The Scholar and the Scot

by Lee, Caroline

“The fact you people don’t care about Herodotus’s effect on our histories says something about you.”

  “Fair enough.” Her friend stopped in front of her and offered Olive a smile. “But I was oh dearing because you look like you might want a nice long cry.”

  “Well, I do,” snapped Olive again, turning away but not going too far, because her friend’s comfort was welcome, “but I’m not going to.”

  “Are you going to get angry instead? That has always worked for me.”

  With a sigh, Olive felt all the tension and irritation, leach from her shoulders.

  “No,” she whispered, staring at the cluster of hair pins on her dressing table. She’d lost any number of them in the storage shed at the excavation site, and somehow, it hadn’t seemed to matter.

  Charity’s hand rested on her shoulder. “What is it, Olive? You can tell me.”

  “I think I…” Tears pricked at the back of Olive’s lids. “I think I love Phineas.”

  “Ah.” Charity was quiet a moment, then ventured, “And that is a bad thing?”

  “It is if he doesn’t love me back.”

  To her surprise, her friend snorted a laugh, but when Olive swung around to glare at her, Charity shrugged.

  “Forgive me, Olive, but…” She snaked her arm around Olive’s shoulders, while simultaneously nodding to her blouse. “It is fairly clear you have been loved quite thoroughly.”

  With a gasp, Olive slapped her hands over her buttons, only to discover they were, in fact, done up incorrectly. That, combined with her mess of a hairstyle, and the fact she was wearing Phineas’s jacket, was fairly damning.

  But she refused to be damned.

  So she lifted her chin and shrugged Charity’s arm away as she began to undo her buttons completely. “Well, what of it?”

  Her friend’s smirk was obvious in her voice when she asked, “So you have been loved?”

  “I’ve been sexed.” Olive bit her lip as she shrugged out of the jacket, which she tossed over the back of a nearby chair, and then her blouse, letting that drop to the floor. “Is that the right tense? To sex? No, that’s not it. Intercoursed? No, that’s not a verb either.”

  Her friend shrugged. “I think what you and Phineas just shared is called ‘making love.’ Here, let me help you.”

  Olive gave up and accepted the offer because her fingers were shaking too much.

  “We didn’t make love,” she muttered. “He doesn’t love me.”

  “Oh really?” Charity helped her out of her skirts, then went to work on the slapdash corset closures. “Then what does he feel for you?”

  “Lust, perhaps, although why a man such as him could feel that for me…”

  He didn’t have to feel lust for her, did he? Because she’d all but thrown herself at him. And he, being a gorgeous and virile man, had accepted.

  Charity didn’t contradict her though. Instead, she asked thoughtfully, as she pulled Olive’s damp chemise over her head, “What does he say about such things? I mean, does he consider you undesirable?”

  “Well…no.” In fact, he said wonderful things about her.

  “So perhaps him being ‘in lust’ enough to make love to you is a bit more complex than you are making it. Here is a dry chemise. What does he say about you?”

  Olive’s voice was muffled as she pulled the dry linen over her head. “He told me I’m beautiful. And smart. And a worthwhile partner.”

  When she emerged, Charity was standing there, her hands on her hips, looking exasperated. “And you did not believe him?”

  “What?” Olive frowned in confusion.

  “The man has said wonderful things about you. He cares for you; all of us can see it. But you, who has never believed in yourself, cannot see it!” She threw up her hands and stomped for the wardrobe which held Olive’s gowns. “You are brilliant, Olive. You are intelligent and funny, and yes, a little bit different, but we love you for that.”

  “You’re my friends,” Olive weakly protested.

  “Yes, and Phineas is your friend too.” Charity pulled a blue day gown from its hanger. “And he could be more, if you could get your admittedly brilliant head out of your arse and accept that.”

  “He’s going to leave me.”

  She probably shouldn’t have blurted it out, but when Charity turned, holding the gown, with an incredulous look on her face, Olive sighed and explained all about the letter she’d found in Phineas’s jacket pocket.

