‘They do not need to know you are a woman. We can give you a male pseudonym or just use your first initials rather than your Christian name to muddy the waters. There are ways around these things.’
These things being all the same ludicrous things the idiots at the society used to obstruct her at every turn. ‘I think it should say Euphemia Nithercott and be damned!’ Without thinking Max slapped the table so hard the crockery rattled, which garnered another swift knowing look from his sister to her husband. ‘It’s Effie’s work and she should get all the credit.’ She almost smiled at him.
‘Thank you, Max.’
‘She should—but I am a realist.’ He was going to strangle his brother-in-law. ‘Even if we could find a publisher who would use Effie’s name, the general public will not buy a serious history book written by a woman. And the academic establishment will be up in arms. It would be a bit different if she were writing fiction. That market is much more forgiving of female authors—for the right sorts of books, of course.’
Oblivious of the damage he had just done to Effie’s dreams, Adam hammered one final nail into the coffin. ‘Or you could publish the work in your father’s name. An academic of his gravitas would guarantee it was taken seriously for sure and doubtless it would fly off the shelves.’ He patted her hand and Max found himself fuming at the gesture. Not out of jealousy, but sheer outrage because despite being well meant—Adam Baxter did not have a mean bone in his body—it was both paternalistic and patronising while completely diminishing all that she was. ‘We’ll find a way around it, Effie, I promise. But first you need to write the thing.’
‘I suppose...’ Her usually animated eyes and tone were flat and Max’s heart broke for her. How demoralising must it be to hit barricade after barricade on your quest to move a single step forward? How galling must it be to be continually put in your place by men who possessed less than a quarter of Effie’s intellect? He had never been so ashamed of being a man in his entire life.
‘I think it’s time we left the ladies for our port, don’t you, Max?’
This was the absolute last thing he wanted to do when all the light had dimmed in Effie’s eyes and he finally understood with perfect clarity what she had meant when she had said he had numerous choices and she had so few. The world was made for men and brutally unfair to a woman as brilliant as her. ‘Perhaps we should stay with the ladies tonight?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Eleanor’s eyes were dancing. ‘We have urgent gossip which must be shared and dissected. Isn’t that right, Effie?’
A statement which caused her to visibly pale. But as trapped as he was, she, too, stood and trailed after his sister and Adam’s mother like a condemned prisoner on the way to the gallows.
The two parties split at the door and he decided it was telling she did not look back. Before he and Adam turned the corner to his study, he heard Effie’s voice in the distance. ‘I shan’t be a minute. I need to visit the...’
‘Yes, of course.’ Eleanor this time. ‘Sherry or cordial, Effie?’
‘Sherry, please.’
Then silence. A silence Max couldn’t afford to ignore. He hastened Adam into the room and pointed him in the direction of the port decanter, then briefly excused himself to answer the call of nature, determined to clear the air and tell her he, too, would march outside the offices of the blasted narrow-minded antiquarians because their dismissive treatment of her was entirely unacceptable.
He was prowling in the hallway when Effie reappeared and instantly blushed crimson. ‘Ah...’ Her eyes dipped to the hands which had suddenly clenched in front of her, so tightly her knuckles were white. ‘I hoped you would hang back... We need to talk... Urgently as a matter of fact... There is something important I have been meaning to tell you all evening... You see, the thing is, I might have inadvertently...’
‘I know. And you really do not need to worry.’ He waved away whatever damning words she was about to utter. Rejection was always best handled with indifference. Largely because his foolish pride couldn’t handle outright rejection. It was bad enough from everyone else—painful in the extreme, in fact—but hers had the power to seriously wound and he wasn’t entirely sure his battered heart was up to that.
She seemed relieved. ‘You know?’
‘It was inevitable...’ He smiled. Nonplussed. Or as nonplussed as he could smile when his throat had constricted with pain. ‘Wasn’t it?’ The masochist in him willed her to deny it.
‘It was a moment of madness.’
