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Love in its essence is spiritual fire.

SENECA

Three days later, I received a formal invitation to present my findings to the Society of Antiquaries. I hardly dared break the beautiful seal—a testament that my research would finally find an audience. My joy nearly overflowed as Father and I read the letter in the drawing room.

“You did it, Bridget. At long last, the entire world will learn of the Roman villa discovered in Bramnor. And I imagine this will not be your only excavation,” he said with a tremulous smile.

“They’ve offered to pay me for the presentation and some of my sketches in advance, and by the end of the month!

We can at last hire a lawyer for Daniel,” I replied.

Strange how my eyes watered so often as of late.

I dashed aside a tear with my knuckle as I scanned the invitation again, allowing the pristine script and perfect penmanship to sink into my memory.

“Yes,” Father murmured beside me. “Although, Bridget, God may yet have a purpose for your brother in that hulk. A refining, if you will. I will go to him at the soonest convenience with the good news. I must make amends with him as I have done with you. I can only hope our relationship will be restored.”

“It can, Father,” I reminded him. “After all, if the old viscount could find redemption, surely we can hold on to hope for Daniel.”

My heart pounded with joy. I planned to run all the way to the abbey to find Rafe and share the letter with him, but when I went to retrieve my poke bonnet from a hook on the wall, the door opened in our entranceway and there he stood.

Father cleared his throat and started to leave the room with his paper folded beneath his arm. In fact, he barely offered a greeting to Rafe, although I thought I saw a sparkle in Father’s eyes. Hard to say with his spectacles reflecting the morning light.

“You’re leaving?” I asked Father.

“I’m certain I left a book in my study,” he said as he slipped through the drawing room door and into the hall.

Rafe removed his beaver hat. At once my mouth dried.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are in that dress?”

I glanced down at the green gown. A favorite color, but nothing spectacular, at least according to Mrs. Herriot.

“No, but I appreciate a compliment as well as any woman,” I teased. I showed him the letter, and at once his features relaxed as he scanned the contents.

“Bridget, how tremendous.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yes. They have invited me as an informal member and wish to include me in other excavations. Bramnor is just the start. We could travel together after the wedding!”

“Capital idea.” He captured my hand. “I have news of my own. I reached out to Mr. Talbot the day after the fire. After hearing of my brother’s schemes, he has allowed an extension to prove myself in the joint venture with Mr. Harrington and Mr. Perry.

Bridget, we have another year to keep the estate.

Mr. Talbot is most intrigued with the idea of tourism. ”

“You shall be an antiquarian at long last.”

“I’m only concerned with the future.” He winked as he reached for me and took full advantage of my father’s absence.

“And after your presentation, where should we go for our honeymoon?” he asked, when he finally pulled back enough so I could breathe again.

“Honeymoon!” I cried. “Surely you jest. We should save our coins.”

He shook his head, a small grin tugging at his lips.

The money from the publication in Archeologia , along with my presentation and sketches offered a tiny boon, with just enough to escape to a single destination. Moreover, Constable Wickham returned the stolen mosaics to Mr. Perry.

Following the fire, Mr. Perry tearfully offered the recovered amethysts to Rafe instead of the society to help cover the costs of the abbey as restitution for his daughter’s treachery.

Rafe sold the gems for five thousand pounds to a secretive buyer.

We wondered if it might be the Prince Regent, who had expressed his interest in the ongoing research.

Using the funds to pay the debts Rafe had incurred, he still hoped to return industry to the valley come fall with a new harvest of apples from the trees in the old orchard.

There was just enough coin leftover to invest in a joint tourist center.

Rafe, Mr. Perry, and I committed to offer an educational experience that would showcase not only the villa and its exquisite floors, with ongoing excavations, but also bring new life to the abbey grounds.

Visitors, eager to explore the rich history of the estate, would be welcome to tour the ruins of the abbey, the Roman villa, and the surrounding orchards.

Rafe dreamed of one day turning the abbey into an inn, making it a place of hospitality.

I could finally breathe a sigh of relief at such a change in fortune.

But time would be needed to heal our wounds fully.

Mr. Perry’s grief over his daughter had gutted him, even though the magistrate found Abigail guilty of no more than lying and foolish behavior.

Somewhere in the English countryside, she now hid with another family member until the babe was born.

I held hope that Rafe and Mr. Perry would grow to be good friends now that he had no family to lean on.

Mr. Barron and Lord Ainsley were not so fortunate as Abigail.

The magistrate sentenced Mr. Barron to transportation to the penal colonies, his crimes of conspiracy and attempted murder unforgivable.

As for Lord Ainsley, his title could not save him.

Stripped of his lands and wealth, he, too, faced a harsh sentence—ten years in a London prison for his role in the conspiracy and his attempt to ruin the estate.