  Frowning, Charity helped her dress. When Olive was finished, her friend hummed. “And he never once said anything to you about this?”

  “No. He let me trot off with him and pretend at being an archaeologist—he let me throw my body at him—without mentioning he’s leaving.”

  “Then did it ever occur to you, Miss-Brilliant-Scholar, that he is not accepting the invitation? It does not seem to me that he is lying to you or taking advantage of you…but more as if he just forgot the letter, or has decided not to act on it.”

  “No,” Olive said flatly, turning so her friend could button her up. “No, that didn’t occur to me. Because it’s wrong.”

  “Or…” Charity spun her back around when she was finished and tapped Olive on the nose. “I am right, and you are just embarrassed I thought of a theory you have not.”

  Rolling her eyes, Olive crossed her arms. “You always flunked logic tests.”

  “No, I always did astonishingly well at them because I copied off you.” Charity winked unrepentantly. “And I am correct now. Phineas received that letter before you started on your”—she waggled her fingers dismissively—“digging in the dirt adventure. He cares for you, Olive. He would rather spend time with you than worry about the Society for Thingy-whatever.”

  “Archaeology,” mumbled Olive vaguely, but she wasn’t really paying attention. She was busy thinking about Charity’s argument. Was it possible Phineas wasn’t leaving her? Was it possible he really did think she was brilliant and worth staying for?

  The time they’d spent excavating that winding riverbank had been some of the happiest hours of her life. And that had been because he’d treated her as an equal. Someone worth loving.

  Her eyes widened.

  “Olive…” When Charity placed her hands on her shoulders, Olive blinked and focused. “I know I am often the voice of— What is the opposite of reason?”

  “Chaos?”

  “Chaos, yes, thank you.” Charity nodded. “I am the last one to lecture on what you ought to do, but in this case…” She took a deep breath. “But in this case, shut up and listen. Life is…well, it is twisty and turny, is it not? It bends back on itself sometimes, like a lazy, slow river, and sweeps us all along like an angry, fast one. But if you have the love of someone—a friend, a family member, or if you are lucky enough, a good man—then the twists and turns do not matter as much. You will always have me and the rest of the girls, no matter what happens, but…” She leaned in and gave Olive a quick hug. “But you could also have Phineas. And that is worth fighting for.”

  Olive had gone stiff.

  It was Charity’s river analogy—as rambling and windy as the Derwent itself—which had triggered something deep in her mind. Perhaps it was because the analogy—it really was a terrible analogy—had come so close on the heels of her thinking about the excavation, but whatever it was, Olive was having “A Thought.”

  A rather important one.

  “Olive? Olive, you can cease shutting up now and say something.”

  “A bend in the river,” Olive whispered, her eyes wide. “Where the current sweeps things, then slows and deposits them along the riverbank.”

  “Um…yes?”

  “Where they sink into the mud, quite a distance down from where they’re supposed to be, and are hidden by more mud?”

  Charity winced. “Well, I think you’re belaboring a rather inept analogy to begin with, but I suppose that could be true.”

  But Olive wasn’t seeing her friend. In her mind’s eye, she was tracing the m
ap of the excavation.

  The River Derwent had bordered the little Roman outpost. The original excavators had assumed the edge of the town was built up against a street, but she and Phineas now knew it was the riverbank. And the map of the town had curved around, following the bend in the river.

  The bend in the river, where the current might sweep things and deposit them.

  Like architectural elements fallen from the roof ridgelines of important buildings.

  The golden sphaera.

  “Olive? You have gone all glassy. Have I broken you? Oh dear, I’ve broken you, have I not?”

  “No,” Olive breathed, suddenly full of excitement. “You’ve given me an idea.”

  “An idea about how you should march up to Phineas Prince and declare your love for him?” Charity asked, sounding a bit nervous.

  “I threw my naked body atop his,” Olive quipped drily. “I think he got the message already.”

