Page 9

9

She really didn’t want to do this. Not one little bit. The closer Eva drew to Tattleton’s Pawn and Jams, the more her steps lagged. She tugged the drawstring of her reticule tighter around the handle of the letter opener that didn’t quite fit inside her silk pouch. She’d already pledged her personal valuables and now was down to soliciting whatever else she could find that would bring in money. But parting with her father’s favorite desk ornament stabbed deeply. Not that Mr. Tattleton would care. He was too busy making a profit off other people’s misfortunes and his wife’s homemade preserves. A shop of such heartbreak ought to be somber, not displaying brightly labeled confectionery spreads the moment a person walked in the door.

Jam. Of all things!

Ahead, a street vendor haggled with a woman in a ridiculous hat over the price of apples. The ostrich feathers on her bonnet wisped about like furry little arms. A good distraction, that. Eva couldn’t help but take advantage of the opportunity, for as much as she’d like to purchase a newspaper, she couldn’t spare a coin.

With the man’s back turned toward her, she picked up a copy of the Royston Gazette and quickly paged through to the employment adverts. It never hurt to keep her options open, especially if worse came to worse. It’d been a week now since Bram had proudly shown her the Roman pendant. It truly was a beauty after he’d cleaned it up, and yet neither he nor his crew had found much of anything else since. Not that such lack was entirely their fault. The work tent had collapsed in the middle of the night, creating quite a mess and tearing the roof. Repairing the canvas and putting things to rights had taken a good day. Bram never did figure out why the thing had collapsed. Probably a freak wind burst, despite the mild weather they’d been enjoying. Unfortunately, the event had started Sinclair going on again about disturbing the cursed acres. At least it gave her an excuse to keep Penny away from the dig site the next couple of days before her conscience caught up to her again about giving her sister new challenges and experiences. On the other hand, the event had preoccupied her time in helping patch the canvas roof, taking her away from Penny—and her sister had been most vocal about her displeasure on that.

She scanned down the newspaper columns, looking for a governess or teaching position. She could do either. Ah, what about a lady’s companion? She narrowed her eyes on the small type declaring a need for a lady of good standing—which she was—who loved to read—which she did—and who wouldn’t mind if—

“That’ll be two pence, miss.”

She glanced up at a pointy-nosed weasel of a man, the ostrich hat woman already walking away behind him with a bright red apple clasped in her hand.

Eva set down the paper immediately. “Oh, I’m not purchasing a newspaper. Good day.”

Bypassing the man, whose face had settled into a dangerous glower, she set off at a good clip. She didn’t get very far when the door to the greengrocer’s opened. Crisp leaves swirled in an eddy on the pavement as yellow skirts emerged. Charlotte Channing. Eva couldn’t help but smile. Lottie was a sunbeam of a woman on a grey day such as this. Her bright blue eyes, her golden ringlets hanging in perfect spirals from beneath her bonnet, even the flash of Lottie’s grin never failed to lift Eva’s spirits.

“How lovely to see you in town, my friend! Seems like you never grace the streets of Royston anymore, other than on Sundays.” Lottie shifted a basket of carrots to peck a friendly kiss on Eva’s cheek.

Eva breathed in Lottie’s lingering perfume, a sudden craving for marzipan biscuits rumbling in her stomach. Her friend smelled good enough to eat. “I had a few errands to see to. How is your mother?”

“Still abed, grumbling about her ankle. With the way she’s going on, you’d think she’d been trampled by a herd of elephants instead of taking a simple tumble over Freddie’s toy soldiers. She ought to perform on Drury Lane with such dramatics.” Lottie huffed. “And now she’s set on creating a Guy Fawkes effigy that will go down in history instead of burning up in a fire for a horde of rowdy children. So it’s off to the rag shop for me. Would you like to come along?”

Eva mentally tallied up the days until November fifth, then pursed her lips. “But Guy Fawkes Day isn’t for at least a fortnight.”

