1:Bridget
The gods favor the bold.
OVID
Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal.
MATTHEW 6:19
BRAMNOR, WEST SUSSEX
MARCH 1811
On a Wednesday afternoon in the village of Bramnor, one does not expect much excitement beyond sugared gingerbread and tea. I had settled into a quiet afternoon, absorbed in the latest copy ofArchaeologiawhen the steady clip-clop of hooves interrupted my thoughts. Molly answered the door swiftly, and moments later, muted voices reached me from the hallway.
A startled cry was followed by heels clattering against the floor as Molly ran past the drawing room and rattled the door handle to Father’s study. My obsession with antiquities lay waiting on the desk as I strained to hear.
“Sir! Sir! A message about Daniel,” Molly’s strident voice echoed throughout the parsonage.
The mention of my missing brother brought a fire to my veins. For the past eight months, we had searched high and low for him, his last letter sent from Portsmouth instead of the London address. I rushed to the study at the back of the parsonage overlooking a small garden where Father claimed he needed perfect quiet and peace to finish his sermons.
By the time I reached the door, it was locked. He always locked the door when drafting a sermon, or whenever he felt morose.
“Let me in, Father. I must know what has happened,” I demanded after I jiggled the handle. Molly, her brown hair hidden beneath her cap and her eyes wide, backed away to return to her work. “I heard you received a letter.”
No answer.
I rapped until my knuckles hurt. “Father! Please.”
Finally, he opened the door, his thin features wan and the wire-rimmed spectacles slipping down his long nose. His hair, a white halo, appeared mussed and his cravat lopsided. He thrust the letter into my hands where a bold scrawl from our barrister made me flinch.
“There is nothing, Bridget. Nothing to tell us of my son.”
I regret to inform you that Daniel remains missing.
My heart plummeted at the matter-of-fact language. My younger brother, at one and twenty, had been pressed by the Royal Navy. We had not received a single communication during the past eight months. Was he lost at sea? Dead in battle with Napoleon’s fleets? Or... had he stirred up trouble at another gaming hell while on liberty from his duties? I scarcely knew what to think. Two years prior, he had been forced by Father to study at seminary in Cambridge. A futile task for the wildest member of the Littleton family.
“I need a moment alone, Bridget. This is but another dead end and I haven’t the heart for much more disappointment.” How weary, nay—how broken—Father sounded as he pushed up his spectacles. His eyes welled and tears spilled down his cheeks.
The letter in my hand brought a heaviness to my chest, but I was not so willing to cave in to defeat. “Send for a Bow Street runner instead of a barrister. You cannot abandon him so readily, can you?”
Father sucked in a loud breath at my suggestion. “I daresay I have drained all available funds in our search for him. We have employed so many men in London and I have no more money beyond providing for our necessities. My son is beyond my reach and has been for several years. He repeatedly refused my counsel and is now in some predicament of his own making. Until he repents of his errors, there is nothing else I can do but pray and wait for his return. You cannot save him either, my girl. I must instead focus on my parishioners and finish my sermon. Any day the new viscount will arrive to take over his estate, and he will expect to see his vicar at work. I cannot let my duties slide.”
Your duty is also to your family,I wanted to protest. Not to the new viscount. Not to the parishioners who clamored for his attention.
But I didn’t say anything, crumpling the note in my palm as Father motioned for me to exit his sanctuary. He shut the door with a decided click. And locked it again, creating a solid barrier between us as he often did when grieving.
Numb, I backed away even though I craved some comfort, some assurance that all would be well. After retreating to the drawing room, I sank into my chair and reached for the antiquities journal. Daniel and I used to pore over them in the evenings. Somehow, it made me feel closer to him since he had taught me the joy of the ancient world, adding to my education in ways that a girl’s finishing school never could.
Molly cast me a sympathetic glance as she hurried past to the kitchen to prepare afternoon tea. I had no appetite for treacle or any other sweets.
Reading the fine print of the journal proved futile with my vision now blurred with tears. At four and twenty years of age and most certainly on the shelf, I felt very alone and useless within the stuffy parsonage.
After Mother’s death from scarlet fever eight years ago, I had raised my brother as my own. I’d promised her I would look after him.
And I had failed. Terribly.
Blinking furiously, I resigned myself to further silence with only our housekeeper, Mrs. Herriot, and Molly to keep me company. A curious section of the journal published by the Society of Antiquaries drew my attention as I dashed at my eyes with the back of my hand.
