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It’s not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste much of it.

Life is long enough, and it’s been given to us in generous measure for accomplishing the greatest things, if the whole of it is well invested.

But when life is squandered through soft and careless living, and when it’s spent on no worthwhile pursuit, death finally presses and we realize that the life which we didn’t notice passing has passed away.

SENECA

Father didn’t approve at all of May Day, which marked the beginning of the month with its pagan roots extending to the Celtic observance celebrating the beginning of spring, and if one reached further back, ancient Rome with the festival of Floralia, the goddess of flowers.

The young girls wove crowns of wildflowers to wear during the parade.

A flagpole draped with ribbons and set in the town square triumphantly waited for the revelers.

I didn’t care about the dancing or the ale that poured freely throughout the afternoon and especially into the late evening.

However, the festival had been a tradition in our village since the sixteen hundreds when Charles II reinstated it.

Many a girl, including Abigail, dreamed of dancing with a handsome beau and being crowned the May Queen.

“It’s Pentecost,” Father reminded me when I stepped into the drawing room that afternoon. In the past, we had stayed home together, enjoying a quiet evening. The day before, he spent in prayer, interceding for blessings on the flowers, fruits, and fields.

“Abigail made me promise I would go with her,” I responded, adjusting my gloves. “She needs someone responsible to ensure all the young swains don’t trip over her toes. Her father will be present. I doubt you’ll need to worry about either of us.”

Moreover, I dreaded nursing my morbid thoughts within a stuffy drawing room while trying to guess what Lord Hawthorn and Mr. Perry might do with their land.

The longer I worked on the excavation, the more Mr. Harrington and Father advised a short rest. Torn by the need to uncover more of the mosaics and chaperone my friend, I finally settled on the latter, even if I felt a prick of resentment.

Father grimaced. “Mr. Perry ought to have better control over his daughter.”

I hid my smile as I touched my curls, artfully styled with ribbons, thanks to Molly’s expert interventions. Of course, Father heard the same said about me.

“We won’t stay late into the evening. We’ll wander the grounds and sample the tarts. Maybe we’ll even have a glass of lemonade. She dreams of being a queen for a night.”

“Chaperone, indeed. You look as though you need a chaperone of your own,” he said, taking in my newly reworked gown, sewn by Mrs. Herriot from one of my mother’s dresses. The pale-green fabric, accented with lace at the sleeves and a slightly lower neckline, caught his attention.

“Do you like it?” I asked, since I had allowed Mrs. Herriot the freedom to choose what she thought best. I had never seen a woman so happy.

He grunted as he pushed up his glasses. “It’s fetching enough.” Then his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Quite fetching. Do refuse any impetuous marriage invitations while you’re out. A father has to have some say in the matter.”

I laughed as I draped a lace shawl over my shoulders. “You needn’t worry on my account. It’s Abigail who needs watching.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Indeed, she does. I just heard from one of the tenants that he spied her riding with Mr. Barron yesterday.”

I opened my mouth to protest and swiftly shut it. How was it that Abigail and I no longer shared our secrets with each other? I had thought Mr. Barron had abandoned her, considering Mr. Perry’s refusal to bring him into our venture.

Despite my anxiety over Abigail’s secrecy, there was no time to dwell on it. Before I knew it, Abigail and I found ourselves at the Hawkinses’ home, exhausted from the day’s events but eager for the country dance.

The large manor house, which had plenty of room for a country dance, was aglow with candlelight, and the polished floor gleamed while a fiddler struck a merry tune.

A crowd of familiar faces pressed close against us, including Lord Hawthorn’s tenants and the villagers.

I recognized the Cordings with their son, Jonathan, at the outskirts next to a table with an enormous punch bowl.

Mr. Perry had a glass of punch in hand, his nose especially red this evening.

Earlier in the afternoon, we had enjoyed the maypole, festooned with blue, pink, and yellow ribbons, as the young girls twirled with their crowns of flowers.

The Green Man, one of the Devon boys bedecked in green attire and foliage, had marched through the street leading the procession of merry morris dancers.

Within the ballroom, I now spied many of our dancers, including the Green Man wandering with a bit of leaf trapped in his tousled hair.

