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She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.

LORD brYON

A week had passed since my first encounter with Bacchus, although I returned to the site repeatedly to work to uncover the full mosaic.

Upon learning of the possibility of riches and robbers, Mr. Perry and Abigail had vowed to keep the mosaic a secret.

Mr. Perry had also secured a canvas to cover the site and protect it from the spring rain.

As usual, Father had kept to his study, his door mostly locked as he lost himself in the tomes scattered across his desk, leaving me much to my devices and to my fretting over my brother’s plight.

I was accustomed to managing on my own. Instead of further indulging in fear, I marched to the Perry field with renewed vigor, preferring the bright afternoon sunshine to the musty parlor.

Together, Abigail and I knelt in the field, cleaning the six-by-six section we had unearthed with the aid of damp cloths.

We worked in tandem, our movements careful as we wiped away the layers of earth that had hidden the ancient art for centuries.

The stones gleamed with myriad colors—ochre, cerulean blue, and a startling crimson.

The painstaking care required meant our progress was slow, and I doubted we would clear much more of the original floor today.

“I can’t quite decide if I should fear him or like him,” Abigail muttered as she shifted on the canvas intended to keep our gowns dry.

We paused and stared at Bacchus.

“Isn’t it fascinating that vice often carries a pleasant facade?” I murmured.

I didn’t catch a glimpse of her expression, but I heard her soft intake of breath.

“Aye. I confess this Bacchus reminds me of your brother with those curls. That impish grin...” She no longer met my curious gaze.

Her neck flushed as she picked up one of my paintbrushes to study the bristles, running a thumb against the tapered edge.

I inhaled the fragrant air as I considered her statement while rummaging in my satchel for a charcoal stick to sketch Bacchus. For years I had suspected she carried a tendre for my brother, although her affection was not quite as loyal as my own.

Daniel would have related to this cheeky god. Especially with his proclivity to drink wine and cavort with friends. Pressing my lips together, familiar emotions surged—ire, shame, regret, and the disappointment of not being able to save him despite my efforts.

She brushed the dirt from her hands. “What a pity he remains missing.”

An understatement if ever there was one.

Men who frequented taverns often found themselves with a king’s coin slipped into their drink—a shilling, marking them for service in His Majesty’s Navy.

Sipping from that fateful cup meant conscription, sometimes before the poor soul realized what had happened.

A life-or-death consequence that few could escape.

“Until I publish my findings and receive a fee, I don’t know what else to do to earn enough to continue searching,” I finally admitted after a long pause.

“Marry?” She arched a brow at me, but the former amused smile had softened to something akin to pity. “You might find a reasonable man who would be more than happy to assist you. Surely you could wed a curate or a vicar or a farmer in the area.”

I was considered a spinster, even labeled a bluestocking with an absent-minded father who couldn’t tie his own cravat without help each morning.

Most of the men in the village regarded me with amused tolerance as the vicar’s daughter.

The only man—a curate, no less—to ask for my hand had been a man far past his prime with a set of wooden teeth, and a waistcoat straining at the buttons.

Besides, the men in my life had failed me far too often for me to rely on anyone beyond myself.

“I shall leave marriage to you,” I said. “Surely you must be fighting off the offers of half a dozen or so men by now.”

Instead of looking pleased, she released a heavy sigh. “None of them are suitable... except perhaps the inn owner, Mr. Barron.”

“Mr. Barron?” I cried out, picturing the man with a loud voice who put on foppish airs as if he were a fine gentleman.

At least he retained most of his hair, even if the auburn hue unfortunately matched mine.

Jim Barron ran two inns along with a tavern, the Jolly Wench, infamous for its overcooked mutton and blackened, greasy biscuits with the only redeeming quality being ale so sharp and strong, it left a man with fire in his belly.

“Nay, promise me you won’t consider him. ”

She shrugged a slim shoulder. “He’s well-off, Bridget.

What can I say? At least I’d live in comfort.

Better that than being a governess.” A sparkle appeared in her eyes.