‘It was.’ Max shrugged. Hoped he appeared blasé and unbothered. ‘I shan’t hold it against you.’
‘Oh, thank goodness!’ Her breath came out in a whoosh. She was obviously and unflatteringly relieved. Like receiving a last-minute pardon while the executioner was sharpening his axe type relieved. His heart shrivelled, then wept at the sight. ‘I’ve been so worried about telling you. I was certain you wouldn’t take it well... I am not entirely sure what I was thinking, but at the time... Well, clearly I wasn’t thinking and acted on impulse rather than giving the matter serious thought...’ Each word slashed like a blade, but he kept his expression light. Something which took every bit of his strength to accomplish. ‘As you say, a moment of frustrated madness...’
‘It was just an exuberant display of excitement borne in the heat of the moment, Effie. Perfectly understandable after we had just unearthed that magnificent shield. I have never found anything before and now I understand what you see in it. Digging up treasure is a heady feeling. A heady feeling indeed...’ He was in danger of laying it on a bit thick. ‘Let us blame the shield for our stupidity.’
‘The shield?’ She blinked and her cheeks heated some more. ‘Stupidity? Are you referring to the kiss?’
‘It was hardly a kiss, Effie. More a bumping of faces in the tight confines of the trench. And quite obviously a big mistake.’
‘A mistake?’
‘Are you going to repeat everything I say now?’ He attempted a playful smile which physically hurt to keep glued in place while he waved the perfect kiss away with a dismissive flick of his suddenly lead-like hand. ‘It’s best forgotten, Effie. In fact, if you hadn’t brought it up, I probably would have forgotten all about it already—what with all the excitement of unearthing actual buried treasure and all...’ Something about her expression bothered him, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. Because nerves were getting the better of him, he ploughed on regardless, mindful he was babbling like a country maiden attending her first ball at Almack’s, desperate to convince her he was perfectly nonchalant with her obvious bitter regret and disgust. ‘It’s funny really when you think about it.’
‘Think about what?’
‘Me and you.’ The feigned laughter sounded pathetically hollow to his own ears, so he sincerely doubted she was even slightly convinced by it, but he persevered. Wishing he were dead. ‘A hilarious joke...’ Except he wanted to cry it was all so tragic.
‘It is?’ Her expression was now as bland as the cream plaster wall behind her and he really could not read her. Awkwardness and hurt turned to uneasiness and abject humiliation, making him want to howl at the moon rather than stand in front of her denying all the feelings he could no longer deny to himself.
‘Well, of course it is. We are friends, Effie. Nothing more and nor could we be, thank goodness.’ Talking hurt. Swallowing was impossible thanks to the crushed glass which had suddenly materialised in his throat. His palms felt clammy and he wanted to run. ‘The fact we are friends is bizarre enough, don’t you think? What with you being the bane of my life and all...’
‘The bane.’
‘In a good way.’ The ground felt unsteady under his feet as he realised, too late, he had made a hash of things. Somewhere between blaming the excitement of the shield and perhaps a wee bit before he had called her a bane out loud, he had grievously insulted her. She made no attempt to mask the upset on
her lovely face.
‘Can banes ever be good?’
‘In your case, exceedingly.’ He knew he had to fix it, but had no earthly idea how without telling her that he cared. For her. A great deal. ‘Not every man can boast a bane quite like you, Effie.’ Without the benefit of either a trowel or a shovel he was apparently digging the largest hole he had attempted in a fortnight. A deep, cavernous pit which was taking him straight to hell. ‘You are unique.’
‘Unique?’
‘Yes—different. Totally unlike any other person I have ever met before, nor likely will ever meet again...’ He paused before the truth tumbled out, before he confessed he found her attractive in every sense of the word—mind, body and soul—but she misconstrued his silence completely and instinctively backed away as if he just slapped her.
‘An oddity, then.’ There was no misinterpreting her expression now. She was angry. Two chocolate eyes glared back at him stormy.
