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Four days. How absurd. By now she should have invited Bram to the Guy Fawkes bonfire, yet she hadn’t. She’d tried, several times, but the words didn’t make it past her lips. Eva tipped the watering can, draining liquid into the outlandishly large fern in the sitting room. Why the sudden shyness around a man she’d known practically all her life?

She set the watering can on the mat near the baseboard and took to pacing a circular route. Late-morning sunshine bled through the windows, easing her foul mood somewhat. Another mild October day, which would be a boon for the historical society members who were due to arrive soon. Perhaps after they left she could steal a moment with Bram. Yes , that’s it. A quick invitation and they’d both go about their day. Nothing could be easier.

But even so, she pressed her fingers against her belly. What in the world was wrong with her? It was only a silly bonfire. She was overthinking the matter, that’s what, and all because of eleven wonderful words.

“You are—and ever will be—a beauty in my eyes.”

She stopped dead in her tracks. Naturally she had no right to believe such foolishness, but it had been kind of Bram to say such a thing, kinder still to voice it without a smirk or hint of jesting to his tone. Despite all his boyish pranks of long ago, it appeared he wished nothing more than to be a good friend. She sucked in a little breath. That was it! They were, after all, friends. Inviting him to a bonfire wasn’t some kind of romantic gesture. She’d simply say there were Guy Fawkes festivities in Royston and he could ride along with her if he liked. His crew, too, if they wished. Simple. Innocuous.

Perfect.

Relieved, she strolled to the large mirror above the mantel and tucked some stray hairs into her chignon. Usually she would be reading to Penny right now, but thankfully her sister had been amenable to listening to Little Women earlier than normal—as long as Eva would drive her over for a visit with her friend Amelia after service on Sunday. The little bargainer. Her sister had also started pestering her about attending a school for the blind as suggested to her by Professors Pendleton and Bram, but that wasn’t something Eva would barter for. Not quite yet, anyway. Penny was only twelve. Surely waiting another year or two wouldn’t hurt, when she could hopefully send her sister to school by her own funding rather than relying on the charity of Mrs. Mortimer.

Eva nibbled on her nail. This pestering by her sister was to be expected, though, in light of all the time Eva had been spending at the dig site and with Bram in the evenings. Guilt niggled at the back of her mind. She’d promised to take care of Penny, to be there for her, but lately her thoughts were elsewhere—namely on a grey-eyed man with a ready smile. She recalled the disappointed look in Penny’s eyes yesterday when she’d declined an invitation to play the piano together in order that she might discuss with Bram the price he thought that amphora might bring in.

Bah! How could she balance it all? She winced as she bit too near the quick of her nail. Penny had accused her of neglect recently, a sharp reminder her little poppet was growing up and becoming more perceptive. Eva had tried to make Penny understand the importance of this dig, the significance of the discoveries, but her sister had merely turned away, her sightless eyes shining with tears no words from Eva could wipe away.

And then there was Bram. His insistence that Penny needed more education than Eva could provide made her bristle. He had no idea of the depth of her responsibilities.

Sighing, she pressed her hands to her cheeks. She had to find a way to keep Penny close while allowing the girl the freedom to grow. But how? How could she be everywhere, do everything, without cracking under the pressure?

The front bell rang. Though it was only several members from the historical society, Eva pinched her cheeks for colour. The Inman estate might be falling down around her ears, but she didn’t have to look decrepit.

By the time she made it to the front hall, Dixon and Mary were already collecting the hats of two men and wraps of two women. Women? Oh , that’s right. She’d forgotten Mrs. White was a board member. But since when had Lottie taken an interest in history? Then again, one could never pin down the merry whims of Charlotte Channing.

Stepping forward, Eva curved her lips into her best hostess smile. “Welcome to the Inman estate, ladies and gentlemen. The professors are waiting for you in our breakfast-room-turned-workspace at the back of the house before we head out to the tent at the dig site, so follow me, if you will.”

She led them down a stretch of corridor, mortified by the loose plaster hanging in spots overhead. Another thing to fix once funding came in. She paused by the workroom door, angling so everyone might pass.

Mrs. White patted her on the arm while she swept by in a cloud of Bulgarian rose and ambergris. “Thank you, Miss Inman.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. White.”

The two gentlemen followed her, one short, the other valiantly trying to hide a shiny bald spot with wispy strings of overlong hair. Both dipped their heads as they passed. “Miss Inman,” they said in unison.

“Mr. Toffit, Mr. Hamby, happy to have you.”

The sweet scent of marzipan came next, but before Lottie could cross the threshold, Eva blocked her path. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. “You are not on the board.”

