Page 123 of The Ladies Least Likely
Or worse.
“The earliest surviving manuscript of theKitabis a tenth-century Arabic text,” Karim mused. “I have seen many translations into vernacular tongues, but not many of the Latin manuscripts survive. This is truly remarkable, Miss Illingworth. You happened upon it combing the bookshops, as you love to do?”
“Mmm.” She had found a copy of the revered Latin work called theSecretum Secretorumin one of the Oxford libraries, managed through Joseph to obtain access, and made a copy working at night while he was away or asleep, burning their precious candles and using her own recipe for ink to save coin. “I acquired this manuscript through—a distant family member. In Cornwall.”
His eyes narrowed, his exuberance faltering. “Ah. That is, I recall, how you came upon the impeccablePhysiologusyou brought me some time ago, is it not?”
“Indeed. The same—er, family member. He is a prodigious collector.”
Who thought Reuben would ever prove useful? If Karim inquired, he would learn Amaranthe did indeed have relations in Cornwall. Never mind that she wanted nothing to do with them.
ThePhysiologushad been copied from one of the Oxford college libraries too. Once one had obtained suitable premises, a household required candles and fuel and food. The ancient Christian text had supported them until Mr. Karim, impressed with her skill, had begun to connect Amaranthe with commissions for work.
“Such a pristine copy,” Mr. Karim said. “The parchment looks almost new.”
It was new, because she had found a bookmaker in Cheapside who prepared the vellum for her. But Mr. Karim could sell the manuscript for more if he identified it as a thirteenth-century translation, and they both knew that.
“Text is intact,” she couldn’t help adding.
Mr. Karim studied the manuscript, and Amaranthe quaked in anticipation of further questions. He was an honest businessman; he had to be, for prejudice would turn all too quickly against him for his dark skin and foreign birth. The reign of their good King George III was a more tolerant age than some had been—and a more licentious age, too—but it was not a realm where all men were considered equal. And women were well below men in the hierarchy of being.
“I have a patron who would pay five hundred for this, sight unseen,” Karim said. “I shall have to bind it, of course, but I see no reason we could not share the profit. Or I could give you two hundred now?”
Amaranthe’s chest compressed. “Pounds?” she choked.
He raised his dark eyebrows. “Guineas.”
Slightly more than pounds. Two hundred guineas—that ought to be enough to support the Hunsdon household until the next quarter’s income came through. Two hundred guineas could buy a fine horse. It was nearly enough to buy a carriage, something well beyond the reach of a simple tradeswoman.
“I think I will take the two hundred now, if you have it,” Amaranthe managed to say.
“Very well. How fortunate for us that you have this family member who so carefully preserves these rare manuscripts.” Karim regarded her with fresh surprise. “You are very fine today, if it is not rude in me to remark upon it.”
“Borrowed finery.” She produced a thin smile. Why had it not occurred to her that they could sell some of the duchess’s abandoned gowns for ready coin? Such a wardrobe would fetch a fair price, though Sybil might quarrel at her possessions being parted from her. Too late now. Mr. Karim darted into the back room, and Amaranthe was left to say a quiet goodbye to her manuscript.
She peeked one last time at her signature in the border of the concluding page. A cluster of long, gaudy purplish blooms of the amaranth plant called love-lies-bleeding. The flowers of amaranths kept their color long after they dried, for which the Greeks had named them ‘unfading.’ Most species of amaranth were considered pigweeds, true, but the oil was nourishing to the skin, and the seeds were delicious if properly cooked.
A hardy and useful plant.Just like me, Amaranthe thought.
Karim returned with a small pouch of coins, but he hesitated before he handed them to her. His eyes fell again on the tidy stack of folio pages.
“May I tell this patron of mine that he is buying a unique copy of theSirr al-Asrar?” he asked.
“You may.”
It was, in some respects, not a lie. She had learned to give all her copies slight variations. Sometimes she changed the decorations of initial capitals or the border decorations to more pleasing designs. And it went against the grain to preserve the scribal errors she so often found in medieval copies, when monks or clerics predictably skipped or confused lines after staring too long at marching grids of tiny script. It wasn’t in her to duplicate an error when she could correct it.
All her works, equally, bore her signature of the amaranth flowers. They would mark the sign above her door when she was finally able to open her bookshop. All her manuscripts were, in this respect, unique.
The weight of the enormous sum in her palm felt heavy on her heart. How far these guineas might go toward her dream of opening her own bookshop. How much further she might be along the path to that dream if she had never lost her Book of Hours. The study she could have made from it, the copies, the sales?—
Amaranthe forced her mind away. Eyde’s safety, and Derwa’s, and her own, were more important than a book. The welfare of the Hunsdon children was more important than a book, too.
Karim checked that the folio pages were in their correct order, using the small Roman numeral she’d marked at the top of each page, verso and recto.
“Just think if we came across another surviving copy of the tenth-century Arabic text of theSirr al-Asrar,” he said, a new gleam in his eye. “What a find that would be!”
“A find indeed.” Amaranthe stowed the money in her inside pocket and wondered how much Mr. Karim suspected of her antics. Copies of French, German, Latin, and Flemish manuscripts were all well and good, but mundane fare for antiquarians. Ancient Arabic manuscripts, now—there would be quite a rage for those, were any to be discovered in secret caches and corners of old crumbling homes, where rare treasures might sometimes be found. Karim had begun teaching her Arabic, after she expressed interest, but she wondered now if he were suggesting she apply these skills for their mutual benefit?
