray, enlighten us as to how.”
“It is one thing to let the bedmakers and the laundresses in to clean. But to allow a woman to participate in an academic exercise?” He shook his head. “A woman’s brain was not designed for these rigors. In the end, it would be a cruelty toward the lady. Miss St. Cyr would stand no chance against men such as yourself.”
Edward snorted. “Were you to speak with her for three minutes, you would discover how mistaken you are.”
The dean peered at Elissa, baldly skeptical. “Even assuming you are correct, I am dean of this college, and I have a duty to uphold its reputation. And no woman will be passing through these doors on my watch.” He turned, beckoning Edward forward. “Come, my lord. The competition will be beginning shortly. You’ll need to take your seat.”
“I will not be going anywhere,” Edward snapped.
The dean looked over his shoulder. “Whatever do you mean?”
Edward leaned forward. “I mean that if Miss St. Cyr is to be denied the opportunity to compete, then I will not be taking part either.”
A sheen of sweat shone upon the dean’s brow. “But you’re one of the premier entrants. Every writeup I’ve seen in the papers has mentioned that you are taking part. You have to compete.”
He glanced down at Elissa. She was staring up at him, stunned.
And in that moment… he just knew. What Elissa wanted, Elissa was going to have, if it was remotely in his power to give it to her. There was nothing he would not do for this woman.
Nothing.
His voice, when it emerged, was firm. “Any contest in which a scholar as fine as Miss St. Cyr is denied the opportunity to compete is a travesty, and I will have nothing to do with it. Good day, sir.”
The dean’s voice rose half an octave in pitch. “But if you do not participate, everyone will be asking why.”
“And I will have a fascinating story to tell them, now won’t I?” Edward turned to Elissa. “Come, Miss St. Cyr. We will waste no more of our time with these small-minded fools.”
“Wait,” cried the bespectacled man who had been manning the door. Edward turned to regard him with one eyebrow raised. He swallowed. “If we allow Miss St. Cyr to compete, then you would as well, my lord?”
Edward made his expression nonchalant. “I suppose.”
“Excuse us a moment.” He pulled the dean aside, and they began to converse in harsh whispers.
Edward leaned down toward Elissa’s ear. “Are you all right?”
She gave a sniff, and he hastily fished his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. Her smile was wobbly as she dabbed at her eyes. “We’ll find out in a few moments, I suppose. Thank you so much for standing up for me, Edward. It means everything to me. Especially as I know you’d prefer I not enter.”
“You have the right to be here today, and those feelings are my problem to work through.”
She squeezed his arm. “But what if they refuse to bend? What about your brother?”
He gazed down at this unexpected, magnificent woman, who had changed his life irrevocably. “I will have no regrets. This is the right thing.”
The two men returned. The dean was red in the face, but he said, “Very well. As her name is on the list, then I suppose Miss St. Cyr must be allowed in. You may proceed.”
Elissa’s head tipped back as they stepped inside the hall. Edward knew this was an important moment for her, to be permitted to enter this shrine of learning. It was a high-ceilinged room whose white walls were dominated by huge stained glass windows. Dark wood beams crisscrossed the roof, and long wooden tables, usually used for dining, had been cleared to make room for the scholars.
Edward found them seats together. Just as they finished laying out their inkwells and quills, Oxford’s vice-chancellor, Dr. Whittington Landon, rose to address the fifty-some-odd assembled. “Thank you so much for coming today. We are so pleased to offer this competition in partnership with Mr. George Martindale of the publishing house Martindale and Carruthers. Today, we shall test the mettle of Britain’s finest scholars. Tell us, Mr. Martindale,” he said, gesturing to a slim man with chestnut hair, “is your mysterious translator ofOn the Sublimein attendance?”
Mr. Martindale’s eyes flicked toward Elissa, but not long enough to give her away. “I can confirm that the translator is in this very room.”
Excited murmurs filled the hall, and the participants craned their necks, wondering which one of them it might be.
Once the room quieted, the vice-chancellor gestured to some stacks of papers on the table behind him. “Your task shall be as follows: here you will find passages from ten different classical works. Works that are all fragmentary in nature. You will translate the extant passages and compose original verse, in both the original language and in English, to fill in what is missing. Your choices are Aristotle’sProtrepticus, Euripides’sAndromeda…”