“That’s the same thing I said. But you know my mother.” Lottie struck a regal pose, one hand in the air, her voice rising an octave to match Mrs. Channing’s notoriously shrill tone. “One must start early to ensure perfection, Charlotte.”

They both laughed at the parody, garnering them a stern look from a passing duo of black-coated men.

Lottie grabbed Eva’s hands, giving them a little shake. “You will be there this year, won’t you? I missed you dearly last time, though I know it couldn’t be helped, what with your father’s death and all.” She squeezed Eva’s fingers before letting go. “Oh, do say you’ll come—you and Penny both!”

“You must know I’d love to spend the evening with you, but I cannot promise anything.” A pang of melancholy twinged her heart. Before Father had died, she’d enjoyed such frivolities as a bonfire or gala. Though she still had yet to account for where he’d gotten such irregular influxes of money for the gowns she used to purchase for those events.

Lottie pinched her cheek lightheartedly. “I won’t take no for an answer, and you know I mean it.”

She surely did. Lottie was a kitten after a saucer of cream, unwilling to let anything get in her way once her mind was set on something. And she could hiss just as vehemently when riled.

“There you are, Miss Inman,” a jolly voice called down the pavement.

They turned to see a potted fern bobbing straight for them, clutched in a man’s arms just above a potbelly.

“Who’s that?” Lottie whispered. “And why is he carrying such a large plant?”

“That is Professor—oomph.” She reflexively flung her arms around the brass pot as Bram’s uncle handed over the greenery.

“Isn’t it a lovely specimen?” He fluffed some of the fronds as he spoke. “It’s an adiantum, lusher than I’d expect it to be with the poor care it was receiving in the bookstore. Criminals. Relegating this beauty to a dusty old corner smelling of camphor. Camphor! What’s this world coming to when a bookseller doesn’t employ the requisite scents of ink and binding glue?”

Eva blew one of the fronds from her face. “I thought you came into town to inquire at the historical society office?”

“Historical society?” He rubbed his jawline a few times before snapping his fingers. “Capital idea, my dear! Enjoy your fern. Good day, miss.” He tipped his hat at Charlotte and strolled off.

“Don’t forget to meet me at the market square so we can ride home together, Professor,” Eva called after him. While absent-mindedness was a common trait of an academic, this man took it to a whole new level. Hopefully it was nothing more serious than that.

Without slowing a step, he waggled his fingers in the air.

Lottie arched a brow. “Don’t tell me that man is living in your house, Eva. Who is he? And why did he not stay long enough for a proper introduction?”

Eva shifted the fern to one hip, cradling it like an overgrown babe. “He’s a bit, em, unconventional. He and his crew are staying in the old labourers’ quarters, not in the house.”

Lottie’s curls fairly quivered at this news. “A crew? What sort? Do tell.”

“I suppose I should have explained myself better. Professors Pendleton and Webb have come from Trinity College to dig in the back field on my property. Turns out there are some Roman antiquities buried beneath that fallow ground. They brought some students along and have found several relics.”

“Webb. Webb?” Lottie tasted the name several times, her tongue darting over her lips. “Any relation to the divine fellow we grew up with?”

Eva’s cheeks heated. For the past week, she’d been trying to stay away from the man, and physically, she’d done a good job of it. Yet despite that, her mind had kept injudicious company with him. The night he’d apologized for his past behaviour, he’d been so genuine, so ... She bit her lip. Though she could hardly believe it, he’d seemed vulnerable, at least for a minute, which was quite the stark contrast to the carefree and mischievous boy she remembered. His candid remorse had done something strange to her heart, and she found herself stealing glances in his direction, watching his every move whenever she chanced to be in his vicinity, a certain amount of respect growing for the man he’d become.

But she couldn’t very well tell Lottie such a thing. Her friend would have them married off by Sunday.

Once again, she shifted the big fern, this time holding it in front of her like a shield. “I wouldn’t say he was divine.”

