Page 9 of The Scholar’s Spy

“How nice.” Any small curiosity from Judith vanished and she looked down at the ledgers she held, before adjusting them on her hip. She was obviously going through the family finances trying to answer their mother’s letter and request for additional funds.

“I will be spending a great deal of time supporting on digs with him,” Abigail said in a great rush. She did need her sister’s permission per se, but it felt better to be as above board as she could manage in case Judith attempted to catch her out later in the conversation.

“But—”

“He has offered to pay me for my time,” Abigail added. If only her family could see the value in her work—for society and for Lyme itself, not to mention the wider good it did, but since money was all that counted, she might as well have that out first. If Judith knew about the money, a wage in short, then presumably all reservations or objections would be done away with. It was hard enough for them to make money as women, but this at least might tide them over.

“There will be talk,” Judith said, coming forward. Abigail saw that her sister looked a little pinched around the edges of her eyes and mouth, rather like she had sucked on a lemon. “You know how the Olwens will carry on. If they get wind of it, then so will the Hamptons and Miss Guthrie, which means so will Mother.”

“No one minds when you are out on your own.” It was hard not to sound churlish as Abigail spoke, but when would she be able to conduct herself as she saw fit, regardless of what society might say?

“That is because I am acting on behalf of the family.” Judith’s tone was wary, and she sighed heavily as she spoke. “The town’s gossips know all too well, as does dear Mother, that there is nothing scandalous about going to the lawyers and managing Father’s affairs, which is all I ever seem to do nowadays.”

“Selling off all of Father’s belongings,” Abigail corrected sullenly. All of those beautiful bound editions sold to a collector. The framed maps. The atlas that he had brought back from Oxford, which had been the inspiration for a great many adventures shared between the two of them. All gone. Because that was what Judith had done, emptied every darling thing that Mr. Fossey had collected over the years, and sold it off, leaving only his monocle and a torn scarf as a way of remembering the old dear man. They had only been kept because they had no monetary value, of that Abigail was sure. It felt close to sacrilege in her mind. If Abigail had been in charge, they would have kept Mr. Fossey’s study precisely as he left it, and Sophia could have skipped her handful of seasons in Bath.

“There is no need to frown at me in such a manner,” Judith said, her tone a little impatient. “Surely you don’t wish Mother to return and offer to chaperone you? That is precisely what will happen if she gets wind of what you’re planning.”

“I will hire a companion,” Abigail lied. She had no intention of doing so, as it would waste too much time. “Or I suppose Mr. O’Sullivan will. He mentioned it, as I am sure he does not want his own reputation damaged either. He is a gentleman, so I am sure he knows all about propriety.”

Judith’s eyebrows quirked, an unusual movement. Despite knowing her sister for as long as she had been alive, Abigail still did not understand what it meant.

“Well.” Judith sounded mollified by this concession, turned back toward the kitchen. “That is something. No wearing Father’s old breeches, though.”

It was far easier to move in breeches, but if she had to have one concession to societal rules, Abigail thought this was not too bad. Of the strictures that could have been imposed, this was one of the milder ones. Besides, in the midst of a dig, Abigail would often hike up her skirts to move more easily, which meant she was mainly in her drawers, making it a lot cooler than breeches. Yet she thought it better not to make mention of this to Judith.

“Where do you think you will be taking your Mr. O’Sullivan?”

“He is not mine.” Abigail could not help the flush of anger that reared its head, suddenly on the defensive.

“No, of course not.” Judith sounded far too calm as she turned down the steps which would lead into the kitchen.

Following her, Abigail grabbed up Milton and walked after Judith.

“I won’t have any sort of gossip that might…I wouldn’t…I don’t want people to think I have set my cap at him.”

Judith paused and looked back over her shoulder. “No.” For the first time, she looked genuinely interested in Abigail. Slowly, she placed the ledgers down on the great wooden table that occupied the kitchen and studied most carefully. “You must think because I was frustrated with Mother’s letter…Did he say anything untoward—”

“No.” She had spoken too quickly, because Judith’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Abigail hated how well her eldest sister could read her, and how poorly she was able to match Judith’s ability.

“If he tries to touch you, or have you touch him—” Judith said.

“I wouldn’t,” Abigail said.

“You don’t know that. You’ve only just met him,” Judith said. “It is better to begin with a low opinion and then be pleasantly surprised by an outcome than to go in expecting the best and be disappointed.”

“You would never say as much to Sophia.”

“No,” Judith snapped, “And look how well that has gone for her. Optimism is a fool’s narrative, and no one would ever take you for a fool.”

“Neither of us.” It was nice, a pleasing refrain to think that they two shared a similarity, beyond their dark hair and stubborn dispositions.

“I suppose that is why we shall make such excellent spinsters.”

“Or companions for Mother in her dotage.”

Judith laughed at this. “I rather thought it was you and I who would be companions for each other. We might take the liberty of sending Mother to live with Sophia and whoever she weds, or perhaps Mrs. Fossey might prefer to go to London with our Aunt Charlotte. Either way, when this place is sold up, I thought perhaps we could take a smaller lodgings somewhere—”

“You mean to sell our home?” Judith’s ease made Abigail ask her angry question. Milton seemed annoyed by her raised voice and hurried into the corner of the room to find his cushion.