“I’m really not sure.”
Her lips pursed. “It took more than three decades for the issue to receive serious consideration in Parliament again, after the last Reform Act. Last year’s bill was soundly defeated. It stands to reason that your goal might be years away.”
“That’s why I’m working so hard,” he told her. “The harder I work now, the sooner it will happen. Learning always keeps. Greek will still be there once I’m done with this.”
Her eyes flashed. “Oliver, if I start learning Greek two years from now, it will be too late.”
“Too late for what? Too late because you’ll be married?”
But she shook her head. “Too late for me to go to Cambridge.”
He stopped dead and looked at her. He felt a little chill run down his spine; he wasn’t sure where it had come from. He wanted to reach out and grab her, to fold her in his arms and keep her safe. From what, he wasn’t certain. From herself, perhaps.
“They don’t let women study at Cambridge,” he finally said.
“Do you not pay attention to anything?” she demanded. “Not now, they don’t. And there are no plans to open the University itself, of course. But there’s a committee talking about a women’s college in the village of Girton. I’m not old enough yet, Oliver, but by the time I am…”
God. She wanted to go to Cambridge. He pulled in a long breath and stared at her, but it didn’t help. His head seemed to be ringing, echoing with a noise that repeated over and over.
Well, some practical side of himself whispered, it could have been worse. She could want to go to Eton.
He refused to think about Free at Eton.
Instead, he took a few steps forward and took hold of her hand. She was smaller than he was—not so large a difference that he thought of it much, but his earliest memories of her were of vulnerability. Watching out for her. Picking her up and sweeping her in his arms in a wide circle while she screamed in delight, making sure to hold on tightly so that she wouldn’t fall.
“You think that all you’ll have to do to go to Cambridge is learn a little Greek?”
She stared up at him, her eyes clear and defiant.
“Do you have any idea what you’re taking on? When I went to Cambridge, I was barraged with an unceasing deluge of insult, both subtle and overt. I couldn’t go a day without someone telling me that I didn’t belong. You’ll have every one of my disadvantages—except I had my brother and Sebastian. You’ll be alone. And you’re a woman, Free; everyone will be against you. They’ll want you to fail twice as much as they wanted me to—first because you’re a nobody, and second because you’re a woman.”
She shook her head. “Then I’ll have to succeed three times as hard as they want me to fail. You, of all people, should understand that.”
“I love you,” he said. “That’s all this is. I love you, and I don’t want you to suffer. And…for me, Cambridge was the beginning. It was a handful of classes and exams and professors and papers, and afterward, the camaraderie of having attended school with a group of friends. And enemies.” He looked over at her.
She raised her chin defiantly.
“It won’t be like that for you. Going to Cambridge will not be a thing you do, followed by another thing and another thing. Going to Cambridge will define who you are forever after. For the rest of your life, you’ll be The Girl Who Went to Cambridge.”
“Someone will have to be The Girl Who Went,” she said. “Why shouldn’t it be me? And don’t worry; I have no intention that getting a college degree will be the last of the dreadful things I do. I’d rather be the Girl Who Did instead of the Girl Who Didn’t.” She sniffed and looked away. “And I never thought you would talk me out of it, Oliver. Of all the people who I imagined would wish me to fail—”
“I don’t wish you to fail,” he said tersely. “If you are going to Cambridge, I wish you to succeed. I wish you to succeed against all odds. I only wish they didn’t have to be arrayed against you.”
“Then don’t be one of my barriers.” She spoke quietly. “You said you would help me learn Greek, Oliver. Everything else, I’m managing as best I can on my own. But Greek…”
“I’m not very good at Greek. I can manage the basics, but that’s all. If you want to succeed against all odds, you’ll need the best help you can get.” He waited a moment longer. “Mama and Papa have their rules about taking the duke’s money, but…it really is mine, you know. Shall I hire you a tutor?”
She swallowed. “Is that what you think I need? I’d be more comfortable with you.”