Lottie poohed her words with a wave of her fingers. “Come now. Every girl had a crush on the dashing Bram Webb. You most of all, as I recall. Is he one of the professors you’ve hired?”

“I didn’t hire him. He volunteered to lead the excavation.”

“So it is him!” Lottie fairly squealed as the grocer’s door opened once again.

A stoop-shouldered matron shot her an ulcerous look. “Such an outburst in public. Take a care, young lady, to put a guard on that imprudent tongue of yours.”

“Yes, madam.” Lottie dipped her head in penance, yet behind the gloved fingers covering her mouth, Eva saw a smile flash.

Once the lady strode far enough down the pavement, they both laughed—and how good it felt to be so lighthearted. Once the giggles were over, though, Eva tugged her friend farther away from the shop door to avoid further censures.

Lottie reset her hat, which had been knocked askew. “Is he as handsome as he used to be?”

“I can’t really be the judge of that, beauty being in the eye of the beholder and all. But if you like a piratey sort of fellow who more often than not forgets to shave his whiskers, then I suppose you could say he’s handsome.” She would, which surprised even her.

“Well, it’s settled, then. You must bring Mr. Webb to the Guy Fawkes bonfire so I can judge for myself.”

“I didn’t say I was attending.”

“Oh yes, you will”—Lottie pushed a finger in Eva’s shoulder—“or I’ll have my impish little brother lead the procession right to your doorstep.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You know I must always get my way, Eva dear.”

Eva sighed. Though Lottie would never admit it, she was as dogged as her mother. “Fine. I’ll invite him, but I cannot guarantee he will accept.”

“You’re the dandiest.” Her friend beamed. “Until then!”

Stepping around her, Lottie strode away, taking all her sunshine with her.

Eva trudged in the opposite direction, toward Tattleton’s Pawn and Jams. The fern bumped against her hip, making her cross, but deep down she knew that wasn’t the true reason for her irritation. Oh, why had she allowed herself to get duped into asking Bram Webb to escort her to Bonfire Night?

Now she had two things she really didn’t want to do.

Bram had always been a night owl, a trait acquired from his mother. In more ways than one, she hadn’t been like other women, a fact that undisputedly came with benefits. She wasn’t always breathing down his neck to go to bed. She didn’t care if he made noise at an ungodly hour. Frequent complaints spouted from their neighbour, Mrs. Hempstone, however, especially that time he’d tried to make a diamond from coal dust and gunpowder. What an explosion. He’d blown a sizeable hole in the kitchen wall, nearly taking out Mrs. Hempstone’s cat in the process. But his mother hadn’t noticed because she wasn’t home. Most evenings she wasn’t, which left him to his own imaginative devices. His childhood had been a young lad’s dream, and yet, such freedom had come with a price tag. Namely shame.

And if Eva was to discover the truth about the circumstances of his birth ... well, their growing friendship would face significant strain. A lady of her standing would likely struggle with societal expectations and the potential scandal it could bring to associate with him.

Rubbing his eyes, Bram leaned back in his chair in the Inman breakfast-room-turned-makeshift-antiquity-studio. Coming back to Royston had exposed memories he’d thought he’d folded neatly away.

Light footsteps padded into the room, followed by Eva’s soft voice. “Am I catching you at a bad moment?”

He removed his pocket watch and snapped open the lid. What a curious time for her to seek him out. She’d been avoiding him the better part of the past week. Tucking away his watch, he arched a brow at her. “It’s nearly midnight. What’s gotten you out of bed? No, that’s not true, is it?” He narrowed his eyes on her lithe form still garbed in her serviceable blue day dress. “You’ve not been to bed yet.”

“I was ... reading. Yes. That’s it. You know I like to read.” Absently, she picked up a shard of a clay pot, suddenly interested in examining its jagged edges. “But if this is awful timing, I shall go back to my book.”

A playful grin lifted one side of his mouth. “It is never awful timing to be visited by a lovely lady.”

“Come now, we both know I am no beauty.” She set the shard down and faced him. “You need not pretend otherwise.”

