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Everything comes gradually and at its appointed hour.

OVID

I exhaled with relief as Father and I left the abbey. Lord Hawthorn had cooled, but I failed to persuade him about the excavation, which left me all the more unsettled.

To my surprise, Mr. Cobb stepped out of the shadows of the stable just as we were about to depart. My unease grew as he approached us.

“Mr. Cobb, what are you doing at the abbey at so late an hour?” Father asked.

“I’ve been doing some work for the viscount, although he’s as close-fisted as they come.

But I’ve been meaning to speak with you, Vicar, about the dig at Perry’s,” Mr. Cobb replied, his gaze shifting between us.

With long hair the color of straw falling over his brow, small-set eyes, and a long nose, he reminded me of a rodent.

Father waved a dismissive hand in my direction. “Then you must speak with my daughter about the matter.”

Mr. Cobb tipped forward so close I inched backward. “How much will you or Mr. Perry pay me to work those fields?”

“I fear not much, if anything,” I answered bluntly. “Although we hope for more income should an antiquities society take interest.”

Mr. Cobb glowered as he shoved his filthy hands into his coat pockets.

“You’ll not tempt me or anyone else with that fare,” he said as he pulled his felt hat over his narrowed eyes. He spat on the ground just as the chaise pulled forward.

We rattled down the rutted road filled with puddles from the rain. A sigh escaped Father. “I fear our conversation offended Lord Hawthorn.”

Our conversation? More likely mine, but Father was altogether gracious.

When we arrived home, Mrs. Herriot greeted us in the parlor, waving a missive with a crimson seal. “A courier brought a letter for you all the way from London!”

“When did it arrive?” I cried as I removed my bonnet.

She beamed, still holding the letter pinched between her forefinger and thumb. “Shortly after you left.”

A letter sent by courier suggested urgency. I didn’t recognize the seal, but the Roman column in the center made my heart beat faster. Had the Society of Dilettanti or the Society of Antiquaries relented at long last? I opened it and was immediately greeted with a Latin phrase.

Publicae causa, studio rerum antiquorum.

I gulped and my hands trembled.

“What is it?” Mrs. Herriot cried while Father peered over my shoulder.

“For the sake of the commonwealth, with zeal for ancient things,” I translated slowly.

“Don’t keep us waiting!” she cried, wringing her hands. I obliged her, reading it out loud.

“My dearest Miss Littleton, I trust this letter finds you in the best of health and spirits. I am writing to you on behalf of the esteemed Society of Antiquaries of London, an association dedicated to the preservation and study of our nation’s rich history and cultural heritage.

Word has reached our esteemed society of your remarkable discoveries and scholarly pursuits in the realm of antiquities.

The account of your diligent efforts, particularly in uncovering mosaics of historical significance in the village of Bramnor, has captured our collective imagination.

We are eager to discuss these findings further and intend to visit Bramnor near the end of April to explore the site firsthand.

We hope this timing is convenient and look forward to meeting with you and your esteemed colleagues. ”

I gasped, reading the name of Mr. Archibald Harrington, the Society’s secretary.

Father squeezed my shoulder. “Well done, Bridget.”

I closed my eyes, hardly believing it. The Society of Antiquaries, with their prestige, seemed certain to dismiss me for lacking formal education.

I had believed that the Dilettanti, with their free-spirited noblemen, would support passion and talent over credentials.

But the Society of Antiquaries surprised me, willing to recognize my work.

“They are coming for a visit!” I exclaimed. “Father, they received a royal charter from King George! The king follows them with great interest.”

Mrs. Herriot clapped her hands, her cheeks flushed. “Imagine the Society of Antiquaries in the vicar’s parsonage!”

My father cleared his throat, his gaze as misty as my own. “Remarkable news. I shall have to prepare a special set of sermons for the occasion, should Mr. Harrington’s stay extend to a Sunday. Shall I title it The Miracles of Prayer?”

I had not prayed for this blessing, too intent on drafting letters and preparing my excavation notes. Had God intervened regardless of my lack of belief?

Father’s innocent question would chafe at me in the days to come.

Late the next morning, I ran to the Perrys’ cottage, lungs burning from the effort. Breathless, I knocked on the door.

Once within the warm cottage, I brought out the letter, allowing them to hold it, to finger the portion of the wax seal now severed in half as it clung to the paper. Abigail exclaimed over the seal before enveloping me in a tight hug.

“You’re marvelous!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling as she pressed a kiss against my cheek. “You did it, Bridget!”

After finishing a light lunch, Mr. Perry had planned to return to his field, where he had been planting crops in a different section to avoid the contested area. However, the sight of the letter made him pause.

“This turns the whole game around,” he mused, holding the letter carefully. “Do you think this society will pay me for the use of the farm? If they’re serious, I might earn enough regardless of our crops.”

I nodded, still out of breath. “I hope so.” Never before had I held so much expectation that my plan might actually work. My only regret was that Daniel wasn’t present to share in our triumph.

