Page 31

For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

LORD BYRON

In the days after the hailstorm, I split my time between sketching the dig site and rare items for sale within the abbey, as the initial shock gave way to efforts to salvage what we could of trampled gardens.

Only the mosaics had endured nature’s wrath, yet I felt no relief, my thoughts constantly lingering on the man trapped within Hawthorn Abbey.

The orchard bore the scars of the storm—twisted branches and broken limbs—but it was not entirely destroyed. Some sections remained intact, though the damage weighed our spirits.

With each passing moment, my urgency to clear the entire Bacchus floor grew, which was no small feat.

So far, we had reached nearly twenty feet in length and twelve feet in width.

No doubt, I stood on the grounds of an ancient palace.

A very large palace, proving my initial guess correct.

Vines now coiled around the god of wine as he danced, holding his goblet aloft, surrounded by drunken satyrs and maenads.

Publication would bring much-needed funds, not just for me, and exposure to buyers for Mr. Perry, who faced the same urgency to rescue his small farm as Lord Hawthorn.

I also received a second letter from the Society of Antiquaries confirming that Mr. Harrington would visit within the coming week to inspect Mr. Perry’s site.

I replied at once, offering our hospitality at the parsonage.

However, the impending visit wasn’t our only concern.

That same day, Father left for Chichester with hopes to settle the boundary dispute.

Although the magistrate was still away in Bath, Father returned two days later with documents that left me speechless.

Child’s Remains Found at Hawthorn Abbey.

“The article mentions your name,” Father said as he slapped the article from The Times on the table. He glanced at me, pride mingling with irritation. “It’s outrageous, of course.”

Miss Bridget Littleton, a vicar’s daughter, discovered a Roman-era mosaic and the remains of a child at Hawthorn Abbey, a place long associated with misfortune. More than a decade ago, Sir Randall Hawthorn was murdered, and now his son has returned after an injury in the army.

I devoured the article, dismayed by the salacious tone of the writing. “The author doesn’t even acknowledge that the child might be from third-century Rome. Thank goodness for the mention of the gladiator mosaic. Perhaps that will remove any blemish on Lord Hawthorn’s name.”

The speed with which the papers reported the story surprised me. Had someone slipped the information to The Times ?

Another paper proved somewhat better and noted that the grave site might be ancient.

But my heart nearly stopped beating at the mention of mosaics and hidden gold.

I remained hopeful we would encounter items of value, but this news would do neither Lord Hawthorn nor Mr. Perry any good.

Gold would surely prove a siren’s call for trouble.

I could not forget Lord Hawthorn’s dismay at the discovery of a child buried on his property.

The more the story circulated, the less his chances of being included within polite society. The poor man was isolated enough.

Miss Bridget Littleton, bluestocking extraordinaire, has ruffled the Society of Antiquaries into action.

One must beg the question, what kind of woman indulges in grave robbery?

Her father, the local vicar, is known for his radical political leanings regarding child labor, and her brother awaits trial for treason.

The paper accurately reported Daniel’s predicament. But I was not a grave robber. I could not imagine a worse insult. Father hadn’t underestimated the risk to our reputation at all. Somehow, someone had discovered our secrets and blazed them across London for all the world to see.

Late one afternoon, I returned to the Perry farm to join Abigail in our continued excavation work. Our cotton gowns stuck to our backs as we dug and dusted, wearing gloves to keep the dirt out of our fingernails.

Mr. Perry grunted as he stretched, keeping one hand on his shovel. “My aching back.” He shielded one hand over his weathered brow and squinted into the harsh light. “Do you see that man to the west of us?”

I rose, my own back and neck throbbing. A tall man stood in the distance, too far for us to make out his features.

“I am expecting a visitor from the Society of Antiquaries,” I told Mr. Perry.

He frowned. “If the gent is planning to visit you, why not amble over and say hello? Why stand there and ogle us?”

Abigail leaped to her feet and waved enthusiastically. The stranger mounted his horse before disappearing into the rolling hills.

I chewed my bottom lip. A dreadful habit, but one that came with nerves. “I don’t think he is our representative, but I can’t be certain.”

“Maybe he’s curious, especially after Lord Hawthorn’s find. Do you think we’ll discover more graves?” Abigail asked as she retied her bonnet strings.

I shuddered at the thought of more bodies. I did not want to throw further kindling on the rumor of me as a tomb thief.

“I certainly hope not. Should we arrange for someone to watch the field at night?” I asked.

Mr. Perry shook his head as he continued shielding his eyes from the sun. “I haven’t the funds to hire anyone.”

“Why not ask Mr. Barron? He said he has men aplenty and many of them know how to handle themselves,” Abigail suggested.

Mr. Perry expelled a long-suffering sigh, his gaze straying to mine with a wordless caution.

“No, not Barron. I refused his offer when he came by last week, sniffing around to see what he could gain. He’s too much in his cups, and he’s been asking too many questions about the mosaics.

Maybe one of the Dixon boys can spare an evening to watch.

They’re young and hardy and always up for an adventure. ”

“Mr. Barron would prove a far more practical choice than the Dixon lads,” Abigail said. “I would hate to offend him after his offer of assistance.”

“You’ve taken a liking to him, eh?” Mr. Perry spat on the ground.

“He’s been sniffing around to see what you’re worth, my girl.

Fancies himself quite the gentleman and was in the sulks when I refused to give him answers about the mosaics.

