Alexander gave her a knowing look.
“Exactly,” he said.
From behind a small rise near the orchard wall, they could hear Harold speaking, more loudly than they had previously heard everyone else.
“This corner of the foundation must have held something heavy,” he said. “The erosion pattern is too uneven otherwise. Has anyone excavated beneath that central slab?”
They turned to see Marcus raise a hand for Harold’s attention.
“No,” he replied. “It was judged too unstable without proper support.”
Harold rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“It ought to be reinforced,” he said. “There may be storage chambers underneath. Roman sites often include cisterns or subterranean vaults.”
Edmund stood motionless beside a broken pillar, his face pale, his hands clenched.
“He knows,” Rosalind murmured. “He sees it plain.”
Alexander nodded.
“I shall speak with Marcus,” he said. “I believe this is no longer mere theory.”
Rosalind nodded.
“And I shall remain near Catherine,” she said. “In case the performance continues over supper.”
He touched her arm lightly.
“You have a keen mind,” he said. “I value that more than you know.”
Her cheeks coloured, but her voice was steady.
“And you have a good heart,” she said. “Let us use both before someone causes real harm.”
As they made their way back toward the house, Alexander carried with him two certainties: first, that Rosalind was becoming someone on whom he could rely—especially with disaster looming before them. The second was that Harold Fitzwilliam’s designs must be laid bare before it was too late.
***
The air the next morning carried a damp chill despite the sun’s slow ascent above the eastern woods. Catherine stepped into the breakfast room with quiet composure, immediately sensing the tension coiled in Edmund’s rigid posture. He stood near the hearth, back half-turned toward the table, his tea untouched and his napkin still folded beside his plate. His eyes flicked toward the door each time footsteps approached, and his fingers moved restlessly at his sides as though uncertain what to do with themselves.
Catherine crossed to the sideboard and selected a small roll, though she had little appetite. Marcus sat at the head of the table, speaking softly with James about the drainage systems near the northern excavation trench. Rosalind and Alexander lingered in the window bay, their conversation too quiet to overhear but marked by occasional glances in Edmund’s direction.
“Edmund,” Catherine said as she seated herself beside Marcus. “Will you take anything this morning?”
Edmund Price shook his head, and only then did Catherine observe the deep shadows beneath his eyes.
“No,” Edmund said. “Thank you, Lady Penwood.”
The formality struck her. In recent days, he had spoken with more ease, complying with her gentle request that all should use her given name. Something had changed.
She looked at Marcus, who returned her gaze with the faintest lift of his brows.He noticed it, too, she thought with growing alarm.
James was blissfully unaware of the disturbance.
“Have you any thoughts on the blackened pottery fragment we uncovered yesterday, Edmund?” he asked. “I should much like to hear your interpretation—especially given your sharp observations earlier this week.”
Edmund looked mortified, as though he had hoped to be rendered invisible by the group.