“If the children misbehaved, at least you could punish them with endless history lectures and writing out the Greek alphabet. I, on the other hand...”

A worse fate I could not imagine for her, other than Mr. Barron, especially if saddled with an imperious master who forbade me from being wholly accepted by the family or the servants.

What could be lonelier than living in some forgotten wing, only to be taken out when needed?

Never fully belonging or having a voice of my own?

I hit her lightly on the shoulder with my fist even though her teasing chafed. “I save those lectures for you , you ungrateful miss who calls herself a friend.”

“We’ve been friends for many years now,” she said quietly once our laughter subsided. “This mosaic could change our situations. It is a miracle.”

I winced. Did I believe in miracles anymore? I dare not admit such a traitorous thought, even if we shared much of childhood grievances and delights with each other.

Abigail leaned closer to study my work. A stray blonde curl grazed her rosy cheek. “I should think those scholars will finally recognize your accomplishments.”

“I hope so.” Her praise warmed me as I placed my notes, along with the sketch of Bacchus into the leather satchel.

The hour was late, the sun melting into the horizon, bathing the fields and grass in gold.

We both rose and shook out our wrinkled gowns.

I waved goodbye to Abigail after refusing an escort home.

I wanted to reflect on what I might write to the Dilettanti and the Antiquarians, and I could hardly compose a letter with Abigail chattering or probing into my family affairs.

I loved her dearly, but I needed a moment of quiet to compose my thoughts.

Surely we would uncover more ruins. The Romans had pushed back the Iceni tribes and conquered the land with brute force, taming it with bathhouses, amphitheaters, straight roads, and, of course, villas like the one I believed resided beneath Mr. Perry’s land.

As I glanced around the countryside at the gentle, verdant slopes of the valley, I could almost imagine myself transported back to ancient times as the lady of the villa.

My hair would fall free with a ribbon wrapped around the crown of my head.

My dress would be a simple tunic covered with a stola pinned at the shoulders.

I would wear dangling silver earrings and cover my bare feet in soft leather sandals instead of itchy cotton stockings and snug slippers.

I tugged at my bonnet to loosen the tight strings. If only I could feel as free as I imagined the lady of the villa might live. Moving the leather satchel under one arm distracted me from the sound of thunder in the distance.

By the time I turned to greet the rushing menace, a stranger on horseback barreled down the road heading straight toward me. Clods of dirt shot from beneath the pounding hooves. For a moment I thought I stared at a Roman conqueror with a sword slapping at his side.

Twilight bathed the road in shades of muted gray and purple, with shadows hiding its poor condition. The man’s great coat billowed like raven wings, and his head was bent low. As he raced past the fields, flocks of birds scurried into the air, squawking their outrage.

I jumped out of the way as the fearsome horse thundered past and splattered mud against my gown, allowing me a glimpse of the man’s stern face with a harsh mouth pulled into a thin line.

Would he see the holes in the road ahead? Or would he break that poor beast’s legs?

My bonnet, freed from the knot that had secured it under my chin, slipped from my numb fingers and tumbled down my back as I hurried southward, away from Hawthorn Abbey. In my shock, I dropped the satchel, causing brushes and papers to scatter over the damp ground.

Crying out, I reached for the drawing first, only for a rebellious breeze to snatch it out of my grasp. I chased after it, my bonnet bouncing behind me as I ran toward the village and my father’s parsonage.

“You there, miss!” I glanced back to see the horse jerk to a halt.

I gaped for a moment, mesmerized by the height and breadth of that massive beast pawing at the ground.

For once, I wished I had taken Miss Perry’s offer to escort me home.

Good heavens, what a sight I must present!

Nothing could disguise the state of my attire, not even the falling twilight.

I wanted nothing more than to avoid the imposing man on the road and recapture my sketch of Bacchus before slinking back to the parsonage.

“Can you speak?” The man’s voice, deep and velvet, carried an edge I didn’t care for.

I swallowed hard, forcing my beating pulse to slow. The paper rolled out of my reach, fluttered in the breeze, and became trapped among the grass.

“I assure you, I can speak quite well.”