  She pulled away from her friend and reached for her hairbrush, determined to braid her hair up as quickly as possible so she could head to the excavation again. Now that the sun was out, the ground would be steaming, but she could still make some progress.

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  Olive lifted her chin and stared at her reflection in the mirror, a sense of certainty about her own worth filling her for the first time ever.

  “I’m going to prove I’m as brilliant as he thinks I am.”

  Chapter 10

  Where in Pluto’s dark hells is she?

  Phin’s enthusiasm to find the woman he was going to marry had begun to wane around the time he checked the forty-fifth room for Olive, but not his determination. It was just that…he’d searched the whole damn manor, starting with the bedrooms—where he assumed she’d still be, changing into dry clothes—and ending with the kitchens, scullery, and the remarkably well-stocked cellars.

  All he’d found for his troubles were some teasing grins from gentlemen who seemed to know exactly why he was looking for her, shocked expressions from the servants he’d interrupted, and a mediocre bottle of ’77 claret he’d snagged from the wine cellar.

  Oh, and his jacket.

  Well, at least he was dressed now, and his clothes had dried out during his search. He was still wearing the sturdy costume he often wore while excavating and the tweed hid the mud well.

  When he checked Olive’s room, he’d found his jacket draped across a chair, so he’d shrugged into it while checking his reflection in her mirror. His waistcoat was buttoned correctly, and he’d have to find a non-drenched hat before he could be considered proper, but at least he wouldn’t look like a complete barbarian when he proposed marriage to Olive.

  On the other hand, she’d liked him in a kilt, hadn’t she?

  Phin’s lips quirked upward. His brother, Roland, was a bit of a clotheshorse, but swore that the ladies loved a man in a kilt. And his oldest brother Lyon had been known as the Beast of the Oliphants partially because of his propensity to wear such a barbaric garment, but since he’d been married for a half-year already to one of Phin’s friends, a young lady almost as smart as Olive, he would concede that the Draw of the Kilt was still very much en force.

  But for now…

  With a nod to himself in the mirror, he yanked on his lapels, making sure he was straight, then turned to continue his search.

  It wasn’t until he was standing in the front entrance hall, twisting around rather helplessly, that he put his hand in the pocket of his jacket, and his fingers brushed paper.

  Oh, aye, he’d forgotten the letter from the Society, which he’d shoved in there days ago. But...

  He pulled it from his pocket and realized it had been unfolded and re-folded in the wrong direction before being forced back into the envelope. It was safe to assume it had been read in the intermediate time, and it was also safe to assume who had been doing said unfolding, reading, refolding.

  Olive.

  If Olive had read the letter from the Society, could that explain why he couldn’t find her right now?

  The answer came in a flash.

  Aye, ye wee stupid dobber. She thinks ye took her virginity and are jaunting off to London and the Holy Land without her!

  Since his cheek was still sensitive from his sister’s slap, he amended that last chastisement to, “she gave ye her virginity,” and decided he liked that better anyhow.

  He slapped the paper against his palm, working his way through the conundrum. If she thought he was leaving her, after everything they’d just shared, where would she be? Because now, more than ever, he needed to find her and explain his feelings.

  “Mr. Prince?”

  He whirled about, only to be faced with one of Raina’s lovely friends. Which one was it? “Lady Charity, aye?”

  She grinned knowingly, and he wasn’t certain he could interpret the sparkle in her eyes. “Aye,” she drawled in imitation. “You look as if you are searching for someone?”

  It was clear she knew exactly who he was searching for, and Phin didn’t have time to play games.

  “Do ye ken where Olive is?” He didn’t even bother with propriety—if he were lucky, he’d soon win the right to call her Olive to whomever he wanted. “I need to find her.”

  “Of course you do.” The woman’s grin grew. “I could not quite understand what she was going on about, but it had something to do with a riverbank and mud and something falling in.”