“I’m not just saying that to get out of the duty,” he said. “I don’t think you understand how awful my Greek is. If you’re going to do this, you’re going to have to learn to be uncomfortable.”
Slowly, she lowered herself down to sit on the ground. “What will Papa say?”
“I leave that to you to worry about.” He sat beside her and hooked his arm over her shoulder. They sat there like that for a long moment, not speaking. Oliver wasn’t sure what to say. He knew his sister too well to attempt to change her mind, but then…
He also knew what was waiting for her. That thing she yearned for right now with all her heart? The shine would come off it, he suspected, and the only way she’d make it through would be by gritting her teeth and bulling her way to the end. He wouldn’t wish his Cambridge years on anyone. Least of all someone he loved.
“I worry about you,” he finally said to Free. “I’m afraid that you’re going to break your heart, going up against the world.”
“No.” The wind caught her hair and sent it swirling behind her. “I’m going to break the world.”
She almost seemed not to have heard the words she’d said, so absently did she speak. As if it were a conclusion she had come to years ago, one she didn’t even need to examine any longer.
He watched her breathe in. The sun fell on her skin—she was going to freckle dreadfully—but she wouldn’t care. Her eyes were shut, and she turned to face the breeze as if the wind could take her to another place.
“Is that what happened to you?” she finally asked, without opening her eyes. “Cambridge broke your heart?”
He barely kept from startling. His eyes widened and he turned to her. But she hadn’t moved, and she didn’t say anything at all to him. She just sat there, her head thrown back, a little breeze catching a strand of her hair. Oliver wasn’t sure why his heart was racing. Why his fists were clenched as he stared straight ahead.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Oliver finally said. “It’s just a school. That’s it; it’s just a school.”
Chapter Nine
The University of Cambridge had an extraordinary set of botanic gardens, carefully planted with exotic species brought back from around the world and arranged in order of Linnaean classification. No matter how strange the species were, however, they could not rival how oddly Jane felt.
She could feel the kiss that Mr. Marshall hadn’t given her still lingering on her lips three days after he’d declined to give it. It tingled, a sharp, sweet secret, that undelivered kiss, and she felt as if it painted every word that came out of her mouth with the fullness of its ungranted promise.
“You seem quite taken with Mr. Marshall,” Genevieve Johnson said to Jane as they walked together.
They were passing an evergreen from China, branches laden with green needles drooping low to the ground.
“He’s amusing,” Jane said.
The twins exchanged glances.
“That is to say,” Jane tried again, “I am sure he is a dependable fellow.”
“I’m sure he is,” Geraldine agreed, taking Jane’s arm with an expression that would have been a smirk on another girl.
Jane should make a remark about his station, something to depress their interest. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“He’s a duke’s brother,” she finally said. “Surely that elevates him to the status of at least a marquess.”
The sisters exchanged a longer glan
ce.
“No,” Geraldine finally said. “You might think of a duke’s brother, but I don’t think you should consider a marquess.”
There was something faintly off in their mannerisms, and the two of them were so rarely off. Genevieve’s lips pressed together; Geraldine looked somber. It took Jane a minute to understand. Of course. They knew a marquess. Good heavens. Geraldine was engaged to the Earl of Hapford, but his uncle was unattached. Had Genevieve set her sights on Bradenton?
She wished her joy of him. The girls were of excellent family—cousins to an earl—and had good dowries. But she’d long suspected that Bradenton needed far more than a dowry that was merely good by country standards.
“Under no circumstances a marquess,” Geraldine was saying. But her sister took her elbow and gave her a little tap—that, and the tilt of her head, no more, and Geraldine stopped talking and turned.
For there in the gardens, just beneath an awning covered with some creeping vine that had dropped most of its leaves for winter, stood the marquess himself.
Jane had never been particularly enamored of Bradenton, but she’d not thought he held any particular distaste for her. He was after all, too much enamored of himself to care about her. But Mr. Marshall had told her last night that the marquess wanted Jane humiliated and hurt.
