She straightened and waved at the lists. “Please. Any suggestion of how to deal with this would be welcome.” She paused, then said, “I’ve never had to order references for such a major work. Ordinary papers or lectures usually have only a handful of citations, and of course, usually the work is already fully written and in its final state.” As Callum rounded the table and drew up a chair beside hers, with her eyes on the lists, she shook her head. “In this case, quite aside from the sheer breadth of the work—and the correspondingly long list of references—Uncle Hildebrand is still working on his treatise. I’m sure he’ll add even more references, and that will throw out all my lists.”
“Indeed.” Callum studied the lists, then rearranged them. “Which is why, for major works such as this, it’s better all around to opt for a different way of noting references. Rather than using a numbered list—which as you say, will continually change until the very last minute and is unwieldy to adjust—it’s advisable to list references alphabetically.”
He picked up her pencil and amended the notations for the various references on one of the pages of the draft treatise, then showed Honor. “You note the references in the body of the treatise like that, then list the references alphabetically at the end. That way, when a late reference is added, you’re simply amending one entry in the body of the work and adding an entry to the reference list.”
She took the sheet and studied it. Her frown had lightened, but remained. Eventually, she met his eyes. “I’m not sure my uncle will accept references listed in such a way.”
Callum held her gaze. Then before caution could talk him out of it, he said, “Trust me—he won’t even notice.”
She blinked, twice, then, her frown deepening, she searched his face. “How can you know that?”
Surreptitiously, he dragged in a tense breath and, without shifting his gaze, confessed, “Because my full name is Callum Harris…Goodrich.”
Her eyes flared wide, and she sat back in the chair. “What?” One hand gripping the chair’s wooden arm, she leaned away from him as her gaze raked his face. Her expression—one of shock and confusion—made it plain she’d recognized the name.
His lungs constricted, and he rushed to say, “I don’t know what your uncle has told you, but he’s never allowed me to explain what I do, so whatever he has said is wrong—misinformed.”
“Indeed?” Her tone was cool.
Callum could see her retreating, see her putting up walls between them. Mentally gritting his teeth, he forced himself to face the issue that lay between them and address it—clearly, calmly, and directly. “Has he told you why I left my position as his assistant?”
After a second more of staring, she blinked. “I thought…” She paused, and her gaze grew distant, as if she was recalling some incident, then she refocused on him. “I was given to understand that he’d dismissed you.”
Slowly, deliberately, Callum shook his head. “I daresay he would have, after our argument, but I left—resigned my post—before he could.” He paused, then, lowering his gaze, quietly added, “So that’s the first inaccuracy in his account.”
Honor stared at the man who, even now, her senses told her she could trust. But…her uncle turned literally apoplectic at the mere mention of his erstwhile acolyte-cum-assistant. “Betrayer” was the most complimentary adjective her uncle had used for Callum Goodrich.
His lids rose, and he met her eyes again. His blue gaze remained steady and unwavering.
Her impulsive side prodded, and she settled in the chair. “Perhaps,” she challenged, “you should tell me your version of what happened between you and allow me to judge whose account is more believable.”
He studied her for an instant, then, somewhat to her surprise, nodded. “We fell out over a personal find—a bronze figurine, dating back to the Dark Ages and with connections to Stonehenge.” He paused, then said, “But to start at the beginning, I was your uncle’s assistant for more than two years. During that time, I accompanied him on several expeditions and digs, but the finds from those were either relatively minor or had already been claimed and disposal arranged by others, and we were invited merely to provide provenance. Through those excursions, I learned the accepted way of dealing with discovered antiquities—or at least the manner of dealing with them espoused by college academics such as your uncle.”
Honor suddenly found herself the recipient of a piercing look, then Callum asked, “Have you ever been with him in the field?”
She shook her head. “I know something about how academics such as my uncle go about finding antiquities—what such expeditions entail—but I know little about what happens to the antiquities afterward.”
“Nevertheless, you’ll have noticed the competitiveness between the various academic institutions involved in the study of antiquities—each institution, each college, wants to be able to say they have this ancient bowl or sword or statue.”
“That, I have seen.”
His lips tightened. “To a large extent, that compulsion is what lies at the heart of what transpired between me and Webster—the source of our falling-out. Anything he finds, he claims for the college—for Brentmore. What that means is that the antiquity, whatever it is, disappears into the college’s vaults and is only made available to professors and students of the college for study. Others can gain access only at the master’s whim, and gaining such permission is a rare occurrence. That process of acquisition and sequestration is how each college specializing in ancient history builds its reputation and its antiquarian assets.”
He paused, then went on, “Webster and I share an interest in the same periods of history—that’s why I became his student, then his assistant. During one term break, I took leave from my position—a holiday—to pursue a rumor of a site on Salisbury Plain, not far from Stonehenge. There are always rumors about this or that, but I thought this one worth investigating. It was my first solo excursion—it hardly warranted the term ‘expedition’—and I funded it purely from my own savings.” His lips twisted wryly. “The costs weren’t large—it was just me and a shovel.”
