Page 16

16

A hint of frankincense wafted across the centuries. The tang of old leather and the mouldering dust of foreign lands floated on the air as well. Bram breathed deeply as he paced the length of the history department’s large storage room. Artifacts of various sorts and regions lined the enormous shelves. If he listened hard enough, he’d hear the breath of a thousand whispers telling their stories. Of all Trinity College’s prestigious halls and hallowed classrooms, this was his favorite place to be ... usually.

Today he’d rather be basking in the sunshine of the unseasonably warm November morn, sitting next to Eva on the bench where he’d left her reading a book. There was no predicting what sort of mood Grimwinkle would be in—sour, antagonistic, or outright poison-tongued—and though it’d taken much convincing on his part, he’d talked Eva into allowing him to meet with the man on his own to spare her any upset.

For the man could upset a saint.

He cracked his knuckles. Hopefully no more mishaps would occur at the dig site during his absence. He didn’t believe such poppycock about some ancient curse on a square of dirt and turf, but he did believe in the wickedness of men. Someone was up to no good. Then again, it could be pranking gone bad by his students, but to what end? They’d had to work all the harder yesterday, so that didn’t make sense. Who else would wish to obstruct his work? Grimwinkle, perhaps, for the last thing that man would want was solid proof of Caelum Academia, but he was here in Cambridge. The motive was there but not the opportunity. A sigh barreled out of him. He could only hope whatever or whoever the cause was would soon be exposed.

Pausing in front of the three crates on the table, he pulled out his pocket watch. Eleven thirty. The man was a half hour late. Heaven help him if he were the one to arrive tardy to a meeting, a sickening double standard.

Wooden clogs click-clacked at a fast pace, growing louder. Bram tucked away his pocket watch as Professor Grimwinkle dashed in, the tails of his suit coat flapping against his backside. A fine sheen glistened on the man’s upper lip and broad brow. Either he’d been participating in a marathon, or his morning classes had pushed him beyond his limits. Bram gave him a sharp nod. “Good morning, Professor Grimwinkle.”

“What is left of it, you mean,” he grumbled as he stopped across the table from Bram. “Since I have taken on your classes, my schedule has cinched tight. Where is Professor Pendleton?”

The same question Eva had asked him when he’d pulled the wagon up to the manor’s front door. It had been a gamble she’d even accompany him unchaperoned to Cambridge—or allow him to go it alone. In the end, though, being that the artifacts had been packed neatly and were ready to sell, not to mention the glorious weather, she’d acquiesced.

“My uncle awoke with terrible back pain, sir. He must have wrenched it yesterday at the site, what with all the digging. I felt it best he stay behind and recuperate.”

Disgust tightened Grimwinkle’s already-thin lips to a threadbare line. “It seems the man is unfit for anything. I should think the bulk of the excavation would’ve been finished by now. It wasn’t that large of a site. Are you meeting with any setbacks I should know about?”

Blast. Had Uncle Pendleton told the man about their troubles? Bram gritted his teeth. “There are always challenges, as you well know.”

“Yes, I do know.” An unreadable gleam shone in Grimwinkle’s eyes. “Now then, I haven’t much time. What is it you wish to show me? Have you found the grail?”

“Not yet, but we have uncovered many valuable and varied artifacts.” He pulled the already-loosened lid from one of the crates. “See for yourself.”

Bending over the box, Grimwinkle poked about, removing relic after relic, and mumbling the whole while. “Of Roman origin, good, good. Second century, I’d say. Relatively well preserved. Interesting variety.” At length, he set down a long-necked vase. “Of course, all this proves is that you have found an ancient site, not necessarily that it is from the supposed dwellings of Caelum Academia.”

“I have every hope we shall yet find some evidence, but that is not why I requested this morning’s meeting. As you have noted, this collection is diverse and in good condition, offering a comprehensive look at the historical evolution of the region. Such a variety could greatly benefit the education of our students, allowing them tactile learning instead of only what is printed in books.” Squaring his shoulders, he sucked in a fortifying breath. “I propose the department purchase this lot.”