He gaped. “Who on earth ever gave you the idea you are not beautiful?”

“‘Big mouth, long nose, Eva Inman has no beaux.’” Her terrible words singsonged like a shiver in the night. “That’s what Richard Trestwell always said.”

Bram’s hands curled into fists as he rose. Of course it had been Trestwell. “I knew the cully owned a foul mouth, but I never knew he said such a rotten thing about you. Why would you allow lies from a muckle-headed urchin to shade your own view of yourself?”

“They are not lies, as you can see for yourself.” She circled her hand in front of her face.

He grabbed her wrist. Blast that Trestwell for planting such a wicked falsehood so deeply into her soul. “What I see, Eva Inman, are lips capable of great smiles, bright enough to light my day—or night, as the case may be. And that nose of yours is noble. Regal, even. Had I a diamond coronet in my pocket, I wouldn’t hesitate to crown you queen here and now. You are a striking woman, crafted in God’s image, and are not defined by the cruel words of a callous boy. You are—and ever will be—a beauty in my eyes. Do not doubt it.”

Like a spooked filly, her chest rose and fell deeply, her nostrils flaring on the inhale. He could only guess at what might be going through her mind, but he hoped—and prayed—the genuine truths he offered would somehow heal the wounds inflicted by that infernal Richard Trestwell. Blasted jackanapes. If he ever saw that devil again, he’d pop him a good one on the jaw.

“Well.” Eva pulled away. “I suppose you ought to be allowed to have your own opinion, and ... I thank you for it.”

“My pleasure.” He grinned. “So would you like to see what I have been working on?”

She nodded.

He led her to the end of the canvas-covered table. “I have just been cleaning these coins. See the brass tokens?” He poked his finger into the mix, separating the pieces farther apart. “Those are sestertii, the silver are denarii, and there is even a single gold aureus right here.” He picked up the most valuable coin.

Bending close, she examined it. “Is that a good find?”

“Very. This selection of currency shows whoever lived on your land had at least one person of means in residence.” He set the coin down as Eva sidestepped to the next item, her understated scent of newly mown hay lingering in the air. He appreciated she didn’t douse herself in lemon verbena or violet witch hazel, as was all the rage of late. Her tastes were simpler, an attribute he could respect.

“Let me guess.” She ran a light touch along the side of a long-necked vessel. “A water pitcher?”

“Close. That amphora was used for wine.”

Doubt swam in her pale blue eyes. “How do you know it was not used for water?”

“There is residue inside.” Retrieving a metal pick with a hook at the end, he gently scraped the interior ceramic wall. A tiny fleck of brownish-red sat on the tip, and he held it up. “See?”

“Mmm,” she murmured as she studied the speck ... really studied it. Did she see the same connections he made when examining such a peek into the past? Was she pondering this tangible link to a forgotten moment in time, a celebration perhaps, when love and laughter had echoed in an ancient Roman dwelling? Every find, no matter how minor, was a bridge to hearts that had beat, lungs that had breathed, so many lifetimes ago.

Eva peered up at him. “It makes one wonder, does it not?”

“It surely does.” He smiled, chest warming that she shared—at least in part—in his passion. “But the best find of all is this.”

He beckoned her with a crook of his finger to the opposite end of the table. “This may seem insignificant”—he waved his hand over a sizeable mosaic chunk—“but the motif in this piece of flooring is important.”

She bent closely, sweeping back a loose wave of red hair in the process. “It looks like ... Is this design part of an anchor?”

“It is.”

A wrinkle creased her brow. “We are nowhere near the sea. I should think the artisan would have incorporated something more fitting for the area, such as wheat fronds or ivy leaves.”

“A valid train of thought, yet the symbol itself has nothing to do with this geographical location. The anchor was used as a key Christian symbol during the time of Roman persecution.”

“But...” Her gaze drifted back to the mosaic. “I thought that fish on the ring was what they used? Or maybe even a cross.”