She watched as his expression altered, enthusiasm seeping in along with his memories.
“The long and the short of it was that I unearthed an early bronze figurine. The style suggested it was very old, and the location was close enough to Stonehenge to support an association.” He paused, then, enthusiasm fading, he firmed his chin and went on, “I took the figurine back to Oxford and showed your uncle. He was as excited as I. Of course, he assumed I would hand it to the college—to Brentmore—for the college’s greater glory. However, I’d stopped in London on my way back and talked to several curators I by then knew at the British Museum—and back in Oxford, I also spoke with those at the Ashmolean. Some were contemporaries of mine, and through them, I’d learned that one outcome of the colleges’ policies of keeping all finds to themselves was that the museums were starved of exhibits. In many instances, even though the curators heard of finds through academic channels, they were unable—effectively barred—from even setting eyes on the treasures the colleges had claimed.”
Honor saw a new, stronger, harder flame ignite in Callum’s eyes.
“I felt that was wrong.” His tone had grown more definite, more incisive. “If the role of academics is to search out, find, and accumulate knowledge, then the reason for doing so and for acquiring artifacts in furtherance of that surely should be to share our knowledge—and those artifacts—with the wider public, not to sequester all away for our own use, for our own edification alone.” He caught her gaze; she felt as if he was willing her to understand. “I didn’t want the figurine I’d found to disappear into the vaults of Brentmore College, never to be seen by anyone but the college’s own professors and students.”
He paused, then said, “In law, the figurine was mine to do with as I pleased—so I had to make a decision, a decision that was mine to make.” Boldly, he asked, “Can you understand my position?”
She could, but n
one of what he had said aligned well with what her uncle had given as the principal cause of the rift between them. Regardless, she nodded. “I can understand the ideas, the motives, that drove you, but what did you actually do?”
That was the nub of her uncle’s complaints—the wellspring of his rabid fury against Callum Goodrich.
His lips twisted in a bleak smile. “I talked to my friends, the curators, and learned that, even though they wanted to acquire the figurine for their museums, they couldn’t afford the outlay to display it—not on the floors open to the public. Displaying objects means cases and time and care, and that means money from their budgets, money they don’t have.” He paused, then went on, “My family is an old one, long-established within the ton. Given my interests, I knew of several lords with money to burn who were keen to acquire antiquities for their collections, so I approached them.”
Callum’s features hardened. “If I had wanted to, I could have sold the figurine to one of them and pocketed a small fortune.”
Honor nodded. “So you did.” She made it a statement and didn’t try to keep the disdain from her voice; her uncle had informed her—several times—that Callum Goodrich had, indeed, sold that find and all others he’d subsequently stumbled upon to wealthy collectors for his own gain. That was the crux of her uncle’s accusations; in his eyes, his protégé had betrayed his cause.
“No.” Callum’s eyes locked with hers, the single-word reply absolute and resonating with simple honesty. “I sold the figurine to a collector, but I didn’t pocket the fortune, and the curators at the British Museum got everything they wished for—the figurine and the money to display it.”
Confused, she frowned. “I don’t understand.”
He huffed and muttered, “Nor does Webster.” After a second, he went on, “I didn’t simply sell the figurine. Instead, I recognized that most collectors—not all, I grant you, but most—want the world to know of their collection. Those collectors aren’t interested in hiding their acquisitions away, keeping the pieces solely for themselves to enjoy—most such collectors are admirers of the art of artifacts, rather than being scholars. Many of the aristocratic collectors are keen to build their fame in their chosen fields—to have their names publicly associated with specific artifacts. In short, such collectors want to accrue status—public status—through their funding of expeditions and the public display of the fruits of those endeavors. They want to be seen to be great benefactors in their chosen fields.”
She continued to frown, but nodded at him to go on; she knew enough of human nature and the wealthy to accept his argument thus far.
He drew breath, then said, “So with the figurine, I arranged a contract of sale—one between me and the most appropriate collector, who happened to be Lord Devon—and as part of that contract, his lordship agreed to gift the figurine to the British Museum, while I agreed to give eighty percent of the sale price to the museum to cover the costs of displaying the figurine appropriately in their public halls.” He paused, then said, “Everyone got what they wanted. The figurine is in a case in the museum for everyone to see, and it bears a plaque honoring Lord Devon’s gift to the nation. I, in turn, retained twenty percent of the money Devon paid—that kept me going and financed my next expedition.”
Honor stared at Callum as she sorted through the implications of all he’d said.
He tilted his head and, his gaze steady on her face, added, “Sometimes, the artifact is given as a gift, as was the case with the figurine, and sometimes it’s given as a permanent loan from the collector’s estate, but either way, the artifact goes permanently on public display. Over the past four years, I’ve made quite a successful life as a finder of artifacts—and the museums of the country have benefited greatly from my activities.”
Everything he’d told her could be checked and verified. She held his gaze. “I assume that, were I to ask the curators at the Ashmolean, they would sing your praises.”
A grin tweaked his lips. “They would—before attempting to extract from you news of what I’m currently pursuing.” He paused, then with a faintly affectionate look, confided, “I never tell them what trail I’m following—they tend to get overexcited.”