Nay, I want no business partners other than Miss Littleton.

We’ve an agreement—she knew the value of the tiles right off and only asks that her work with the societies be recognized.

She’s not after our land or profits, only the scholarly credit. That’s a fair deal to me.”

Abigail pouted but said nothing more, her brow furrowed as she worked silently to sift through the dirt for any items of interest. She filled her basket and shook it just as I had taught her, the vibrating motion often revealing the smallest secrets hidden within the soil.

I focused on cleaning the border of the tiles, but Mr. Perry’s words stung. My once-burning desire for recognition now felt hollow. Was I truly helping the Perrys and honoring Daniel, or had my ambition clouded my purpose? Unease gnawed at me as we uncovered more of the villa.

We soon finished our work for the day and pulled the canvas across the Bacchus mosaic. We had discovered a few pot shards far too shattered to reconstruct, but worth keeping and cataloging. I planned to take what I could home for inspection.

Yet I couldn’t help but wonder at the strange man in the distance who seemed as preoccupied with our work as we were.

A day later, while I sat in the parlor recording the latest finds within my journal next to Daniel’s worn copy of The Ruins of Palmyra by Robert Wood, Mrs. Herriot entered with a letter in hand.

“For you,” she said with a puzzled frown. “That’s the third letter to the parsonage sent by courier.”

Stilling any anxiety that a cancellation of the Society of Antiquaries was enclosed, I forced my breathing to remain even.

I expected to see Mr. Archibald Harrington, the secretary of the Society of Antiquaries, arrive any day.

Poor Mrs. Herriot had spent the rest of the morning fussing over the state of the parsonage, forcing Molly to polish the silverware, beat the rugs, and repeatedly dust. Father and I assumed any guest would choose the quiet of the parsonage rather than one of Mr. Barron’s rowdy inns.

Lord Hawthorn had the only other suitable lodgings.

Considering his lack of staff, I hated to presume on him.

Our relationship, as of late, had moved into something tentative, reminding me of two fencers politely saluting each other at the end of a match.

I motioned for my housekeeper to bring the letter.

She placed it on the desk with a flourish.

Instead of leaving me in peace, she hovered close by, no doubt hoping to discover the contents.

The heavy paper, the color of clotted cream with a muted wax seal lined with a Greek laurel, appeared different from the missives sent by the Society of Antiquaries.

“Blue,” I muttered to myself as I carefully broke open the seal. “The color of loyalty, truth, and strength.”

I quickly scanned the contents, my heart pounding as I read the lines.

“What on earth is in that letter?” Mrs. Herriot cried as she approached the desk again. I reached for it and showed her the elegant scrawl.

“It appears I have attracted the attention of the Society of Dilettanti after all. Mr. Beaumont’s secretary demands that I send all my sketches and findings to him at my earliest convenience.”

“Are we to expect more guests to the parsonage?” She squinted, holding the letter closer to read.

“I should hope not,” I answered. “I’m no longer certain I want to entertain Mr. Beaumont.”

Although the secretary had congratulated me on my recent success, I couldn’t quite shake the condescending tone or the demand to comply with Mr. Beaumont’s wishes. It was not a letter between colleagues, but an order.

It is only fitting that such a valuable discovery be placed in the hands of someone with the resources to appreciate its historical value. Please forward all of your recent research to the care of Mr. Beaumont at the soonest convenience.

She held out the letter, only to toss it onto the desk when I refused to touch it. “The same man who told you to stick to embroidery, isn’t he?”

“The same,” I said as I tapped my fingers against the desk, while a sense of restlessness swept through me. I had so desperately wanted them to acknowledge my find, a desire Daniel had affirmed before he left for London. Now they had done so, yet the triumph felt forced.

Mrs. Herriot’s eyes narrowed as she watched me. “Interesting timing, wouldn’t you say? Is it possible the Dilettanti read the London rags?”

I sighed. “I believe you are correct. They hadn’t believed me when I previously described the denarii and Bacchus mosaic.”

She appeared smug. “It’s a shame you’ve tried so hard to find acceptance with the most unlikely of groups. If only you had pleased your aunt. She might have helped you with a proper debut. You might be married and blessed with children as any respectable woman ought to enjoy.”

Normally, I had no trouble parrying words with Mrs. Herriot, but her admonishment felt like vinegar stinging a raw wound.

She swept from the parlor, satisfied that her guidance had found the mark.

I had traded the opinions of one group, that of the marriage mart and polite society, for another group even more disdainful, all the while thinking I was free to do as I pleased.

I was not free. Not really. Mr. Beaumont and the Dilettanti had given me enough warning through their correspondence that I would be a fool to keep engaging their interest. So bent on my quest for acknowledgment and earning the funds to help my brother escape his sentence, I had ignored the warning signs.

Rejection stung. Being used for someone else’s advancement stung even more.

I found a sheet of paper and prepared to draft a response. Hot words coursed through me, with all the fire and brimstone I had witnessed my father employ when defying the mine owners and their despicable use of children.

Pinching the feathered quill between my fingers, I blew out a noisy breath and curbed any inclination to unleash my emotions.

Once again, I kept my answer brief, thanking Mr. Beaumont for his interest. However, I refused to part with my sketches or divulge my findings.

As I addressed the envelope, I wondered about Mr. Beaumont, a man I had never met.

Surely, he would give up any interest, especially now with the Society of Antiquaries involved.