Page 15

What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun?

As the sun sank into the horizon after I was sufficiently dried and had endured a lecture from Father on propriety with men, I sat at my desk with a quill in hand.

The Dilettanti letter lay open to my right, the creases still crisp despite the years passed.

I could scarcely bring myself to reread the derisive words from Mr. Thomas Beaumont’s secretary.

The words remained branded in my mind. Yet I glanced at the paper again, the elegant slope of the handwriting impeccable.

I scratched out several letters, dissatisfied with each attempt at a second plea for publication. Balled papers filled the bin beside my desk. Frustrated, I twiddled the feathered pen between my fingers while rereading my latest effort.

Too desperate. Too strongly worded and certain to be rejected. Too weak. Finally, I kept to the simplest approach.

I have found what I believe to be a mosaic in a sizable Roman villa, perhaps third century...

I also drafted a letter to the more formal Society of Antiquaries, located at Somerset House within the apartments courtesy of King George III, but I dared not hope for an answer from them, especially after their prior silence years ago.

I suspected they would throw out my letter upon receipt when they discovered a simple country miss was the author.

Regardless, I addressed it, referencing the latest journal of Archeologia , even if my knees shook when I signed my name.

One missive for the young bucks who loved adventure and one for the white-haired scholars who hid in their libraries.

Perhaps I might even stimulate a competition between the two groups.

As I held a cylinder of crimson wax over my candle, my mind wandered.

I had wrongly assumed the younger Lord Hawthorn would want prestige, to be known as a gentleman with a vast collection of ancient art, just like the aristocratic dilettanti who gallivanted across Europe and the Middle East, hunting for treasure.

Their reputation for scholarly pursuit had led to the sponsorship of many unusual antiquarian expeditions and the documentation of newly rediscovered classical sites.

Truly, the process felt no different from a debutante seeking entrance at the Almack’s Assembly Rooms, where a group of snobbish women, known as the “Lady Patronesses,” issued invitations and determined who might attend the events.

I had not a single chance in all the world of entering Almack’s.

No doubt, I fooled myself into thinking I could entice or impress either the Dilettanti or the Society of Antiquaries.

I had hoped to publish my findings and earn that fifty pounds so tantalizingly offered by Archeologia .

I nudged aside the nearest letter with the cooling wax seal and removed my art journal from beneath a stack of history books.

After flipping open the pages, I thumbed past several notes regarding the dig, along with illustrations, until I reached a clean sheet.

I grabbed a piece of charcoal and began scratching out an image.

Instead of sheep munching grass, or pillared ruins, or even a dominus, a man’s face started to take shape, followed by a hint of a shadow along a firm jaw.

Lord Hawthorn.

I put my charcoal stick down. Why had I ever thought to tempt him with fame?

His derision scalded me. He was a private man, it seemed.

Ambitious, too, and not afraid of trade, unlike his fellow lords.

A smudge of charcoal, and I darkened the new lord’s eyebrows into something nefarious.

He looked devilishly handsome now. A proper rake, with a contemptuous curl to his lips.

If I could convince either society to take interest in the history of Bramnor, perhaps then Lord Hawthorn might be more receptive to my cause.

I had nothing to lose in trying again with my letters.

No, not true.

I had everything to lose.