‘Not in a bad way.’ Five pathetic and lacklustre words which he would have chiselled on his gravestone as penance after she murdered him for them. ‘Not so much an oddity in the odd sense, more odd that you are so...’ Maddening, lovely, entertaining, necessary, entirely perfect from your magnificent big brain to your mismatched earrings. ‘Errr...uniquely you.’
‘If you will excuse me, Max, your sister is expecting me.’
He caught her arm as she barged past and she stared at his hand as though it were a snake. ‘I am not articulating myself very well, Effie. You see, the thing is...’ Perhaps the best solution was to simply start all over again from the beginning, leaving out all the bits which might let her know he had fallen for her hard. ‘What I meant to say was...’
She tugged her arm away and peered at him down her nose. ‘I understood your initial statement perfectly, Max. Without the need for all your inappropriately descriptive clarification. Like everyone else you see my big brain first and not the woman! And there I was thinking you were different from everyone else!’ Then she stalked off towards the drawing room, leaving him standing there wondering how he had managed to make a bad situation so much worse without even trying.
Chapter Sixteen
Dig Day 801: it is still raining. Thank God!
‘Is everything quite all right, Miss Effie? Only you don’t seem yourself.’
Mrs Farley placed another cup of tea on the desk alongside a slice of fruitcake. Fruitcake which instantly reminded her of him. Dratted man. ‘The rain is getting me down. It has barely stopped in a week and I am eager to get back to the dig site.’
A big fat lie.
For the first time since she had seriously picked up the trowel after Rupert’s death, Effie was actively avoiding the ruined Abbey. Or rather she was actively avoiding a certain irritating gentleman who technically owned it and wasn’t in any hurry to reacquaint herself with him after he had kissed her senseless and then likened it to a mere bumping of faces in a confined space, before calling her the bane of his life and reminding her she was peculiar.
It was entirely his fault she had been staring out of the rain-soaked window feeling sorry for herself all day rather than finishing the detailed sketch of the Celtic spearhead lying in front of her. The sketch she had promised herself she would finish today to add to the expanded paper she was writing, which doubtless nobody would read anyway so what was the point? Thanks to Max, everything felt futile and her thoughts were sending her mad, largely because they all revolved around him in some way.
She hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything except Max.
In her pocket his lacklustre note of apology seemed to burn against her thigh, reminding her she was a fool. She did not need to read it for the six-hundredth time to know exactly what it said or feel aggrieved at the dull and impersonal prose. Prose which read more like a list than a heartfelt apology, the penmanship atrocious and all in all it only served to rub more salt in an already painful wound.
Dearest Effie
I am sorry I offended you.
I made a hash of things.
Please allow me to clarify so we may clear the air.
Max
Clarify! When he had been insultingly quite clear enough! And as to making a hash of things, she wanted to shake him by his annoyingly broad shoulders and scream that he had made more than a hash! He’d run roughshod all over her feelings, behaved exactly like everyone else, when she had convinced herself he was different and, if the constant dull pain behind her ribs was any indication, he had also broken her heart and certainly wounded her spirit.
Her own stupid fault, she supposed, when she knew his predicable and unoriginal reaction was bound to come eventually. If only he hadn’t kissed her, then perhaps she wouldn’t feel so awkward about things. It was hard to brazen it out and behave as if it was no matter when she had clung to him like a limpet, thrust her body against him like a wanton and kissed him back as if her life depended on it.
Which in those scant, reckless and significant moments it had.
On top of being a thoughtless and huge disappointment rather than the man she had stupidly convinced herself he was, Max was also the best kisser she had ever had the misfortune to bump faces against.
Effie was furious at him. And furious at herself for allowing the instinctual female part of herself to make a complete fool of her again, when she had long worked out that books and digging were better than men and she had made herself perfectly comfortable on her dusty shelf after her last hope of leaving it died with poor Rupert on a battlefield across the sea. Damn Max for giving her false hope!
