Page 52

Gold tests with fire, woman with gold, man with woman.

SENECA

The sun began to set after Mr. Barron’s visit to the field.

I slipped out of the parsonage with less than a few hours of daylight to probe the buried pot I’d uncovered earlier.

Father and Mr. Harrington remained in the drawing room, deep in conversation over port—well, Mr. Harrington exclusively, as Father never touched the stuff.

I laced up my slippers and slid a pocketknife into my apron. Mrs. Herriot eyed me suspiciously as I grabbed my shawl and satchel from the hook on the wall. She hovered over a plate of gingerbread, her cheeks a bit full.

She swallowed an enormous lump and brushed sugar from her mouth. “Leaving at this hour?”

“Just a quick walk, I assure you. I’m heading to the mosaics. Not to worry, I’ll be back by nightfall.”

She shook her head, a few crumbs clinging to her chin. “One of these days, miss, all this gallivanting about will catch up with you.”

“Think on the bright side, Mrs. Herriot,” I called over my shoulder with an impish grin, “at least you can have my share of the biscuits this evening.”

I closed the door, hurrying down the wildflower-strewn path, gasping for air as I passed homes and farms until I reached Mr. Perry’s cottage. I would visit the Perry family after the field, should I find anything of value. And I would speak to Rafe soon regarding Mr. Barron’s accusation.

A knot formed in my stomach as a harsh wind rushed against the floor of the valley, and the endless sky above reminded me of my insignificance.

I should be used to being mostly alone. Sadly, I had accepted morsels in my relationships and pretended they were a feast. Was solitude the safer path to protect myself from betrayal and hurt?

I didn’t know whom to trust anymore, especially since someone had told Mr. Barron about the ring.

My heart stuttered at the idea of Rafe using it to his advantage. Or the mosaics.

Within moments, I found myself beside Ganymede, his mosaic figure soaring toward Olympus in vivid cerulean and gold—the spot where I had heard something crack.

I knelt, trowel in hand. Yet, as I chiseled away the earth, my thoughts wandered to Medusa.

She lay several feet away, her twisted face haunting the edges of my mind.

Her story—the vengeance, the curse—seemed to reflect a deeper truth about human nature.

What did her frozen fury say about the wounds we carry, unseen beneath the surface?

As I pondered these thoughts, my trowel hit something hard. A sharp clunk rang out in the quiet, pulling me from my reverie. I stared down at the dirt.

The sound of shattering brought a low groan of frustration as I wiggled a small amphora free. The remainder of the vessel broke apart, the clay far too fragile to withstand my clumsy efforts.

A cry escaped me as a gold necklace tumbled to the dirt.

My hand hovered over it, and as carefully as I could, I lifted it higher to examine it, counting eleven rounded amethyst stones, securely inset within the delicate goldwork.

The heavy chain gleamed with beautiful craftsmanship, and to my amazement, a matching bracelet rested beneath it.

Both pieces, remarkably preserved, revealed intricate swirls and circles, visible despite the centuries of grime.

I removed my handkerchief from my apron pocket and gently wiped the smooth surface of the gems.

Another thought circled my mind. Of course, I felt some degree of pleasure in finding such rare jewels. They would serve Mr. Perry’s finances well, and my research would bring a welcomed notoriety, further securing my position with the Antiquaries society.

The longer I held the jewelry in my ungloved hand, the more my heart collapsed into emptiness.

It was simply a necklace and bracelet in the end, hidden and of no use for centuries.

Had the woman who wore them chased after empty baubles, only to find that they could neither fulfill nor save her?

The heavy gold taunted me, unlike the Christian symbols etched into the doll and buried with a beloved child.

I did not withhold my heart from any pleasure, and indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind.

Father’s sermon on Ecclesiastes came back in snippets.

Had I, too, chased after the wrong pursuits, seeking them to fill the chasm within me when the answer I needed had been with me all along?

My mother loved to share the story of the lost coin with me, of the woman hunting throughout the house until it was reclaimed.

I had assumed she meant rescuing Daniel from his recklessness.

But truthfully, I was that lost coin.

“Oh, God, do you truly care for Daniel and me?” I spoke out loud as I lifted my head to the heavens, my cheeks suddenly wet. “I know the right answers, but I struggle to believe. Help me in my unbelief.”

The wind brushed against me with a low moan and the clouds drifted across the sky as I awaited an answer.