“Not back then. Think about it; if you are a first-century Christian hiding from crucifixion, would a cross be a comforting icon? I do not think so. No, you would need something more uplifting to remind you to stay strong when facing death by lions or being set ablaze as a human torch for one of Nero’s garden parties.”

Her nose scrunched. “Like hope?”

“Very good.” He smiled. “Yet even more, you would need faith to believe God saw your trials, cared about them, cared about you . A fish emblem is not going to remind you of the solid rock in which your faith is rooted. One of my favorite verses is in Hebrews. ‘Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and stedfast, and which entereth into that within the veil.’ Jesus is that hope. Jesus alone is our anchor.”

“Why, I ... I never thought of things that way. I mean, that trials are good in that they increase faith and are not necessarily a punishment. I guess I have always thought of hard times as a sort of penance, but that wouldn’t be so if—as you say—God cares about them ... about me. I—” Her lips parted with an audible intake of air, as if some great revelation had taken root. Slowly, she shook her head. “I had no idea you were such a theologian, Bram Webb.”

He laughed aloud. “I have been accused of many things but never that.”

She grinned in return. “Well, whatever the case, it is plain to see you take your faith seriously, which is quite a change from the wild boy I once knew.”

“That is because I did not have any faith all those years ago. That came later when I went to live with my uncle. Housing beneath the same roof as a man who takes the Bible seriously has a way of speaking to a hungry heart. At any rate, it is probably a good thing I have tamed a bit, or those historical society members would be frightened off in a heartbeat.” He winked as he reached for a cloth to cover the mosaic.

“What do you mean? What members?”

He smoothed the wrinkles on the canvas before draping the cloth over the mosaic. “Several board members are coming around noon on Friday. Did my uncle not tell you?”

“No, he did not.”

Bram stifled a sigh. Of course Uncle hadn’t. Would the man even remember he’d invited them to view the dig? He shrugged, defying the tension ripping through him. “Must have slipped his mind.”

“I am afraid you will have to reschedule.” Eva tugged at the hems of her sleeves, lamplight brushing over a furrow in her brow. “I am not prepared to host a luncheon.”

Women. Always taking things a step too far when it came to societal expectations. “No meal is required. They’re coming to see the antiquities and the dig, not to eat a bowl of tomato bisque.”

She tapped her finger to her lip, looking as if she might take a bite on her nail. “Are you sure they are not expecting more?”

“If they are, I shall catch a chicken with my teeth and roast it over a fire for them.”

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Just tap-tap-tapped at her lip.

Clearly she was chasing some rabbit down a hole in her head. An inordinate amount of fuss over the prospect of a few men wishing to examine some relics. Why such tension over a no-frills sort of entertainment?

Then again... Lacing his fingers, he cracked his knuckles. This house needed repair in several spots. Eva and her sister wore somewhat-faded gowns. And every evening he and the men returned to the same fare of soup and bread. Granted, the soup changed, but nothing more substantial was ever served. Either Eva was frugal to a fault, or her money trouble was more than she admitted.

And he’d bet on the latter, judging by that quiver to her lower lip.

“Look, Eva.” He put all his effort into spooling out his words in a soothing tone. “If there is anything you need to talk about, I am a good listening ear.”

She inhaled deeply, visibly pulling herself together. “Thank you, but there is no need. I look forward to hearing what the historical society has to say about these pieces.”

“Probably a lot of oohs and ahhs.”

Once again she didn’t smile in the least. She merely turned away and scrutinized part of a stone tablet, which of course was absurd. Even if she could read Latin, most of the letters were destroyed.

He carefully pushed the piece aside. “Why did you come here tonight? Why did you seek me out?”

“I, em, I was going to ask you...” A lump traveled her throat as she swallowed audibly. “Well, it was not anything important, and it is getting late. Good night.” She whirled, the hem of her skirt whapping against his ankles.

Bram folded his arms, his gaze following her out the door, all the while wondering what un important reason had driven her to this room in the dead of night.