Humiliated.
She felt a flush of fierce resentment at that. The marquess was watching her with cold, glittering eyes. She wanted to smack him, to let him know that he could not conquer her.
“Shall we greet him?” Geraldine said softly.
“No need,” Jane whispered. “He looks busy. We wouldn’t want to put him off with our forwardness.”
“Indeed,” Geraldine agreed, a little too swiftly. “Indeed, Miss Fairfield.”
“After all,” Genevieve said in too high a voice, “I should hate him to see me outside of my evening finery.”
“And in direct sun, no less. Oh my, he’ll see every flaw in my skin.”
They spoke swiftly atop each other, nodding the whole while. “Good,” Geraldine said, “it’s settled. Oh, da—drat, he’s seen us. He’s coming this way.”
“Jane,” Genevieve said urgently, “is my powder smudged? Tell me quickly.”
Jane peered into the other girl’s face. As usual, it was flawless. She didn’t even look as if she were wearing powder.
“Oh, nothing to worry about,” Jane told her merrily. “It’s only smudged a little here.” She indicated her right cheek.
Genevieve whipped out a handkerchief, but it was too late.
“Miss Johnson. Miss Genevieve,” Bradenton said. “How lovely to encounter you. And Miss Fairfield, too.”
If Jane had been caught with a handkerchief in her hand, she would have done something dreadful with it—like drop it, or shove it into a pocket, leaving an unshapely lump in her skirts.
Genevieve simply smiled and treated the folded square of linen as if it were a bouquet, a perfectly natural thing for her to be holding. She used it to add a little flourish to the perfectly executed curtsy she made.
“My lord,” she said in unison with her sister.
Jane came in a few moments later with a lopsided curtsy of her own. “Bradenton.”
The marquess gave Jane an annoyed glance at that familiarity. “As it turns out, ladies,” Bradenton said, “there’s a new plant in one of the greenhouses. I had thought to show Miss Fairfield.”
The two ladies looked at one another. “Of course,” Geraldine said. “We should love to see it above all things.”
“Ah, that’s the thing.” Bradenton shook his head sadly. “It’s delicate. Very delicate. We could not all crowd about it without risking its demise.”
What claptrap. What was the man getting at?
“I propose we all walk to the greenhouses,” Bradenton said, “and I will conduct Miss Fairfield inside. You’ll be able to see her through the glass—there will be no chance of impropriety—and I’ll be done in a matter of minutes.”
There was a pause—a longer, more reluctant pause. If Genevieve had set her sights on Bradenton, she was probably thinking murderously jealous thoughts at the moment. But if she aspired so high, she did not let it show. After a moment, the twins simply nodded.
“But of course, my lord,” Genevieve said.
“Whatever you say, my lord,” Geraldine told him.
The word greenhouse called to mind a single structure of glass. The greenhouses here were actually a complex of glassed-in buildings, jutting out like spikes from a central hallway. They were made of heavy brick mortared over in gray from the ground up to waist level. Above that point, windows made up the walls and ceilings. On some, the top windows were open a few inches. Jane could feel the warm air tickling her face as they passed. Bradenton walked along a side path before opening a door.
“We’ll just be a moment, ladies,” he said to the twins, before he ushered Jane inside.
She’d been in the greenhouses before. A main hallway stretched in front of her, with individual rooms connected off it, each with its separate temperature and humidity. The hallway itself was moist and heated; jungle vines flourished on the walls.
The specimens here were labeled in both Latin and English, and sometimes in letters and numbers that meant nothing to Jane. Some university botanist must be studying them, Jane supposed. Steel pipes made a quiet gurgling sound, hot water flowing through them, radiating warmth. Jane had dressed for the cold, and suddenly she was sweltering.
Geraldine probably wouldn’t have done anything so uncouth as sweat.
Bradenton bowed her into a room of clay pots and sand with a smile. Jane didn’t smile back. This was the man who wanted her hurt. Humiliated. Who was willing to trade a vote in Parliament to get that result.