Lottie grinned as she rose to her toes, peeking past Eva’s shoulder. “Mrs. White visited Mother yesterday and said she was coming here to see some relics. I merely asked to tag along.”

“Since when are you interested in ancient Roman artifacts?” Eva followed Lottie’s line of vision. “Aha. You are not. You just wanted to see Professor Webb for yourself.”

Lottie lowered to flat feet, a twinkle in her eyes. “Maybe I simply wished to see one of my dearest friends.”

Mmm. Right. “I thought you were too busy making a Guy Fawkes effigy for your mother?”

“I am, but that’s a whole week and a half away. Besides, I told Mother I was sure to get some inspiration looking at your fine artifacts.” She leaned sideways, once again peering at Bram. “And I am feeling very inspired at the moment. You were right, you know. He does have a piratey flair. Very dashing, and more than intriguing. Do you think he’ll remember me?”

“I would imagine he has other things on his mind at the moment.”

“Let’s find out.” Lottie looped her arm through Eva’s, turning her about as she marched into the room.

“Maybe we should wait. Let him chat with the historical society first.”

“Nonsense.” Lottie headed straight toward the cluster of board members and professors. “You must learn to grab hold of an opportunity.” She stopped next to Bram and loudly cleared her throat.

Five pairs of eyes swung their way.

Lottie beamed.

Eva barely managed a sheepish smile. Most often she adored her vivacious friend. This wasn’t one of those moments. “Pardon me, Professor Webb, Professor Pendleton. I should like to introduce my friend Miss Channing. She is not part of the historical society but has recently taken a keen interest in certain things related to academics.”

Or more like a certain professor.

Bram’s uncle collected Lottie’s hand and bowed over it. “Lovely to meet you, Miss Channing.”

“Yes, enchanted,” Bram echoed at his side.

“I say!” Mr. Toffit called from where he’d wandered farther down the table. “This amphora is in near-perfect condition. First century or second?”

“Pardon us, ladies. Duty calls.” Professor Pendleton ushered Bram away.

Lottie turned to her, lower lip pouty. “He didn’t remember me.”

“Like I said, Lottie, he has other things on his mind right now. Give him some time.” Eva squeezed her arm. “As long as you are here, would you like to see what they have unearthed? They really have discovered some interesting items.”

With a last longing look at Bram, Lottie brightened. “That would be lovely. What have you got?”

“I am no expert, but I have learned a little.” Eva led her to the mosaic. “This is part of some flooring or maybe a decorative bit of wall.”

Lottie eyed the artifact. “The colours are so brilliant I can hardly believe this was buried in your back field.”

“The professors are adept with their cleaning methods. See the pattern here?” Eva pointed toward the anchor. “Early Chris tians used an anchor as a symbol of encouragement. I did a little reading on it in one of my father’s books and discovered it was also the royal emblem of Seleucus the First, one of the leaders after Alexander the Great. Supposedly he chose the design because he had a birthmark in the shape of an anchor.”

“Well, well, you are the scholar! Nicely done, Miss Inman.” Bram drew alongside her, admiration thick in his voice. “Or another explanation could be from when the emperor Trajan banished the fourth pope, Saint Clement. When Clement converted the people there, Trajan ordered his death by tying him to an anchor and drowning him in the sea. It is said the water receded afterward that his body might be buried by angels in a marble mausoleum. Not a very believable tale, but one that inspired the persecuted Church at the time.”

Lottie grinned, no longer interested in the coloured tiles on the table. “Neither can your scholarship be denied, Professor. Though, yes, Eva is brilliant. She’s always got her nose in a book. Surely you remember that from when we were young?”

“I do.” His gaze drifted to Lottie. “I am sorry, but did you say we ? Have we met before?”

“We have.” Lottie fairly bounced on her toes. “My full name is Charlotte Channing, but when we were young, everyone called me Lottie. Eva still does.”

“Ah yes. Forgive me for forgetting.”

“Oh, no need to apologize.” Lottie giggled. “We all change over the years. You certainly have.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

Lottie leaned toward him. “In the best way.”

Eva rolled her eyes. If she didn’t break this up now, there was no telling how much more Lottie would gush about Bram’s attributes. Lightly, she rested her hand on her friend’s arm. “We should let the professor get back to the society members.”

“I suppose so.” Lottie sighed. “But I will see you at the bonfire, Professor, and we can catch up then.”

Eva stiffened.

Bram angled his head. “What bonfire?”

“Oh”—Lottie didn’t miss a beat—“I should have spoken more clearly. The bonfire at the Guy Fawkes festival Eva invited you to.”

You mean the bonfire I should have invited him to.

Lottie’s gaze bounced between them. “Eva, you did invite the professor, didn’t you?”

