Page 77 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
She shook her head. “Not for a masculine noun. How could I have made such a rudimentary error?”
Edward bore her prattling with good humor. She knew it had to be irritating, but she couldn’t seem to stop. He never once complained. He alternated between murmuring reassurances and trying to take her mind off the contest by pointing out Oxford’s notable sights. None of it worked, but she appreciated his efforts.
“And I think I might have used the pluperfect tense on…” Elissa broke off, noticing they were approaching the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, where the award ceremony was to be held. “Do you mean to tell me it’s time for the results already?”
“It is.” Edward led her through the wrought-iron gates. “Time to learn our fates.”
Elissa fell silent as they entered the nave, the soft clip of their footsteps on the black-and-white tiles discernible over a few soft whispers from those already gathered. The frontmost pews had been reserved for the entrants, but as they made their way up the aisle, she saw Cassandra, who gave her an encouraging nod. Harrington must have ridden up from Cheltenham that morning to learn his own fate, for he was there, too, seated between Cassandra and a young man Elissa did not recognize.
Other than Cassandra and a lady whose face Elissa could not see due to her wide-brimmed hat, she was the only woman in the room.
They claimed seats in the third row. After a few minutes’ wait spent in nervous silence, Dr. Whittington Landon, the vice-chancellor of the university, emerged from the wings and made his way toward the altar. He was a portly man, and the severe black of his academic robes was interrupted only by the two white flaps of a plain jabot collar. The silence in the church crackled with tension as he slowly made his way up the wooden steps of the raised pulpit.
He turned to face those assembled. “I will not leave you in suspense. There were many worthy entries today. But there was one that rose above the rest.” He reached inside his robes and withdrew a sheet of paper. “I will now read aloud the submission of the winner.”
He cleared his throat.
* * *
By the second line,Edward knew.
The winner had opted to translate a fragmentary poem by Simonides of Ceos about a mother and child trapped on a ship in a maelstrom and the mother’s terrified certainty that they would not live out the night. Never had he heard such a poignant translation of this work. The mother’s despair at her inability to save her child was heart-wrenching.
And the translator had even managed to infuse the work with just a hint of its original meter.
He glanced at Elissa and found tears streaming down her face. He pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her. “Congratulations,” he whispered.
She looked startled for an instant, then accepted his handkerchief and busied herself dabbing her eyes. “How did you know it was mine?” she murmured.
He gave her a wry look. “You think I don’t recognize your style?”
They listened in silence for a moment. Elissa’s translation was superb, as was the original verse she had composed to complete the poem, whose ending was missing. Her fears that she had used the indicative imperfect instead of the optative aorist were unfounded, as was her worry that she had been mistaken in her use of the pluperfect tense. To be sure, she did renderskyin the third declension, but it was scarcely noticeable, and overall, it was an outstanding work.
After she managed to stanch her tears, she peered up at Edward nervously. “How are you doing?”
“I am… disappointed. To have let my brother down,” he said haltingly. “But…” He paused, searching his feelings. “I’m doing better than I would have thought. I’m—I’m holding up.” He was surprised to find that he meant it.
She bit her lip. “Do you hate me?”
He looked at her beautiful face, more precious to him than all the lost plays of Aeschylus. “I could never hate you.” He gave her a wry smile. “It seems that I am capable of feeling more than one thing at a time. Because amidst my disappointment, I am genuinely happy for you.”
She was crying again, and he wanted to take her in his arms, but he couldn’t do that in this public setting. He settled for taking her hand, holding it down on the seat of the pew in a way he hoped wasn’t visible to those around them.
Once she had calmed a bit, he leaned down so he could whisper in her ear. “So, I was thinking. There’s a dower house about two miles from Harrington Hall that’s not currently in use. It’s a reasonable size—twenty-three rooms. Yellow stone, of course, and charmingly situated. You’ll love it. It even has its own little pond.”
She gave him a curious look, and he continued, “We can stay there year-round. You’ll never have to go to London unless you wish to. You won’t have to attend any society functions. You will dictate how you spend your days.”
She was squeezing his hand so tightly it stung. “Edward, are you asking me to—to—”
“To marry me,” he murmured. “You can read outdoors on the pond. Get ink on your elbow. Publish a thousand translations. Be precisely yourself, because that is who I love.”
She was back to crying. “But—but what about your sisters?”
“I’ve been giving them some thought. Any man who is weak-minded enough to be put off from marrying Lucy does not deserve her. And I daresay Izzie will do a better job scaring off her suitors than I ever could. But I also feel quite certain that, were I to ask them, they would both say they wanted me to be happy. And my happiness lies with you.”
She dabbed at her eyes as she gave him a smile that was as radiant as it was watery. “Yes. A thousand times, yes. But… when did you decide this, Edward?”
“Before the contest. When that lout tried to deny you entry.”