“As you well know...” Grimwinkle plucked an errant wood shaving off his perfectly tailored sleeve, sneering at it as if he held a rat by the tail. “We only have so much money to go around, Professor Webb. Why should the college buy these items in particular?”

“The provenance of these artifacts is exceptional.” Bram picked up a little lamp and rested it on his palm. “Take a look at this. It is not every day one finds such a wealth of treasures so close to home, which adds an extra layer of relevance to the collection. Think of it. With these pieces, Trinity College could become a hub for the study of regional history, and that is sure to please investors.”

“Mmm.” The sound rumbled in Grimwinkle’s throat. “I am not certain. Investors are fickle creatures.”

Bram set the lamp on the table. Money always talked, and he intended to give it the best voice he could. “Not if it comes down to increasing profits. Handled properly, once word gets out that our history department—and ours alone—houses such a unique cache, potential students will be drawn in like senators to the Forum.”

“Possibly.” Grimwinkle tugged at his sleeves, straightening imaginary wrinkles. “I shall have to give it some thought before I present it to the budget committee.”

“But you will present it?”

“I make no promises.”

A frustrated sigh leached out of him. He should have gone straight to the Fitzwilliam Museum. With a swipe of his hand, Bram set the wooden lid atop the crate. “If you are not interested, then simply say so. There are other buyers to be approached. I merely wished Trinity to have the first chance at these beauties.”

“Leave it.” Grimwinkle planted a well-manicured hand atop the box. “I will sort through these items later and get back to you.”

Bram met the man’s gaze with a steely resolve. “And when will that be?”

“I am a busy man, Professor. I cannot say for certain, but I will give you an answer.”

Maybe so. Bram’s jaw clenched. But would the man’s answer be in time for Eva to pay her taxes?

She didn’t deserve such a lovely day as this, having lounged about decadently in the uncommonly warm November sun, reading to her heart’s content until Bram had returned. The history department head was considering the purchase of the relics, which wasn’t exactly what she’d hoped for. She’d rather have the money in hand right now. But Bram had assured her in his usual convincing way that though it wasn’t as quick of a turnover as she’d like, she would be paid for the antiquities sooner rather than later. A test of trust, she supposed, in more ways than one, and she wasn’t sure she liked such uncertainty.

Still, the day thus far had been perfectly splendid, and now, leaving a cozy public room where she’d eaten her fill of a rich lamb pie with a flaky crust—and on the arm of a handsome man, no less—Eva couldn’t be more content. Why, one might almost think she was a somebody. A lady of leisure. Her lips twisted into a smirk. How far from the truth that was. She couldn’t even afford to buy new ribbons for her faded bonnet.

As she and Bram stepped out the door of the Pickerel Inn, that very bonnet took flight in a gust of wind. She shivered as she lunged for it. My, how chill it had turned. She just might use that old blanket they’d tucked between the crates on the drive here to wrap up in on the journey home.

As she retied the frayed ribbons beneath her chin, Bram flipped open the lid of his beloved pocket watch. After a glance at the time, he tucked it away and re-offered his arm. “How about a quick stop before we collect the horse and wagon?”

She tucked her fingers against his sleeve, grateful for the warmth against her thin gloves. While they strolled, she lifted her face to the sky. Thick clouds scudded overhead, gunmetal grey and looking quite cross. “Should we? Looks like we are in for some bad weather.”

“And you are worried you shall melt?” He nudged her with his arm.

“Not at all.” She elbowed him right back. “But you just might.”

He chuckled. “I think we are both made of sterner stuff, but I also think you will be unable to refuse what I have in mind.”

Against her will, she admired the strong cut of his jaw and the way his shaggy hair bounced against it. He needed a trim, but was he aware of what must surely be a triviality in his world of buried treasures?

“What makes you think, sir, that I would find one of your ideas irresistible?”

“Because, milady, though you may not wish to admit so, sometimes I do have brilliant ideas.” He grinned as he stopped in front of a building with a long black awning, enormous windows, and a hanging placard that read W.Heffer & Sons Ltd , Booksellers and Publishers —her favorite Cambridge haunt. Well, well. He was entirely correct.

Threatening sky or not, there was no possible way she’d pass up an opportunity like this.