Frustrated, she snatched up the rusty spearhead and stabbed it in the cake, then sprung out of her chair to pace. Pacing had become her only source of exercise these past few days thanks to both the weather and her cowardice. In the gaps between the showers, she convinced herself to go out and then talked herself out of it each time in case she encountered him. She had refused every single one of Eleanor’s invitations to visit Rivenhall, too, citing the paper she was eager to write and pathetically using the weather as the perfect excuse to get it finished without distraction. And when Eleanor had called upon her yesterday to see how she was getting on, Effie had lied and said the words were flowing and perhaps they would become a book after all and then feigned uninterested nonchalance whenever the other woman had dragged the name Max into the conversation. Which she had tried to do with alarming frequency.
Although she had hinted he was miserable, too, although she had no idea why, but suspected it was something to do with what Eleanor called their tiff and that knowledge had made Effie feel slightly better. He deserved to suffer. The thought of him blithely carrying on oblivious when she felt absolutely wretched seriously galled. She was glad he realised he was in purgatory, because she was quite determined to make him stay there. They weren’t friends any more as far as she was concerned and, as he had plainly stated, there was no chance of them ever being anything more than friends, ergo they were now nothing to one another beyond acquaintances. She would maintain a cordial and polite distance because she still needed to dig on his land. But on principle she would refuse any and all assistance from him in the future because she didn’t want to be within ten miles of the dratted man—let alone ten feet.
Once she stopped avoiding him and the ruins like the plague, of course, because she still wasn’t the least bit ready to have to face him.
Mrs Farley poked her head around the door. ‘You have a caller, miss. From the big house. Shall I show him in?’
‘Him?’
‘I didn’t ask his name. But he’s big and brooding and soaking wet.’
Effie’s stomach plummeted to her toes. ‘Tell him I am indisposed, Mrs Farley.’ What was good for the goose was good for the gander after all. And she wasn’t ready. Might never be ready if her bouncing nerves and aching heart were any gauge.
‘Tell her I will wait, Mrs Farley!’ The deep
voice came from the room beyond. ‘Until Miss Nom de Plume is disposed.’
Nom de Plume! Oh, dear...
Max’s dark, dripping head appeared over the housekeeper’s shoulders, an opened letter scrunched in his raised hand and his expression as stormy as the sky outside. ‘And then tell her I intend to wring her manipulative, duplicitous, libellous neck!’
‘I can explain...’
‘Explain what? That you wrote to the Society of Antiquaries pretending to be me? That you submitted a scholarly paper without my knowledge which they are about to publish in my name?’ As Mrs Farley reversed in subtle retreat, he stalked in and tossed the letter on her desk.
‘Or that you invited them to come to my house, Effie! At their earliest convenience no less! To join me at the dig!’ Then she saw more than anger in his eyes. She saw fear. ‘I can’t have people in my house, Effie. Strangers... How could you? I am not...’ As if he realised he was showing her so much more of himself than he intended, his expression hardened once more. ‘I am not having it!’
As angry as she was with him, she wanted to hold him and comfort him. The fear was all to do with his scars. All to do with the wicked Miranda’s rejection. She was certain, but knew he would never admit that. ‘I am sorry, Max... I didn’t think.’
‘You are damn right you didn’t think!’ He tapped the folded letter hard with one blunt-tipped finger. ‘It’s about to go to press, Effie! They were so excited by my amazing discoveries, they wanted to rush it into this quarter’s Archaeologia with all haste so the entire antiquarian community can learn from my work!’ His fists clenched as he began to pace, prowling her small study like a caged tiger about to pounce. ‘What if they all decide to come on the back of it? A pilgrimage of complete strangers, lining up at my door... All ready to stare and gawp!’
More proof that it was the way he looked which lay at the heart of his self-imposed isolation.
‘I really am going to have to build that blasted wall, aren’t I? And get dogs.’ He looked so lost. So desolate as he paced, she instinctively went to him and grabbed his hand to anchor him to one spot long enough that she might be able to penetrate his own destructive thoughts obviously whirling in his complicated head.
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