“Miss Littleton!” A man’s voice shouted from across the field. “Do wait for us!”

Startled, I saw Mr. Barron striding across the field with Abigail in tow. He grinned broadly at me while she struggled to match his long-legged stride.

Strange. I had not noticed him drive up to the field. Had he waited in the Perry cottage all this while? Or just emerged from behind the copse of trees to the east, where Rafe’s stranger disappeared?

Quickly, I dashed at my eyes with my free hand.

He had changed his foppish attire to something far more serviceable, with dirt marring his trousers at the knees and his white shirt lying open at the throat without a cravat.

Before I could say anything, he reached into his shabby greatcoat and pulled out a pistol, aiming it at my chest.

I sucked in a horrified breath, my shoulders squaring as I rose. “What is the meaning of this, sir?”

He waved the pistol at me, gesturing to the jewels in my shaking grip. “You’ve been keeping secrets from Miss Perry. Whatever is hiding in your hand, I want you to give it to her.”

“Put the gun down,” I said as evenly as I could.

He cocked the hammer with a sneer. “Give the necklace to her, please. I won’t ask nicely again.”

Numb, I couldn’t move a muscle, my shock so complete, especially when Abigail slipped up to my side and reached for my hand. She tugged it upward, prying my fingers away from the jewels. Her mouth parted at the sight of the purple gems.

“Can we distract him?” I whispered to her. “I’ll throw the jewelry to the left and you run back to the cottage and nab your father.” An absurd plan full of risk, but I was willing to try it if it would keep her safe.

She blinked at my proposal. “You don’t understand. I haven’t a choice. He—he...”

“The necklace, Abigail. No speaking to Miss Littleton. It won’t do any good.” Mr. Barron gestured again with the pistol.

She exhaled sharply. “Please, Bridget. Do it for me.”

Horror dawned as my fingers clenched around the necklace. She had not been dragged against her will. She was Mr. Barron’s accomplice.

“ You were the one who informed Mr. Barron about the ring.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, without any further hesitation she snatched both pieces from me, scratching my palm and wrist in the process, but her bottom lip quivered.

Muttering a curse, Mr. Barron snatched my arm with his free hand, his fingers digging deep into the flesh, far more so than they had on May Day.

“What else have you found?”

“You seem to know about the ring and the doll, and now the necklace and bracelet. Did you steal Bacchus?” I demanded.

“Bacchus is safely tucked inside a crate.” He dragged me away from Ganymede. If only I could turn him into a statue of stone, but he was manhandling me with an alarming speed, forcing me farther away from Mr. Perry’s cottage.

“Where is Mr. Perry?” I demanded as I stumbled forward, trying to wrestle my arm free. A losing battle against his iron grip.

“He’s at the Jolly Wench, celebrating a night of good fortune with his friends. I’ve made sure the ale flows freely. You needn’t worry about him. He’s perfectly happy this evening.”

“Jim, where are you taking her?” Abigail’s plaintive voice came from behind us as he dragged me next to a copse of trees where a horse waited. “You promised me you wouldn’t hurt her. You said you would let her go once you got the treasure.”

“Silence,” he roared, pausing mid-step to swing the gun in her direction.

Her eyes widened, and she burst into tears.

I dared not jerk free only to find the gun going off and injuring her.

But I had to inform Father or Mr. Harrington of where I was headed.

Could I drop my handkerchief somewhere along the way?

Would any of them notice my absence? A swell of panic bubbled up in my throat.

I was truly abandoned, betrayed by one of my dearest friends.

“You said you cared for me. I thought we would leave for Gretna Green this evening.” Abigail hiccupped loudly and wiped her nose with the edge of her sleeve.

Her nose was red from crying, and her hair mussed by the wind.

She hardly appeared the same woman from the Hawkinses’ dance, where she kept the young gentlemen on their toes.

“I do care for you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Come here. Put them in my coat pocket.”

Like a meek lamb, she did as she was told, sniffling as she slid the jewels into his coat.

“Good girl,” he crooned before flashing me the most impudent smile.

Bacchus indeed. Here stood the perfect representation of the god of wine and drink, and I wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his full lips.

Could I reach for the knife in my apron?

Then again, what good would a knife do against a pistol?

“I have only one question,” I interrupted. “Where is Bacchus? He belongs in Mr. Perry’s field. The gems, the ring, and all of it belong to Mr. Perry. Why ask the woman you care about to destroy her father?”