“So, my lord,” Jane asked, “where is this exceedingly rare plant?”
He contemplated her. “I cannot make you out.”
“Whyever not?” Jane spun around, taking in the plants in the room. “You and I are so similar.” It was dry and hot; a big, square planter to the left contained rocks and sand and a number of squiggly misshapen green things. They’d have been swallowed up by the underbrush if they’d dared to grow in the Cambridge woods.
“Similar?”
“But of course.” Jane still refused to look at him. “We’re simple people. The sort that nobody would care about if circumstances were different. I’m elevated by my fortune. You’re elevated by your title.”
He made a sound of disbelief. “That’s why you spurned me? Because you think you’re my equal?” There was an ugly tone in his voice.
Her heart beat faster. She put him off because that was what she did. But perhaps she’d made a special effort with him. Others had talked and laughed about her, but after those first few weeks, he’d encouraged them. And he’d tried to pretend he didn’t.
“Spurn you?” she said with a laugh. “How could I have spurned you? You’ve never offered me anything to spurn.”
He made a noise. “No matter.”
“I can’t imagine why you’d offer,” Jane said. You’re a marquess. You don’t need…” She stopped, as if something had just occurred to her. “Oh.”
His eyes burned into hers, but Jane wasn’t going to let his glare stop her. She wanted him to feel a fraction of the pain he wished on her.
“You do need my money,” Jane said. “Don’t you?”
“Shut up.”
“Of course.” Jane kept her face a mask of solicitude. “I feel dreadfully for you. How embarrassing that must be. You write all the laws, you can’t lose your lands even by mismanagement, and yet with all those advantages, you can’t even fix the game to turn a profit on your own estates. Good heavens; that must take singular skill.”
He took another step toward her. “Shut up,” he said on a low growl.
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. You know I am the very soul of discretion.”
He made a strangled noise in his throat and took yet another
step toward her.
She’d gone too far. Twitting him was one thing; taunting another. She froze and looked up at the menace that had taken over his features. For all that the Johnson sisters were watching, there was nothing they could—quite possibly nothing they would—do to save her if he wanted to hurt her. She was effectively alone with the man, and he wished her ill. He wanted her to shut up.
It had never been one of her skills.
She smiled blindly at him, clinging to her pretense of ignorance. “I feel for you, Bradenton. Did you hear of me and imagine a poor, impressionable child, one who would be overwhelmed by your wit and charm? You must have been so disappointed. You imagined my dowry was yours, and then I laughed at you the first time you gave me a grandiose compliment.”
If anything, his eyes grew angrier. “You little bitch,” he whispered. “You’ve been doing it on purpose.”
“Doing what?” Jane held on to her smile as if it were the only thing shielding her from a dragon’s flames. “I haven’t been doing a thing except stating a few facts. Don’t you like facts, my lord?”
No. He didn’t. He took a final step toward her, and this time he raised his walking stick, clenched like a truncheon in his fist.
Her hands went cold. She really had gone too far.
She kept smiling. “You were going to show me a plant, my lord.”
He stopped, shook his head, as if remembering that they were in a greenhouse. That the walls were glass. That no matter what words had been exchanged, she was a lady—and if it got out that he’d struck her, his reputation would suffer.
He took a breath, and then another, and then yet another, until his countenance presented as smooth a lie as Jane’s.
“There.” He inverted his walking stick so that the curved head pointed to a clay pot filled with sand. “That is it.”
It was greenish-gray, an ugly mess of a plant. Fat snakes as thick as her thumb pointed up in a tangled knot, radiating sharp little needles.
“It reminds me of you, Miss Fairfield.” A trace of venom still carried on his voice.
No wonder.
“I quite like it,” Jane mused. “It seems a brave little thing in all that sand. Here, let’s find a plant for you, my lord. I know just the thing. I saw some sort of weed when first we came in.”
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