Page 47

The wise want love; and those who love want wisdom.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

I tried to forget the ride, and the kiss. In the hours that followed, I repeatedly pushed the memory to the back of my mind, only to have it resurface. If I closed my eyes, I could still see Rafe’s disbelief after I had discouraged his attentions.

I knew I had made the right choice to keep him free from obligation, but regret lingered.

As evening fell within the parsonage, the muted hues of purple and blue matched my dismal feelings.

Mr. Harrington and Father sat in the drawing room with borrowed books spread out across the desk, courtesy of Lord Hawthorn’s generous access to Roman history volumes.

My own search, however, bore little fruit.

I turned a page, my finger tracing the text on Constantine’s reign.

In the early fourth century, the Roman Empire began its shift from paganism to Christianity, but here in Britain, the old gods held sway.

Most families remained devoted to their pagan traditions, worshipping figures like Bacchus and Medusa, their symbols woven into daily life.

Regardless, Christianity had begun to take root, thanks to Constantine’s edict of Milan. Some had converted, practicing their faith in secret, even while the majority clung to the familiar rites of the past.

My eyes fell on the ring we had found at the villa—the one that had been pulled off as if in a struggle.

“The villa’s pagan mosaics—Bacchus, Medusa—they reflect the old ways,” I murmured. “Might some members of the household have resisted the shift to Christianity, while others embraced it? The struggle could have torn families apart.”

Mr. Harrington glanced up. “It’s a plausible theory. We may never know the full story.”

The thought saddened me—I longed to know more about the villa’s inhabitants. What had they cherished? What had they feared? Had a Christian mother prayed in secret, her love for her child a flickering light amid danger?

Father sat with an ancient volume on his lap, sipping tea, unaware of my inner turmoil.

I watched him, my heart a storm of conflicting emotions.

Constantine’s reign may have ended, but the questions left in its wake remained, echoing across time.

Could love truly conquer all? The inscription on the once-lost ring had suggested so, but my own experience told a different story.

“Father, I must insist. Put down your teacup before you ruin those handwritten pages from the fifteen hundreds.”

Father set down his teacup on the table next to him, his owlish eyes blinking beneath his glasses.

“What do you think, Vicar? Is the villa’s story lost to the ages?” Mr. Harrington asked, looking up from his notes.

“I’ve often wondered about the challenges the early church faced within Britain.

I cannot deny my heart is deeply encouraged by your discovery of Christian symbols.

Not even the gates of hell could prevail against what God ordained.

It is as if we’ve been given a glimpse of a miracle, tucked away until the proper hour, and dare I admit, one I needed greatly. ”

“Here, here! I fear we have come as far as we can for logical answers,” Mr. Harrington said as he picked up the feathered quill and dipped it into the inkpot.

Several papers lay on the desk, covered in notes.

“Anything else will be conjecture. I am a scholar of science, not fiction. All we can note in any presentation is the suspected age of the mosaics, the jeweled ring, and...”

“The doll with the Christian symbol,” I murmured.

No matter how hard I tried, I could only uncover fragments of the villa’s story.

Perhaps the child belonged to a slave who kept her faith like a candle burning in the dark.

Perhaps the dominus nurtured his fascination with gladiators and vice until his last wine-tainted breath, regardless of whether a Christian woman existed within his home.

A bittersweet end to my hungry search for answers regarding the lives of strangers who lived well over a thousand years ago.

I felt unsettled. Unfulfilled.

As Mr. Harrington and Father spoke about the items and the dig, making plans to gather and deliver the items to Lord Hawthorn in the morning, I found myself far more preoccupied with the present than the past.

What was Rafe thinking at this moment? Did he think of me? I touched my lips, remembering the kiss, but dropped my hand when Mr. Harrington gave me an odd look.

When the secretary retired for the night, I remained by the fireplace, studying the crackling flames. Father stayed with me.

“Bridget, you are not yourself this evening. Normally, you’d be putting a hole in the rug by now. What happened earlier with Lord Hawthorn?”

How perceptive he was. I flushed, having no intention of telling him anything about the ride back to the abbey, nor the marriage proposal.

“I had another accident involving horses, as you well know, and it reminded me of Daniel.”

Father removed his spectacles and slid them into his coat pocket, his expression grave.

“I have always regretted that day. You were in tears and stranded with a broken ankle. It was shortly after that incident when I sent him away to London to seminary, hoping he would find more honorable activities to occupy his days.”

“I want to understand why Lord Hawthorn thinks his broken uncle found redemption in the end. How can a boy who had love reject it, and a man starved for love, find it?”