  Phin was already shaking his head. “That was days ago. We thought the sphaera had fallen into the ancient river mud, but excavations revealed we were mistaken.”

  “I am not going to pretend to understand that, but I will tell you that the conversation I had with her was only about an hour ago.”

  An hour ago. After they’d returned? After they’d decided the excavation was a failure?

  Olive, love, ye’ve had another idea, have ye no’? Ye’ve solved it!

  “She said she was going to prove she is as brilliant as you think she is. You do think she is brilliant, do you not?”

  His smile was wide enough he was rather afraid of the top of his head falling off.

  “Aye, Lady Charity, I do, and she is.” He surged into motion, ramming his new hat atop his head as he jumped toward the door. “And I will spend the rest of my life convincing her, if she doesnae already believe me!”

  The woman’s laughter followed him out into the sunshine.

  Phineas started to run, ignoring the heat and the way the air felt heavy after the storm. All he knew was that he needed to get to the dig site to find his love and tell her how special she was.

  He was out of breath by the time he jogged over the last hill, and he had to stop to brace his hands against his knees as he scanned the area. From this height, he could see the River Derwent curling in the distance and the ruins where they’d spent the last few days. The canvas tarps were still stretched out over the excavation site, although he was certain anything of interest had already been removed and catalogued to be added to Fangfoss’s collection.

  But where was Olive?

  Straightening, Phin peered down at the dig site. If she’d had an idea about the sphaera, why wasn’t she working along the ancient riverbank?

  But then he saw her and a slow smile came to his face.

  She was working along the ancient riverbank, just not near the original building.

  Suddenly anxious to see her, he clamped his hat to his head and jogged down the hill toward the opposite side of the ruins where she was bustling around the edge of the excavation site to what he now knew was the riverbank. The bend in the riverbank.

  “What are ye doing, lass?”

  It wasn’t until she straightened and spun about that he realized perhaps he could’ve phrased that better—less accusatory—and winced. Before she could defend herself, he hurried to reassure her.

  “I mean, I can see ye’re doing a fine job of staking the site, and ye’re making all the correct notations in the chart.” Around the two of th
em, an archaeological excavation was slowly taking shape. She’d used the same stakes and string and rulers to mark out a grid, and she’d even begun to shave off the top layer, as they’d done days ago along the back wall of the civic building’s ruins. “But why here?”

  She glanced around, as if confused by his question. Perhaps she’d been expecting him to say something else when he’d come barreling up?

  “This is the bend in the river.”

  He frowned, trying to understand. “Olive, lass, we excavated the riverbank, remember? We determined the sphaera wasnae there. We dug down past the last level of Roman artifacts.”

  Now she was frowning too, as she brushed her palms against one another and stepped closer to him.

  “Yes, we did. Over there.” She nodded meaningfully toward the ruins, her words slow, as if he were the one hard of understanding. “This is the bend.”

  He blew out a half-laugh at himself and pulled off his hat to run a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, lass. I dinnae understand the difference. Can ye explain?”

  Slowly, a smile crept across her lips until she was beaming. “Thank you.”

  Why wasn’t this making any sense?

  “For what?” he asked in frustration.

  “For believing me to be intelligent enough to have a reason for my actions, instead of telling me I’m wrong or unwise. Thank you for asking me to explain.”

  That was it? Smiling gently, he reached for her hands and loved that there was dirt under her nails.

  “Olive, lass, I’ve been trying to tell ye for ages that I think ye’re a brilliant scholar. Of course I trust ye to have made an intelligent decision, and I’m looking forward to being enlightened. I will never make ye feel like ye have a lesser intellect than ye do because I ken ye’re far smarter than I am.”

  She was chewing on her lower lip again, Zeus help him, and her blush was climbing up her neck. She kept her attention fixed on his chin, but he could see the little sparkle of pleasure behind her spectacles.

  “I don’t know about that,” she whispered.

  “I do.” He leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her forehead. “Now, will ye explain to me?”