Page 25

For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.

The constable, as expected, had yet to arrive. His absence had not gone unnoticed, but with the day drawing to a close, Father and Lord Hawthorn were among the last to leave the mosaic site, their low voices carrying the weight of the day’s discoveries.

As they finally joined the rest of us in the abbey courtyard, the men began packing up their tools, resigned to resume the investigation in the morning. Most of the tenants dispersed and left the abbey grounds, though a few lingered behind, including Mr. Whittle and the Dixon boys.

While we waited for Father and Lord Hawthorn to finish their conversation, an argument broke out among the men who remained, their voices rising as dusk settled over the courtyard.

“Can we find a buyer for the mosaic?” Mr. Whittle asked. “Someone might pay a pretty sum for it. If Mr. Perry can do it, why not you, my lord?”

“What about the bones? Why not sell them? Or advertise them as a roadside attraction, eh? With ghost stories to boot,” one of the Dixon boys suggested.

At that, I cringed, although museums did much the same, displaying Egyptian scarabs and sarcophagi for anyone to see.

“No.” Lord Hawthorn’s deep voice rose over the others clamoring with suggestions. “In fact, I want you all to plant west from the site.” Then he added in a clipped tone, “And keep away from Perry’s property as much as possible.”

“An excellent decision, my lord,” my father said. “I don’t relish disturbing graves either.”

“It would hardly be decent otherwise,” Lord Hawthorn noted. “We’ll wait for the proper authorities to assess the remains. You and your daughter are welcome to return for further study.”

He glanced my way, almost as if he had intended for me to overhear his offer.

My cheeks heated to be caught studying him in so open a manner.

In the evening light, with the sun touching the newly trimmed hedge and turning a profusion of flowers to gold, something shifted within me.

He was not at all what I had expected in a lord.

He actually listened to his tenants, allowing them to give advice, and responding in turn when questioned, giving careful reasons for his decisions.

I assumed Father and I would soon leave in the chaise, but Lord Hawthorn left his workers, his uneven stride eating up the distance in the courtyard.

“Thank you, Miss Littleton, for your assistance. Where did you gain such knowledge of Rome?”

I shrugged one shoulder to hide how much the compliment affected me. “Bramnor offers so little that I had no choice but to turn to history books and journals to escape the confines of village life.”

His lips quirked. “Yes, your nose in a book, getting a regular dose of isolated castles and blackhearted villains.”

“I do not read only about women trapped in castles, Lord Hawthorn. You might enjoy Samuel Squire’s dissertation on the antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon government.”

“Doubtful,” he replied with a smirk. “But I am impressed, Miss Littleton. And I do not impress easily.”

I didn’t share that my brother had often written to the librarians on my behalf, requesting certain classical volumes.

All that changed when he squandered Father’s money at the gambling hells in London instead of attending seminary.

Now, in his painful absence, I latched on to the things that made me feel alive.

“You may have nipped a clandestine rumor of the Hawthorn family before it started and I am truly grateful.” His voice thickened as he rested a bronzed hand against the chaise.

Whether he liked it or not, rumors would continue to haunt him.

“I must warn you, sir, the story of a grave will still spread, unfortunately. We can only turn the light to it and expose the truth for what it really is.”

His jaw clenched, a tiny muscle jumping once again. “The truth? It may cause more pain than it’s worth.”

He was no longer speaking about the mosaics and the grave site.

“Leave no stone unturned,” I answered firmly. “How can we learn or grow if we do not understand the past? How can we heal if we do not fully examine what happened to us?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I know how poorly you think of my family’s name.”

My cheeks heated. “I spoke hot, rash words that evening we first met, my lord. Words from an impetuous woman fretting over a damaged sketch. I am sorry for any offense I caused.”

“But you spoke the truth. In my experience, neither my father nor my uncle cared much about anyone else’s needs,” he said in a low voice.

“Unlike your family. You might be the most outspoken woman I’ve ever met.

One with a stinging quip and a healing balm.

I am indebted to you in more ways than one.

You seem to work enchantments, even with your tinctures, bringing healing wherever you go, whether with Mrs. Eacher or. .. myself.”