The day after the fire, Mr. Spencer had found Mr. Beaumont crumpled beneath a beam, his sightless gaze pointed to the sky and a pistol gripped in his hand. The Times ran with the story, claiming Hawthorn Abbey Cursed Yet Again .

Rafe and I knew the truth, of course. Curses no longer held sway over my future husband. He had broken free from his past and was ready for a new beginning.

And now, with my intended in my arms, I couldn’t help but agree with him regarding that future.

“Bridget, what better opportunity to have a proper adventure and meet these academics in person,” Rafe murmured against my ear.

“I never could travel on Father’s purse,” I answered wistfully. “You know women do not have a grand tour.”

“Nor did I. I spent too many years fighting. Scraping by. One day, we shall have a grand tour together,” Rafe promised. “You won’t feel cheated with only a small trip this year?”

“No,” I said as I caught his fingers and pressed a kiss against his knuckles. “Not with you.”

“Surely, you have one destination in mind,” Rafe pressed with a hint of a smile as he drew closer.

“Greece, if you insist on traveling,” I answered dreamily. “Greece and the Parthenon. I’m of half a mind to pursue the city of Troy and its gold. Do you recall the story of Helen of Troy, the most beautiful woman in the world?”

He tightened his embrace. “I doubt she compares to you.”

I laughed as Rafe pressed kisses against my jaw, inching ever closer to my mouth.

And there was no more talk. Not for a long while. At least until Father coughed from the doorway, conveniently timed with his book in hand.

Six months after the fire at Hawthorn Abbey, Rafe and I married in a quiet ceremony, much to the delight of my father, who couldn’t quit beaming during the sermon.

Mr. Harrington attended and Mr. Perry, who clung to the back pew in the darkened recess despite Father’s protests.

I felt Abigail’s absence keenly. And Daniel’s.

I prayed for them whenever they crossed my mind.

We had learned that my brother recovered from his illness, and with good behavior Rafe thought Daniel might earn a reprieve in his sentence. We waited breathlessly for when we would be allowed to see him, sending him as many letters and tins of gingerbread and biscuits as we could.

Life settled into a quiet rhythm around the abbey as winter approached, a light frost gradually covering the scorched stones and charred remains.

The crisp air brought a kind of stillness, as if the abbey itself was pausing, waiting to heal.

While the trees in the orchard stood bare, I held on to the hope that come spring, new life would return once more.

A fortnight after the wedding, during my honeymoon, no less, I traveled to London with Rafe to visit Mr. Harrington and present our findings to the Society of Antiquaries.

To my surprise, some members of the Dilettanti came to the session, offering red-faced apologies for Mr. Beaumont’s and Lord Ainsley’s atrocious behavior.

After I presented my research on the case of the ivory doll, the bones now dated to the fourth century, and the early church presence within Roman Britain, several society men clapped while passing around my research paper with illustrations.

Mr. Harrington promised to publish a book with my findings within a year.

But what brought my heart to brimming occurred when Rafe turned to me.

“Bridget, I have never been so proud of anyone as I am of you in this moment.”

“And I you,” I whispered back. “As much as I’ve enjoyed London, all I can think of is spending my days alone with you in Greece.”

What followed would forever be branded in my mind as the sweetest joy of marriage, as we enjoyed each other’s company in all the ways that mattered as we toured Greece.

On a particularly memorable night, the Temple of Apollo at Delphi loomed against the night sky, its ancient stones casting long shadows in the silver moonlight.

We sighed over countless marble statues and ornate carvings.

Yet I halted mid-step when I saw a sculpture of a woman trapped in marble, her beautiful face contorted with writhing asps crowning her head.

Medusa, cursed to be alone for all eternity.

Rafe stood beside me, one hand reaching for mine, his warm hand curling around my icy fingers. He brought continual warmth to me, as I did for him.

And I thought of the buried child and the owners of the villa, their hidden stories. And I thought of Rafe’s mother, of Mrs. Eacher, and the circle of women in my life who knew both love and loss, triumph and defeat.

How easy it was to have a heart of stone in this life. To bury oneself in noble pursuits and yet risk losing connection with those we loved. How easy it was to avoid what I needed most. To avoid love because of the fear of pain.

But I was finally free, no longer imprisoned in my repressed anger or my desperate need for recognition.

I finally understood the value God had assigned me.

Stepping away from the marble sculpture, I studied the man by my side, who had been broken over and over again and still retained a sense of softness deep inside.

We were never meant to live life alone in our own strength.

I squeezed his fingers, relishing the feel of them curling about my own. Torches lit the path as they had in ancient days, and the museum was soon to close its doors.

“Come, Lady Hawthorn.” Rafe grinned when I indicated I was ready to leave the museum. “What adventure shall we choose next?”