CHAPTER 1, 1819
Claire Cassandra Pheland wished to discard her skin, her nerves were that prickly.
What was she doing here, about to present a paper to London’s Society of Antiquaries? She must be mad or foxed. Sadly, she was neither as she surveyed the audience of Fellows and attendees from her seat. All male.
She had wrangled her presentation with the help of the Marquess of Ravenscroft, her brother-in-law, along with aid from Viscount Hawthorne, another brother-in-law. She sat between them in the audience, their expressions stolid.
No fool, Claire had made her request to the society using the initials, CC Pheland, avoiding any hint of gender.
As she listened to a clever paper on Roman coins, her palms turned greasy with sweat beneath her gloves. Her foot jiggled, too, an altogether inappropriate activity. Yet she could not seem to stop.
A trustee called her name. God help her. She rose, then moved between legs and chair backs to reach the aisle, thankful eighteenth century voluminous skirts were not in fashion.
Murmurs began, then voices rose, a shout or two, bursts of laughter, while several men pointed fingers as Claire approached the dais a line of trustees and presenters staring daggers at her.
Eyes forward, spine stiff, Claire endured the catcalls. Why shouldn’t there be? After all, she was a woman. Claire tried to encase herself in iron, but as she reached the podium, she almost tripped on her cursed skirt. Women’s clothes were so very inconvenient.
The room’s din rose, as did her fury at their disrespect. Nonetheless, she lay her notes on the podium, staring at her written words as if they might leap off the page and attack.
With a deep breath, she raised her head and perused the crowd. Claire smiled.
“My paper will illuminate and substantiate my hypothesis that the ancient Greek statues, busts, and other marbles we so admire were colorfully painted. Few were pure white.”
Raucous laughter bounced off the walls, and Claire didn’t know whether it was due to her hypothesis or her gender. Or, perhaps, both. It mattered little, as the cacophony was drowning out her words.
She slipped on her glasses for a more scholarly look, though it appeared they made little difference to the discordant crowd.
Trustees quieted the audience, and Claire proceeded. “From my examination of numerous statues, stele, and plinths during my time in Greece, along with my studies here, I have come to the conclusion that the Greeks, rather than being admirers of austere white sculptures, painted patterns and bright colors on the majority of their figurative works. I would even to go so far as—
“Shut up!” hollered a man in the audience.
“What is this woman talking about?” Another hollered.
“She is deranged!”
Claire tightened her grip on the podium and continued to speak. Whether she must shout over the crowd or not, she would finish.
Theseus Ashworth was disgusted with the behavior of his esteemed colleagues. No matter a woman expounded at the podium, members of the Society had read her paper and deemed it worthy of discussion.
He could barely hear her above the shouts and laughter. Unconscionable.
No dialogue was to be found here, but rather jeers, swearing, and fists raised in protest. All due to her gender, which was absurd. Though he admitted Lady Claire’s premise was ludicrous.
Along with Ravenscroft and Hawthorne, both acquaintances, his good friend, the Duke of Devonshire, appeared as furious as he. But there sat the offensive Lord Elgin, arms crossed, lobbing jeers along with the rest of them.
He was acquainted with Claire Pheland, daughter of the famous artist, Reginald Pheland, Baron Halafair. He didn’t particularly like her, for her tongue was sharp. Nonetheless, she was Devonshire’s friend, thus she must have some redeemable qualities. That was neither here nor there. The Fellows behavior was inexcusable.
Theseus rose, and given his height, bulk, and respect as an antiquarian, the audience took notice. “Hush, you cretans!”
His booming baritone succeeded…for a moment. For the catcalls, laughter, and lewd comments soon recommenced.
Ravenscroft ascended the dais to whisper in Lady Claire’s ear. She nodded, then faced the crowd.
“Gentlemen, my work stands on its own! If you are too blind to see it, then I am too mute to speak. You should be ashamed of your unwillingness to listen to a point of view that differs from your own. Ashamed!”
Devil it, the woman was impressive.
With that, she took Ravenscroft’s winged arm, fisted her notes, and stepped from the dais.
Four months after Lady Claire’s debacle at the Society of Antiquaries, Theseus received a letter from the woman herself. On that day he’d observed an appalling demonstration of men’s prejudice. Fools. He had left the symposium shortly after she.
Lady Claire’s letter thanked him for his attempt to quell the audience, then she made a request to study his father’s extensive collection of marbles from Greece.
Damnation. To examine the works, Lady Claire would want time, more time than he could afford, given his departure for the Greek isles.
His plan to return his father’s collection of marbles, “appropriated” in Greece, was fraught with dissenters. The Crown pressured him to keep them, as did the British Museum, and that cursed Lord Elgin, the mawworm who stole the friezes from Athens’ Parthenon.
He cared not one whit for any of them. His father’s marbles did not belong in England, but rather deserved to be repatriated to Greece.
Many antiquaries wished to examine his busts, statues, and stela. On a good day he had little patience for any of them. And still the requests poured in. Vultures all.
The concept disgusted Theseus. Not the discoveries themselves, of course, but his father’s thievery for his own personal gain. That was how Theseus saw it, for he equated the appropriation to rape, Unsurprisingly, few shared his viewpoint.
He would soon leave for Greece accompanied by the entire collection of marbles, hundreds of them, which he would return to their home country, where they belonged, rather than resting in some British country manor.
His blood boiled thinking on what his father had done.
The British Museum and the king himself placed enormous pressure on him to keep the marbles in England. He would not.
He set Lady Claire’s letter aside beneath a shard of marble on his desk. Physically, Claire Pheland was exquisite—blonde, amber-eyed, with a fine figure and proud carriage. Yet she seemed oblivious to her own beauty. An act? He wondered.
How much did the woman know about the ancients? Where had she studied? Women had no access to British universities. Another absurdity. The Italian, Laura Bassi, earned a Ph.D. at the University of Bologna, and began teaching physics, of all things, at that same university. Another Italian, he failed to recall her name, also received a Ph.D from Bologna. He knew of women attending universities in Germany and Sweden, as well. But they were outliers. No woman could attain a university degree in England.
Yet men persisted in seeing women as less intelligent. Astounding. He knew numerous bright-minded women equal to or surpassing men’s acuity.
Given Lady Claire’s history, a titled and entitled daughter of a baron, she pursued her unique subject with uncommon fervor. She may have failed to finish reading her paper, but what little he heard had given him pause. Yet he remained incredulous. Colored statues? He could not fathom it.
Lady Claire was on some wild goose chase. Nonetheless, given her courage at the gathering, he would consider admitting her to the marbles’ room.
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