Page 15 of The Forger and the Duke
“How I wish I had your optimism, Miss Illingworth,” he said. “But I fear the interests that Sybil and Mr. Popplewell serve are entirely their own. As a matter of fact,” he added, “I suspect Mr. Popplewell serves Sybil’s interests entirely, as he will very likely go to prison or be transported for what he’s done.”
Amaranthe was about to inquire further about the duchess when Grey passed her the oysters from his plate. It was such a domineering move—he had not even inquired if she wanted them—yet she guessed he had noticed her enjoyment.
Her cheeks heated. He was more observant than he seemed.
That made him more dangerous.
“Tell us of your family, Miss Illingworth,” Grey prompted as Amaranthe doled out cauliflower pudding. “Your brother has told us little about himself, and nothing about you.”
More dangerous ground still, and she did not have a ready answer, for she was not accustomed to people showing interest in her, particularly gentlemen. Amaranthe wondered how much explanation would satisfy his curiosity.
“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 theMagna Cartawas 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 readBeowulf,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, perhapsyoucan 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.