My father smiled at me, albeit sadly, his eyes crinkling in the corners. I knew he grieved for Daniel as much as I did. Maybe more so, like the father in the tale of the prodigal son, yearning to wrap his arms around his lost child and hold him tightly.

“Bridget, therein lies the mystery. Who can tell whom God will rescue? I pray for Daniel. I hope that within that foul, damp hulk, he will turn back to God. I have no choice but to trust His leading in the lives of my children, including providing for my son’s needs.”

My throat tightened as I fidgeted with my sleeve.

“I fear that both your children will always prove utter disappointments. I’ve long struggled to believe in the goodness of God, especially after Mother passed away.

You poured so much into your ministry, and I felt as though I lost you too.

And Daniel... I tried so hard to be both a sister and a mother to him, but it proved too great a burden for me to carry. I needed you.”

My voice broke and for once, I struggled to keep the tears at bay as they spilled over my cheeks.

“ We needed you,” I repeated.

His eyes also shimmered with tears, and his Adam’s apple bobbed with effort. I feared I had pushed him too far with my plain speech. I never wanted to wound the one man who had represented hearth and home and all that I loved.

“Bridget... I am deeply sorry that my ministry caused you pain. Forgive me for being so consumed by it, especially after you lost your mother... and, in a way, your brother and me too. If I could fix my mistakes, I would. But I can’t go back and change the past. I can, like Daniel, only live with the consequences of my choices.

I was not the father you needed. I see that now.

“When you discovered the Roman doll’s markings, I prayed you would see it as a sign that God loves you, just as He cared for that Roman child.

That He delights in you and shows it by bringing a glimpse of His glory to shine in that murky soil of a simple farmer’s field.

His truth lasts far beyond Bacchus’s or Medusa’s influence.

“He created you to excavate. I finally understand. He led you to that precious child’s grave.

Is there anything that is not ordained within His sovereign will?

From your brother’s capture and detention to these mosaics uncovered in Mr. Perry’s field, just when he desperately needed money to save his farm.

I see these occurrences as signs, as miracles of His provision and sovereignty.

“None of our striving amounts to much in the end. It is only by His strength that we can accomplish anything.” He heaved a great sigh and continued.

“I had thought to join better men by initiating change in England and to reform the corrupt labor laws. I had such ambitious plans, but in the end, I suppose what God most desired of me was to serve one man. In these later years, after my son abandoned his faith, my ministry lay with a single man—a feebleminded, alcoholic viscount abandoned by all and deemed most unlikely to receive any grace. Too late, I learned to embrace grace and mercy. To temper the harshness of my tongue. By God, the old viscount chose that grace in those last years of his life. So, it is I who have let you down, both as a father and a vicar. It is I who failed. Please do not blame God for my shortcomings.”

We, too, had been a family torn apart, divided in our beliefs, not unlike the people who lived in the villa.

Tears poured down my cheeks, and I tried in vain to mop them up with my fingers. “No, Father. You are not a failure. And I don’t believe your ministry resulted in just one man. Look at the good you’ve done for Rafe.”

“Rafe?” Father arched a brow.

“Lord Hawthorn.” I corrected myself before hastening to add, “And look at the wisdom you’ve imparted to me and the entire village.”

His smile softened, though his expression grew more thoughtful.

“Yes, wisdom is a gift, but it is not always from me. What I have often preached—and tried to live by—is that what man intends for evil, God can redeem for good. I’ve seen it happen in the most unlikely of places and the most unexpected lives.

Even in the darkest moments, God is at work. ”

He paused, looking into the flickering flames.

“I believe He has been working in Daniel’s life, even now.

Mr. Harrington thinks you will receive funding and we can send further aid to Daniel in the months to come.

And, Bridget, God is present in your excavation too.

It’s not just the discovery of ancient artifacts—it’s a sign that He watches over us, even in a quiet village like ours. His hand moves in all things.”

There was a brief silence as we both reflected on these words. Then Father glanced at me with a knowing smile. “Lord Hawthorn is just the kind of man I admire.”

So I had not escaped Father’s keen study of me from the opposite settee. My fingers tangled together as I considered how to respond, trying to buy a few moments.

Father rubbed his chin. “He knows when to take a stand, or so Mr. Harrington has informed me. He is most unconventional, rather like our own family. A free spirit. I am eager to grow our friendship and see the good he will bring to Bramnor.”

I had not thought of Rafe as a free spirit, yet that moment when he had tipped his head so close to mine earlier, with the wind tearing at his hair, and his eyes darkening like a tempest, and his mouth parted as if to brush against mine, just before I kissed him...

A man willing to buck tradition—even the unwritten rule that said a viscount shouldn’t marry a vicar’s daughter like me.

Free spirit, indeed. I swallowed hard.