Her mind racing, she drew in a breath, then said, “I have several questions.”
He inclined his head, inviting her to ask them.
“First, why does my uncle believe the worst of you?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why haven’t you explained what you do to him—exactly as you have to me…”
Her words trailed off as she realized the answer, even before Callum’s features grew rigid, and he said, “I’ve tried. On several occasions. But the first time, over the figurine, as soon as I mentioned the word ‘sold,’ he erupted, and ever since, the instant he sets eyes on me, he slams the door in my face.”
She bit her lip. She was well acquainted with her uncle’s propensity for leaping to conclusions and, as Callum had put it, erupting. Hildebrand Webster had lived too long alone, working largely alone; he’d never been forced to learn how to control his temper.
“I tried to explain in a letter,” Callum said, “but it was returned unopened.” He stared at her for a second, then went on, “As a matter of fact, hoping—again—to explain matters to him was what brought me here. I was on my way home for Christmas and stopped in at Oxford to speak to the Ashmolean curators about the current state of their displays—what period of artifacts they feel they’re currently most in need of. I recently obtained a Grecian vase for the British Museum, and I try to more or less equally assist both museums to grow their respective collections.”
He paused, then continued, “Before I left Oxford, I thought to try again to clear the air—it was nearly Christmas, after all. Nearly the end of another year. I called at Webster’s house in the faint hope that he might—by now—have calmed enough to hear me out. To listen to the complete explanation of what I do—how I operate—but he and you had already left.”
“You followed us here?”
He met her gaze and, after a second, admitted, “Mrs. Hinkley told me he’d left in a rush, and she had the address. Little Moseley. I knew the only reason he would up and leave like that, especially in this season, was that he’d learned of some potential find.”
She tipped her head. “That answers my second question—how it was you turned up here.” She studied his eyes; his expression remained steady, open, without guile. “My third question is: What now?”
Confusion darkened his eyes, and she elaborated, “If you—aided by the others—succeed in finding the source of the three Roman coins, this hoard you’ve been seeking, what then? Will you claim it and”—she waved a hand—“make one of your arrangements with a collector and a museum?”
He studied her, then admitted, “That would be my intention, but as the professor is here and was instrumental in leading me to Little Moseley, then I would hope to…reach some accommodation.”
She frowned. “Accommodation?”
He sighed. “Legally, if I find the hoard and it’s on Crown land, it will be mine to do with as I wish. If Webster finds it first, it will be his. But regardless of who lays hands on it first, I would hope he would be amenable to discussing some reasonable division of the find.”
“So some to go to Brentmore and some to be sold to…?”
“Some collector who will gift the items to…” He paused, considering, then said, “For Roman coins or artifacts, I would prefer to direct the find to the Ashmolean.”
Honor studied him. Everything he’d said sounded oh-so-plausible. Indeed, it all sounded honorable and…forward-thinking, something she knew her uncle wasn’t. Yet…
After a second, finding no delicate way of framing it, she said, “You deliberately duped me by giving me a false name.”
His features tightened. “I didn’t set out with the intention to deceive anyone, but by the time we met in Mountjoy’s Store, I’d already encountered the children. Knowing Webster was in the village, I told the three th
at I was Harris, and from them, I learned about the coins and that you were Webster’s niece and that he was stuck in the cottage, writing. No one with experience was overseeing the search, and there seemed no other way for me to remain in the village and direct the search other than by concealing my identity. And finding the source of the coins—establishing a new site of Roman occupation—is important in many ways, and arguably more important to me, given the stage of my career, than to Webster.” He paused, then, his gaze steady on her eyes, continued, “Initially, I could see no reason not to hide who I was. I wasn’t hurting anyone by doing so.”
She searched his eyes, his face, trying to read what lay behind his words, especially the last two sentences; they implied that something had changed. She thought back over all their exchanges. “Just now”—she waved at her lists—“you deliberately engineered a situation that led me to ask a question that brought on your…confession.” She held his gaze. “Why?” When he didn’t immediately reply, she added, “You didn’t have to tell me who you really are.”
For a long moment, she sensed he wrestled with some revelation, then he sighed, closed his eyes briefly, opened them, and said, “There are two parts to my answer. First, since I met you in Mountjoy’s, the situation between us has changed—at least from my perspective. I’ve come to know you, and even though our association has been brief, I’ve learned enough to realize that you are the sort of lady whose thoughts and opinions I value.” He paused as if replaying his words, then continued, “In short, I’ve come to value you—too highly to go on deceiving you.”
She blinked, then stared at him, scrutinizing his handsome face.
What did he mean by valuing her, let alone that the situation between them had changed? Changed how? In what way?
In turn, he searched her face, then, once again, briefly closed his eyes—as if seeking strength. When he opened his eyes again and fixed them determinedly on her face, she sensed that whatever he was about to tell her was the part of his confession that bothered him most.
Lady Osbaldestone’s Plum Puddings: Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Chronicles Volume 3 Page 17