The same sunshine that had warmed her in the sitting room now angled through the window like a brash aunt come to point out her shortcomings. “I ... did not. I mean, I did not have the chance yet.”

“I see,” Lottie drawled, and with her next breath, she flashed a bright grin at Bram. “Then allow me to extend the invitation, Professor Webb. I’d be delighted to see you in Royston on the fifth.”

“I think that can be arranged, Miss Channing. Now if you will excuse me, I really should be getting back to business.” He left them with his trademark wink.

Eva deflated. At least she didn’t have to torture herself about how to ask him anymore.

Lottie nudged her with her shoulder. “I thought you were going to ask him.”

“I ... tried. It just never seemed like the right time.”

“Then it is a fortuitous thing I came along today, hmm? So how about you dazzle me with more information about these items? That bauble over there is so pretty in the sunshine.” Lottie ambled toward the pendant.

Eva followed. Fortuitous wasn’t quite the description she’d use. More like slightly irritating, for it had been uncomfortable witnessing Lottie flirt with Bram. Not that Eva had any claim on the man, nor did she intend to have any, but still...

Why the sudden rebellion of the morning tea in her belly?

Though two sides of the field tent flaps were rolled open, it was still a bit stuffy with so many bodies milling about, particularly when one of those bodies had apparently been dipped in rose and ambergris. Bram fought the urge to sneeze as he waited for Mr. Toffit to finish scrutinizing a set of first-century iron chisels he’d recently finished cleaning—which had been no small feat considering several of the excavation implements had been broken the other day. When he’d pulled up to the dig on Tuesday morn, he’d accidentally rolled the wagon wheels over an assortment of scattered tools. The students had no idea how the items had gotten there, and he believed them, but when he’d questioned his uncle, well, the old fellow had dithered a bit before spouting a denial. Either the cursed-acres lore had caused the mishap, or his uncle’s forgetfulness might be turning into a liability.

Across the tent, Eva’s friend Miss Channing flashed him a smile. Honestly, he didn’t remember much about her, but one thing was crystal clear: The woman was interested in him. Was Eva? His gaze drifted to where she stood next to Miss Channing, chatting with his uncle. Sunlight haloed her head, burnishing her hair to an autumn glow and painting her face in honeyed light. She didn’t so much as slip him a side-eye, so taken was she with whatever his uncle said. Bram rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. It was hard to say what she thought of him with her mixed signals, sometimes friendly, other times cool.

“What are all these bottles and jars, Professor Webb?” Mr. Toffit waved his hand over the analysis set at the back of the table. “This looks more like a chemistry laboratory than a dig site.”

“So I have been told.” And warned against by Grimwinkle. The man fussed about the potential harm that could be inflicted upon a relic, but if he’d have taken an hour or two for deep discussion with the chair of the science faculty as Bram had done, then Grimwinkle would know what a baseless concern he held.

Bram held up an amber bottle in a ray of sunshine. “I find that by employing chemical analysis, I can achieve a more comprehensive interpretation of the past, connecting artifacts to specific practices or trade routes. In this case, I’ve not identified any linkage between this settlement to the Roman road between London and Cambridge, which means the people who settled here—who were clearly of Roman origin—were either horribly lost or they didn’t wish to be found. I am hoping for the latter, as the settlement we are looking for would have purposely kept a distance from other Romans who might persecute them for their faith.”

Now if he could just find something definitive to mark this as Caelum Academia, for a mere Roman village would do nothing to vindicate his uncle—and every day spent here meant one day not spent finding the colony they so desperately needed to prove existed to Grimwinkle. He needed to find something, a wax tablet, a fragment of a codex, or, by a great act of God’s mercy, a preserved scroll. Something— anything —to prove this was Caelum Academia.

“Professor Webb.” Mrs. White gestured to two large canvases he’d pinned to a tent wall. “About these drawings?”

“If you will excuse me, Mr. Toffit.” He dipped his head at the short fellow and crossed the now-flattened grass to the side wall.

“Not much to look at, are they, Mrs. White?” He grinned as he stationed himself next to her and Mr. Hamby. “And yet these line sketches are invaluable. These are stratigraphic drawings, illustrating the layers and relationships between different deposits, which is crucial for understanding the chronological sequence of artifacts and features we find.”

Mr. Hamby’s lower lip stuck out. “Impressive.”

“More like helpful, I would say.”

“Professor Webb,” Miss Channing called. “Are those young men out there your students?”

He couldn’t have planned a better transition. “They are, and I have no doubt they would love to show us what they are currently working on. Shall we join them?”

