uneven. If you tripped and cracked your head, now that would be a real shame.” He stepped aside. “Do come in.” His brows lowered darkly. “Your chaperone is already here.”
Jenkins’s study smelled like old paper and had the hushed feeling of a cathedral. The vaulted ceiling was higher than the room was wide, and dust danced in the shafts of light from the windows. Bookshelves sagged under the weight of leather-bound tomes and curious, random artifacts from the Mediterranean, most of which were cracked or chipped. A desk claimed the center of the room, a wooden bulwark with high piling stacks of papers on the left and a strategically placed bust of Julius Caesar to the right. Strategically placed because the emperor’s sightless marble eyes were leveled squarely at whichever student took his seat opposite Jenkins. And today, blast it, Caesar nearly made her trip over her own feet, because with his sharp nose and imperious frown, he bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain duke.
Annabelle lowered her heavy satchel to the ground next to the chair, trying to breathe quietly.
“Good evening, Mrs. Forsyth.”
The chaperone peered down her nose at her, a remarkable feat considering she was already seated. With much grumbling, Jenkins had squeezed an armchair into the remaining space near the fireplace. A noiseless embroidery frame balanced on her knees.
“You look flushed,” she observed. “It does not become you.”
“The color of her complexion is her prerogative entirely,” Jenkins said as he moved behind his desk. “I am, however, taking issue with the alertness of her brain.”
Annabelle sank into her seat. That sounded ominous.
Jenkins pulled a slim file from one of the paper stacks and slapped it onto the desk, an academic throwing down the gauntlet. “Your essay was a surprise.”
“Oh,” Annabelle said weakly.
“It wasn’t entirely appalling,” Jenkins continued, “but it was notably below your usual standards. Granted, your usual standards are exceptional; in fact, your previous essay was excellent. But I prefer to eradicate the rot before it eats away.”
“Rot,” Annabelle echoed. The man didn’t mince his words with the fair sex. On a better day, she would have appreciated it. But her heart was still thudding in her ears. Beads of sweat trickled between her breasts. Her chemise would turn clammy and itchy before this was over.
“Much as it pains me, rot is an adequate term in this case,” Jenkins said. “Your wording lacks precision in places; I’d go as far as to say it was blurry. Your conclusions? Solid, but not particularly original.”
Mrs. Forsyth had gone notably still in her armchair.
Annabelle breathed deep.
It quelled the wave of nausea rising from her stomach.
Jenkins took off his glasses, unleashing the full force of his disapproving eyes. “I got the impression that your thoughts were slurred. So I must ask—was this just a miss, or do you partake in spirits?”
She took a moment to form a reply. “Are you asking whether I . . . drink?”
“I am,” Jenkins said, his fingers now drumming on the desk. “Morning, or evening?”
She almost laughed. The world expert on the Peloponnesian Wars thought she was writing her papers intoxicated. That was of course a common enough behavior among the male students, but it hardly softened the blow. If she now lost her mental faculties, what did she have left?
“No, sir,” she said, “I do not drink.”
“Hm.”
She could tell he was unconvinced.
Briefly, she was tempted to tell him the much more simple truth behind her rotting standards.
She had written the excellent essay in Claremont, where she had evidently soared happily on wings of great delusion. But ever since her return, she had gone tired and hungry. Selling Mabel’s dresses had given her enough coin to pay Gilbert for January, but sitting for Hattie’s portrait meant fewer hours working for money. It meant fewer pennies, and less food.
She could hardly admit any of that to him.
“I will pay close attention to the next piece, Professor.”
As if on cue, her stomach growled loudly. Mortified, she clasped a hand over her belly.
Jenkins frowned. “Did you know the brain requires nourishment? Eating feeds the mind as well as the body.”
“I appreciate the advice, Professor.”
“I myself tend to forget it,” he said, “but you must be disciplined about it.”
“Certainly, Professor.”
She felt the weight of his stare on her midriff and realized that she was still clutching her belly.
And then she noticed a dawning understanding in Jenkins’s eyes.
She bristled. Letting a man know she was in dire straits could only lead to worse situations.
Jenkins pushed away from the desk and