Wallace Selby the other day. Are you making a start at it, Mallet?”
“No energy for it, Dunning. Not yet.” She could see that he played with his food. Merciful heavens! His hands are shaking. Why on earth did he come if he is ill?
Andrew looked up and caught her gaze. “What conclusions did you come to regarding Socrates?”
Socrates got them through the fish course, and Emma , the most recent work by the anonymous author of Pride and Prejudice got them through the cheese. Dunning’s opinions regarding the lady author surprised Georgiana. He didn’t dismiss her. He thought the bite of her satire quite sharp.
“I agree, Mr. Dunning, but the conclusions are a bit too tidy, don’t you agree?” Georgiana found that the happy conclusions of each of the woman’s books left her disappointed with her own fate. They depressed her.
“Lady Georgiana, never say you are unromantic!”
“One might wish for such a conclusion, Mr. Dunning, but in real life it is rarely so, don’t you agree?” Her words were for Dunning, but her eyes were on Andrew.
He didn’t look back. He responded directly to Dunning in his deep, rich voice. “Lady Georgiana is correct to a point, Geoff. One rarely gets what one wants in life. Duty, honor, responsibility to one’s parents, one’s station in life all stand in the way.” Georgiana wished he hadn’t been so quick to agree.
“Quite the point of the lady’s works, I think. Passion leads her lesser characters astray, but the admirable ones, motivated by logic and duty, win happiness in the end. It is often their reward. She is an admirable author,” Dunning insisted.
“As I said, Mr. Dunning, life isn’t that tidy.”
“Utter poppycock!” Mrs. Potter drew all eyes with her vehement outburst. “I enjoyed fifty-six happy years with my Jonah in spite of family displeasure at the beginning. We found a way.”
Andrew smiled, sad-eyed. “Life isn’t always that simple.”
“Who said my life was simple, young man?” The old woman waved a hand, and a light pudding appeared on the table.
“Georgiana, about your work—” the old woman began. Mrs. Potter’s determination to recruit Andrew in Georgiana’s service pushed ahead of Georgiana’s own.
“What of it, Mrs. Potter?”
“Can you describe it for these gentlemen?”
Georgiana felt shy in Dunning’s presence. She couldn’t afford to let the opportunity pass, however. The work was what mattered.
“It is a work of translation.” Dunning looked uncomfortable and distant; Andrew concentrated on his pudding. She wished he would eat it rather than stir it. He needed to eat. “I have collected fragments of poetry, written in Greek, from the classical era.”
“Which poems, Lady Georgiana?” Dunning’s well-mannered question was forced. Any polite interest would evaporate when dinner was done.
“Those by women.”
“Really? There can’t be very many.” The idea genuinely stunned Dunning.
“You would be surprised, sir.” Her words were for her hostess’s grandson, but she continued to watch Andrew, who had given up pretense of eating. He held his hands flat on the table as if to still them.
“But where are they, I mean to say, how do you find and collect them?” Dunning’s bafflement irritated her.
“They hide in plain sight. They can be found in anthologies. They are quoted in larger works by men. Most are fragmentary, but they are very much there. I believe their contemporaries, or more likely men who came after, didn’t treat their work well.”
A frown creased Dunning’s forehead. “But they can’t be of great importance if they haven’t been studied.”
“That is exactly why I wish to do so!” Georgiana’s temper rose.
The sound of cutlery hitting the floor interrupted them. Andrew lurched forward and knocked his spoon and knife off the table.
Mrs. Potter leapt into action, cleared space, and located a coverlet to put over him. She brought water for him to drink and urged him to
“No energy for it, Dunning. Not yet.” She could see that he played with his food. Merciful heavens! His hands are shaking. Why on earth did he come if he is ill?
Andrew looked up and caught her gaze. “What conclusions did you come to regarding Socrates?”
Socrates got them through the fish course, and Emma , the most recent work by the anonymous author of Pride and Prejudice got them through the cheese. Dunning’s opinions regarding the lady author surprised Georgiana. He didn’t dismiss her. He thought the bite of her satire quite sharp.
“I agree, Mr. Dunning, but the conclusions are a bit too tidy, don’t you agree?” Georgiana found that the happy conclusions of each of the woman’s books left her disappointed with her own fate. They depressed her.
“Lady Georgiana, never say you are unromantic!”
“One might wish for such a conclusion, Mr. Dunning, but in real life it is rarely so, don’t you agree?” Her words were for Dunning, but her eyes were on Andrew.
He didn’t look back. He responded directly to Dunning in his deep, rich voice. “Lady Georgiana is correct to a point, Geoff. One rarely gets what one wants in life. Duty, honor, responsibility to one’s parents, one’s station in life all stand in the way.” Georgiana wished he hadn’t been so quick to agree.
“Quite the point of the lady’s works, I think. Passion leads her lesser characters astray, but the admirable ones, motivated by logic and duty, win happiness in the end. It is often their reward. She is an admirable author,” Dunning insisted.
“As I said, Mr. Dunning, life isn’t that tidy.”
“Utter poppycock!” Mrs. Potter drew all eyes with her vehement outburst. “I enjoyed fifty-six happy years with my Jonah in spite of family displeasure at the beginning. We found a way.”
Andrew smiled, sad-eyed. “Life isn’t always that simple.”
“Who said my life was simple, young man?” The old woman waved a hand, and a light pudding appeared on the table.
“Georgiana, about your work—” the old woman began. Mrs. Potter’s determination to recruit Andrew in Georgiana’s service pushed ahead of Georgiana’s own.
“What of it, Mrs. Potter?”
“Can you describe it for these gentlemen?”
Georgiana felt shy in Dunning’s presence. She couldn’t afford to let the opportunity pass, however. The work was what mattered.
“It is a work of translation.” Dunning looked uncomfortable and distant; Andrew concentrated on his pudding. She wished he would eat it rather than stir it. He needed to eat. “I have collected fragments of poetry, written in Greek, from the classical era.”
“Which poems, Lady Georgiana?” Dunning’s well-mannered question was forced. Any polite interest would evaporate when dinner was done.
“Those by women.”
“Really? There can’t be very many.” The idea genuinely stunned Dunning.
“You would be surprised, sir.” Her words were for her hostess’s grandson, but she continued to watch Andrew, who had given up pretense of eating. He held his hands flat on the table as if to still them.
“But where are they, I mean to say, how do you find and collect them?” Dunning’s bafflement irritated her.
“They hide in plain sight. They can be found in anthologies. They are quoted in larger works by men. Most are fragmentary, but they are very much there. I believe their contemporaries, or more likely men who came after, didn’t treat their work well.”
A frown creased Dunning’s forehead. “But they can’t be of great importance if they haven’t been studied.”
“That is exactly why I wish to do so!” Georgiana’s temper rose.
The sound of cutlery hitting the floor interrupted them. Andrew lurched forward and knocked his spoon and knife off the table.
Mrs. Potter leapt into action, cleared space, and located a coverlet to put over him. She brought water for him to drink and urged him to
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