Bram paused in front of the door. “Shall we?”

She lifted her nose in the air. “Perhaps just for a minute.”

Then she bolted through the door with a laugh, the chime of a brass bell matching her merriment. Strange how frequently she smiled with this man, but that didn’t deserve a second thought as she gazed at the spines of stories galore. Ink and leather, paper and promises, she breathed it all in. So many books! How lovely it would be to pack up her traveling bag and simply move in here. To live, eat, and sleep surrounded by tales of all sorts. What a dream.

And what nonsense.

Come back to earth , girl.

For a while she wandered aimlessly, led by nothing other than fancying one book cover after another until she came across a lovely edition of Little Women . She ran her finger along the spine, appreciating the feel of the embossed golden letters, then slowly drifted her touch to the book next to it. Her lips parted on an intake of air as she pulled the beauty from the shelf. Good Wives. The sequel to Little Women . Oh, how Penny would love to hear this one. Actually, she wouldn’t mind a bit herself.

Cradling the new book like a babe in arms, she sank onto a nearby chair and reverently opened the cover.

“A merry Christmas, girls!” someone called from the other side of the shop. “What are you going to do with yourselves today?”

Eva smiled softly. The cheerful words felt like a promise, even if her own Christmas seemed so uncertain. This book would be a grand surprise, wrapped up in paper with a sprig of holly tied to the front. She closed her eyes, imagining her sister’s squeal of delight. The sound quickly faded, though. What sort of holiday could she possibly give Penny when she could barely afford to keep Mrs. Pottinger in flour?

Even so, she paged back to the front cover. Two shillings. Two! What an outrageous sum. She rose just as Bram cornered a long row of books.

“We should leave. We may need some extra traveling time.”

“Very well. I am ready to go.” She returned the book to the shelf with a last long look. Maybe someday—soon hopefully—she’d be able to buy her sister such a gift.

“What’s that you have there?” Bram fished out the novel with one of his long fingers. “ Good Wives ? Planning to be an overachieving bride, are you?”

Heat burned up her neck, blossoming onto her cheeks. “Do not be absurd. Clearly you have not read Louisa May Alcott. She’s an American novelist.”

“Ah, Romanticism at its finest, then, hmm?” He waggled his eyebrows. “I did not take you for a daydreamer.”

“Just because a girl reads novels does not mean she is a woolgatherer. Literature can offer valuable insights into the human experience, allowing readers to explore different perspectives and emotions. A window, if you will, into worlds both real and imagined, fostering empathy and understanding. I should think that as a college professor you would recognize the intellectual stimulation such an exercise might render.”

“Whoa, now.” He held up a hand. “I did not mean to strike such a nerve.”

Once again her face flamed, and she glanced away. What had gotten into her? “Pardon. I suppose I am a bit passionate when it comes to reading, especially since I hardly have time for it anymore. I was actually thinking of this book for Penny, that I might read it aloud to her.”

“Yet if you sent your sister to school, she would learn to read for herself—and then you would have time to linger in whatever stories might strike your fancy. It would be a benefit to you both.”

True. Penny likely would benefit from an education other than what she could give. The professor, Mrs. Mortimer, and Bram had all commented time and again on how smart Penny was. Eva really ought to consider it—and she would. But not yet.

She faced Bram. “School or not, there is still the issue of tax money.”

“Which hopefully will soon be remedied.” He tucked the book beneath his arm and strolled away.

She chased after him, but there was no chance of keeping up with his long legs. By the time she finally did catch up to him, he stood at the front desk, handing over two coins in exchange for a brown-paper-wrapped parcel.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Thank you,” he said to the clerk, then turned to her, pressing the package into her hands. “For you.”

Her jaw dropped. “You bought Good Wives ?”

He grinned. “I did. But if it makes you feel better, you may pay me back when your artifacts are sold.”

“Oh, Bram...” She clutched the book to her chest, heart swelling. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.” He yanked on the doorknob, the overhead bell chirruping—and a blast of icy pellets hit them smack in the face.

Eva grasped the collar of her coat tightly at her neck. If this sleet turned to snow, they’d never make it home by dark.

They might not make it home at all.