Show them, Bridget, what you can do. You were never meant to be a caged thing.

“We will be the talk of the town!” Abigail motioned for her father to return the letter to me. He did, albeit reluctantly.

“It’s a marked change in fortune,” I said, pleased with their enthusiasm but mindful of the need for discretion. “But we must keep this quiet for now. We don’t want to draw attention until everything is secured.”

Mr. Perry nodded in agreement, and I felt a surge of relief. The thought of furthering my studies and finally being taken seriously in academic circles was almost too wonderful to imagine.

“If that is true, then I wonder at the footprints around our cottage?” Mr. Perry asked. “They appeared a few days ago. I woke up to the sight. Thought I heard rustling outside the cottage late at night, but I dismissed it as only the wind.”

Abigail rummaged through a basket and pulled out a shirt. She ducked her head and began stitching a tear with her thread and needle.

“You always hear things during the midnight hour, Papa. I investigated the fields after your fuss and there was nothing missing.”

My skin prickled at the idea of someone creeping around the Perry cottage.

“Might have been a farmer,” Mr. Perry said, although he didn’t sound convinced. “Rupert Miller often wants to borrow something or other when I’m not home. Remember when he tried to take my ax without telling me, Abigail?”

When I turned to see Abigail’s reaction, her attention seemed pinned to the square window where she sat next to the small table, another pair of shirts waiting to be mended.

“Yes,” she said faintly, before turning to offer me a tepid smile. “Perhaps it was old Rupert, after all.”

Mr. Perry had provided a perfectly reasonable explanation, but the thought lingered in my mind.

The villagers’ interest in our affairs had been growing.

Only yesterday, Mrs. Herriot mentioned that two women stopped her in the village, asking if the rumors about our excavation were true.

And then there was Lord Hawthorn’s fury over his sheep.

“Mr. Barron offered his services, should we need them,” I added, though with some hesitation, for I feared he might prove more flash than substance.

Abigail flushed prettily before she pivoted to the cupboard to retrieve two teacups. “When did you speak with him?”

“At the apothecary the other day, just before the rains ruined our dig. Now that things are drying out, we can resume as soon as the boundary lines are reestablished.”

Even the viscount’s tenants, especially Mr. Cobb, had been asking questions about the excavation, his probing persistent and unsettling. The last thing we needed was word spreading and treasure hunters descending on our valley.

Mr. Perry snatched his pipe from the table and stuffed it into his coat pocket. “I didn’t tell you, but Mr. Spencer said the lord might be willing to buy my entire farm.”

“Did he?” I asked. If Lord Hawthorn intended to expand the orchards, that could put an end to our excavation altogether. It wasn’t just about the boundary lines anymore—he might try to halt our work entirely, claiming the entire stretch of land for his own use.

He chuckled without humor. “I told him my price would be too high.”

Relief washed over me. “Father reached out to the magistrate, but it seems the man has traveled to Bath on family business.”

Mr. Perry’s grin faded. “I can’t wait much longer, whether we dig for mosaics or plant the field. The growing season is slipping away, and I can’t afford to miss it. But I won’t give up my land without a fight. I’ll not stand for what’s rightfully mine to be stolen.”

A similar anger flared within me. I wouldn’t let the viscount outmaneuver us. The memory of him lounging on that sofa, listening to my plans for the valley, stung more than I cared to admit. I gnawed the inside of my cheek, chastened by how easily I’d shared our plans with the viscount.

“I confess I am surprised to hear of such an offer. When I visited Lord Hawthorn earlier, he did not mention it.”

Abigail sighed as she reached for the steaming teapot. “Men are such troublesome creatures.” Her tone held an edge as she poured me a cup of tea. As I took the cup, she hesitated, glancing at me with a mix of curiosity and concern. “I heard you took herbs to the viscount yesterday?”

I froze, surprised. “How did you hear about that?”

“Lucy mentioned it when she stopped by earlier this morning to see if I had anything to help her poor hens start laying again. I didn’t realize you’d gone back to the abbey so soon.”

I nodded, trying to hide my unease. “Yes. It was an errand of mercy, just as Father and I would offer any sick parishioner. But it didn’t change his mind.” Had my actions the appearance of something more like a tendre?

“I say we dig, and dig tomorrow,” Abigail replied evenly. “We shouldn’t hold back and wait for the magistrate’s decision.”

“It would be best to wait for the law to be on your father’s side,” I advised.

She huffed. “Remember your loyalties, Bridget. As your closest friend, I must advise you that we’ve come too far now to stop. Never forget who the Hawthorns truly are. Such men do not change.”

Father would disagree with that sentiment, but my brother’s disappearance had left a void that I couldn’t ignore, and every delay in the excavation felt like another step away from finding him—or at least understanding what happened to him.

I reached for a biscuit, but the taste barely registered. Daniel believed Bramnor’s secrets held the key to something greater if I had but the courage to look, and I needed to prove him right.

Lord Hawthorn had once teased me about the war between us ending. Perhaps he had spoken too soon.