He joined the other young men near the punch bowl, where a concoction of lemonade and Jamaican rum brought a steady line.

“I should have liked to have been crowned the May Queen,” Abigail confided wistfully as she joined me. I smiled at her. Already the steward of the dance had arranged introductions for her to dance with a partner, so the evening wasn’t a loss.

“You resemble a queen,” I said.

She glowed, frocked in one of my pink gowns with flowers pinned artfully within her arranged curls. She brushed her gloved hands against the dress. “I don’t think I ever want to take this gown off. I do hope I will dance holes into my slippers.”

“You are only young once. Did Mr. Barron fill your card?”

She fidgeted with her gloves. “I fear he has lost interest in me unless I can change his mind.”

“There are plenty of good men out there,” I said more confidently than I felt. “Mr. Barron doesn’t know what he is missing.”

She fidgeted with her gloves, but her attention remained pinned on the youth by the punch table.

Abigail did not have to wait long to be asked to dance. A young man I recognized from church held out his arm, hardly needing to coax her to join a quadrille about to start. The music soon reached a crescendo, the violin as thrilling as could be.

I had a hard time not tapping my slippers to the rhythm. Suddenly the music ground to a discordant halt, and at the room’s entrance, a disturbance caused a ripple through the dancers. Three men pushed into view, each eliciting a different reaction from me.

The peerage graced the Hawkinses’ home. Dressed in severe black, Rafe towered over Mr. Beaumont and Lord Ainsley.

He scanned the room, his features narrowing as if he wanted to be anywhere else.

Mr. Beaumont created quite a stir, his blond hair gleaming beneath the candlelight.

Again, he wore a bloodred waistcoat. His friend, with hair elaborately curled like a woman’s, appeared the picture of boredom.

The dance had concluded, and couples were re-forming lines to prepare for the next when Mr. Hawkins urged those near the front to make way for the peerage.

A few couples sheepishly edged out of the way to make room for the newcomers. Mr. Beaumont’s mocking smile grew wider as his host fawned over his new guests while pointing out the most eligible ladies in the room.

My gaze snapped to Rafe, who appeared stone-faced when Lord Ainsley placed a hand on his shoulder. As if sensing the weight of my stare, Rafe turned. Our eyes locked and my breath froze in my lungs. He had come with the Dilettanti. The very men I had longed to impress.

“Miss Littleton, will you not dance?” A voice purred in my ear.

Startled, I whirled around to see Mr. Barron grinning at me. “It’s me or Mr. Cording by the punch bowl. Don’t look now, but I believe he’s coming our way. Never mind; he lost his courage. Back to the punch bowl for another drink. Poor man, so faint of heart. I’ll gladly stand in his stead.”

“I have no desire to dance, thank you.” I dearly hoped Abigail would remain with her partner and not spy Mr. Barron by my side. I wanted no jealousy from her.

He angled closer, his spirit-laden breath igniting a spark of annoyance.

“We don’t need to dance, then. It’s conversation I’m after.

You found something else in the field, did you not?

Mr. Perry has suddenly become as tight-lipped as they come.

Repeatedly, he’s rejected my offers to help him clear the field or post a guard.

Why? I understand someone tried to steal a mosaic. ”

“Did Miss Perry share this news with you?” I demanded.

“She did.”

“And what are your intentions with my friend?”

He opened his mouth, shocked, no doubt, by my question. “I have asked her for the honor of her hand, upon my word. Her father is quite agreeable to the notion.”

I didn’t know what to believe, considering Mr. Perry had expressed only disgust with the innkeeper, and my friend would likely marry any half-decent man who could provide a comfortable life.

As I inched backward, Mr. Barron placed a hand on my arm. “Please, Miss Littleton, I am worried for her. And you. I consider the vicar a dear, dear friend.”

A ripple of fear chased away my former annoyance. “There is no need to worry about us, Mr. Barron. We’ve been careful with the excavation, and I’ve had help.”

Mr. Barron’s grasp on my arm tightened, his tone lowering.

“That so-called help hasn’t been enough when danger comes from unexpected places.

” He steered me away from the dancers, closer to the wall.

The music grew louder as the fiddlers increased their tempo.

With the clapping and cheering, no one would overhear our conversation.