“It is my pleasure.” I could not hide my smile, relieved that he had not chosen to take offense at that first meeting or my suggestion to bring in the societies. “And, speaking truthfully, you will find a ready friend in my father, as he was to your uncle. He cared deeply for the former viscount.”

Lord Hawthorn looked over his shoulder to where my father stood speaking with the tenants.

Had I overstepped my bounds by saying that a viscount and a vicar could find friendship?

I bit the inside of my cheek, ruing my frank speech.

I had lived in the countryside for too long, far away from the well-ordered rules of the ton. My manners must seem rustic.

The viscount turned to me. “And you, Miss Littleton, may I also consider you a friend? I find them a precious commodity.” His voice had dropped to a husky note.

The words were innocent, but the way he said them, it was almost as if...

My breath caught as his gaze held mine.

“Yes, I should like to think we could be friends.”

His mouth tilted in a full smile. And it was quite a pleasant thing, completely transforming his face. His admission settled within me, stirring sympathy as he left me to join the tenants.

A man could have everything and still be very much alone.

Later, within the comfort of the drawing room, I removed the doll from my satchel and gently laid her on the desk just as Mrs. Herriot brought the requested bowl of warm water and a soft cloth.

“La!” She curled her upper lip as she leaned over my shoulder to see better. “A naked woman.”

I skimmed a gloved finger against the smooth ivory stained from centuries of earth. “Once clothed, Mrs. Herriot. But you see if your clothes will last over a thousand years.”

She did not appreciate my flippant answer, yet she remained by my side as I dipped a scrap of fabric into the bowl. I recognized the scrap of cloth as having been snipped from one of my brother’s shirts.

Daniel. The fine weave brought a host of memories of him. Better days. Awful days, especially when I tried to raise him just as I had promised Mother.

How I loved him, even if I wanted to throttle sense into him. If only he knew how his absence, his weakness of character, continued to hurt Father. And hurt me in equal measure.

Why couldn’t we recover from my mother’s death? Why did Father bury himself in work, and Daniel turn to vice? Was this how we managed without her?

“I do hope you didn’t bring an idol into the parsonage,” Mrs. Herriot told me as she leaned even closer, smelling of lemon oil. “This obsession of yours won’t garner the respect of the rectorship.”

“On the contrary, I’ve met many a curate or rector who appreciates history, especially since that era connects to our Lord and the early church. And this isn’t an idol. It’s a child’s toy, created to be as lifelike as possible.”

Each stroke of the cloth revealed a yellowed hue of ivory. And joints for the slender legs to bend and the elbows to swing.

“At any rate, that ugly thing seems scratched.”

My pulse sped as I cleaned the ivory, coaxing two symbols to emerge on the back of the doll. An inarticulate sound escaped me as I stared at the antiquity, scarcely believing my eyes.

Not scratches, but rather letters of the Greek alphabet. A faint line curled to make a P and a crooked x .

Frustrated with my lack of conversation, she abandoned me to my pursuits, which truthfully, were as intense as Father’s obsessions.

The markings on the doll were of a Christian nature. Stunned, I turned the doll over, searching for a name or anything else, and finding nothing of further interest.

I had discovered a humble Christian symbol near one of the most majestic homes paying homage to Bacchus and Medusa.

If the Almighty had a message for me, I scarcely knew what to think.

The sound of a man weeping, from my father’s study no less, slowed my descent on the staircase as morning light poured through the window above the entry door.

I had planned to leave for the Perry field after breakfast. Straining to hear better, I could not discern if other voices accompanied the weeping.

At last, I tiptoed down the hall to my father’s study.

Familiar scents greeted me as I slipped inside. Leather, ink, and the faint whisper of chamomile tea. Father’s shoulders heaved with one long shuddering breath as he removed a handkerchief to wipe his face. His glasses sat on the desk alongside a letter.

“What is the matter?” I asked, my heart clenching at this new display of grief.

He pivoted, his eyes reddened. “I have just received word that the authorities have placed your brother under arrest in a hulk outside Portsmouth.”

“A hulk? A floating prison?” Shock rippled through me. I was not prone to hysterics or smelling salts, but suddenly my stays pinched in the most uncomfortable manner as I struggled to breathe.

“The charge?”

“Riot and striking an officer,” Father said, his voice thick with shame. “He incited the men—he was at the center of it. And now they’re going to court-martial him.”