As if on cue, Uncle Pendleton crooked both his arms for Eva and Miss Channing. “Allow me to lead you out, ladies.”

Mr. Hamby accompanied Mrs. White, though he did notice the man turn his head aside to breathe lest he suffocate in her cloud of perfume.

Which left him and Mr. Toffit alone. Bram stepped toward the open flap and swept out his hand. “After you, sir.”

Mr. Toffit held his ground, one finger up in the air. “A word first, Professor, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” He doubled back to the table. “Have you more questions about chemical analysis? I can assure you the compounds I use are all safe for delicate antiquities.”

Mr. Toffit sniffed, his pencil-thin moustache crinkling into more of a wave than a straight line. “Actually, I have some inquiries that are more personal in nature.”

Bram tensed. Blast. What had the man heard of him? “Ask away.”

“I am wondering how beholden you are to Trinity College.”

Huh. Of all the turns of conversation, he hadn’t seen that one coming. “Quite frankly”—he cracked his knuckles—“I know nothing else. Trinity is where I was educated and have worked ever since.”

“Would you ever consider leaving?”

He hadn’t until Grimwinkle’s latest witch-hunt. And now with his uncle retiring next spring. “Perhaps, if the timing and opportunity were right.”

“I must say I am impressed with what you and Professor Pendleton have accomplished here in such a short time. You show a great passion for the preservation of the past. Does that passion extend beyond Roman antiquities?”

Bram picked up one of the cleaning brushes, running his thumb over the bristles. “I enjoy interacting and being of help to my colleagues who work with a span of cultures and eras, from ancient Greece to Egypt, even to the Mayan and Incan peoples. So yes, while Rome is my first love, it is my intention to bring history alive for my students.”

“ Only students?”

“What are you getting at, Mr. Toffit?”

The short fellow curled his fingers around his lapels, pulling himself up to full height—which barely brought the top of his head even with Bram’s shoulders. “Earlier this year, the Royston Historical Society came into quite a windfall. One of our wealthiest benefactors recently passed, leaving his entire estate to us with the express wish that we create a museum. We have since found the perfect building to house our collection, which at the moment is woefully insufficient. To offset such a lack, the board members and I feel an educational approach would enhance what we have.”

Bram set the brush back on the table, intrigued by such novel thinking. “What sort of educational approach?”

“Lectures, workshops, perhaps even small field trips for those of an interest.”

Well, now. That was quite large thinking for such a small town ... and therein lay the crux of the matter. The citizens of Royston had livelihoods to manage. Would they have time to involve themselves in such academic pursuits?

“Tell me, Mr. Toffit, do you really think the people of Royston would participate in this?”

“Oh yes.” He bobbed his head vigorously. “I should say there’s been a great deal of interest in the few town meetings we’ve held. And as you know, we’re not all that far away from Cambridge. We could draw from that populace as well.”

It could do. There were many deep pockets in Cambridge with a love of all things historical, and if this new museum was to partner with Trinity, why, the possibilities could be beneficial to them both. “It sounds as if you have thought this through.”

“Indeed.” The man sniffed again, then took a moment to retrieve a snowy handkerchief and honk a few notes into the cloth. “And what I am thinking now is that with your passion for education and flair for innovation, you are the perfect fit for our new curator. I have no doubt the other board members will agree.”

He blinked. Him? Head of an entire museum? What a dream job. His gaze drifted out the flap to his students, who were enthusiastically pointing at their latest excavations. Young men like them made teaching worthwhile, and he’d miss them sorely.

But he wouldn’t miss the politics of academia one whit.

He locked his gaze on Mr. Toffit. “I am honoured, sir. Most would seek out someone with years more experience, such as my uncle.”

“There is a certain wisdom that comes with age, no argument there. But in order for this museum to be a success, it must have a fresh vision from a younger mind. A visionary, if you will. I see that in you.”

His breath caught in his throat. As a lad, he’d longed for a father to recognize and encourage him just like this. But he’d had no father. He’d hardly had a mother to keep track of him.

“Thank you, Mr. Toffit.” He barely pushed the words past the lump in his throat.

“Excellent!” He clapped his hands together. “Think on it, then, and we’ll get back to you with a formal offer. Now, I am finally ready to see what your students have uncovered today.” He strode toward the open flap.

Yet he barely made it there before Bram called after him, “Oh, Mr. Toffit, when were you hoping to fill the position by?”

“End of the year,” he answered without missing a step.

Hefting a sigh, Bram plowed his fingers through his hair. So much for that grand career move. It didn’t matter what sort of offer the historical society returned. There was no way he could take on a curatorship and keep his uncle out of trouble until the end of the school year at the same time.

Assuming he could keep his uncle out of trouble, period.