of Mrs Radcliffe. I know they are far-fetched and a trifle salacious, but I do love a good Gothic novel. Especially if it has a romance in it.’
‘My favourite is The Italian.’
‘You read Mrs Radcliffe?’ Now it was the other woman’s turn to look surprised.
‘I read everything and anything, Mrs Baxter, and find much enjoyment in a bit of escapist fiction.’ Back when she still harboured fanciful ideas of love and romance herself, Effie had gobbled up Gothic novels as though they were going out of fashion. But she’d cast them all aside in disgust years ago when she realised they were promising her a dream she was unlikely to ever have. Not when she terrified every man who dared come within six feet of her with her odd brain. ‘Which is your favourite?’
‘The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne—because it ends so happily with a double wedding.’ She sighed wistfully for comic effect, fluttering her hand like a silly dolt with the vapours. ‘As does The Italian, so I approve of your choice, Miss Nithercott. You should also know I thoroughly disapprove of all novels which end unhappily because the world can be miserable enough at times, I fail to see why we should be forced to consume more misery in fiction during our leisure time. And because I am a shameless romantic at heart and choose to believe love really does conquer all. Is that why you adore the book?’
It used to be. Before realistic cynicism replaced girlish romanticism. ‘I adore the way the women characters take control. It gives me hope that one day we mere females might be treated almost equally to males.’ The snippiness leaked out before she could stop it.
‘Do you disapprove of men, Miss Nithercott?’ She appeared horrified at the thought.
‘Not all men and not usually.’ If one ignored the fact she hadn’t met one yet who didn’t ultimately disappoint. ‘However, you have caught me on a bad day and I find I am now predisposed to be vexed at the entire sex this afternoon on principle.’
‘Oh, dear... Dare I ask what has happened to make you so aggrieved at all the poor men on the planet?’
‘The Society of Antiquaries of London have refused to read the paper I sent them on Romano-British coinage.’ Something they did with great regularity, so Effie knew she should be resigned to it by now. Yet it still galled they could be so blinkered when she was telling them something entirely new.
‘Why would they refuse?’
‘Because I had the audacity to be born female, Mrs Baxter. The Society neither admits women to their illustrious ranks nor deigns to read anything submitted to them by a woman’s hand, let alone publish it in the hallowed pages of their sacred Archaeologia. Regardless of the fact I am quite certain I have excavated at least three coins which have never been seen before. Not that they know that, of course, because they haven’t read my paper or as much as glanced upon my sketches.’
‘That is beastly of them.’
‘It is stupid. That is what it is. Near-sighted, thick-headed, narrow-minded, pompous and ignorant prejudice. Thanks to their decision, no other antiquarian will be able to benefit from the knowledge only I currently hold.’ None of which was Mrs Baxter’s fault. ‘But enough of my foolish woes. How are you enjoying Rivenhall?’
‘Exceedingly, Miss Nithercott. It is a beautiful house and the grounds are stunning. I think Max will be very happy here.’ Mrs Baxter tugged on the reins as her horse began to dance impatiently on the spot. ‘And speaking of my brother, we should both very much like to invite you to dinner this evening.’
‘Lord Rivenhall wishes to invite me?’ All the acting in the world wouldn’t cover her disbelief this time. Not when he had avoided her like the plague since he had reluctantly agreed to let her dig around the Abbey and the man had practically thrown her out of his house yesterday before the tea to which she had technically been invited arrived at the door.
Although, to his credit, at least he had disliked her before he got to know her. There was something comforting in that because she knew exactly where she