“And we have an upcoming dance this May, where you will no doubt charm all the eligible young men,” I added.
The May Day gathering, with dancing around the maypole, enticed many a village lass to wear her best. I suspected Abigail planned to flirt with as many eligible young men as possible.
A sigh escaped her. “I haven’t anything to wear. Nor the money to purchase a new gown.”
“I’m happy to lend you a dress and ribbons,” I hastened to say. I needed Abigail’s favor to continue excavating her father’s field.
She immediately perked up. “Would you? I’d be forever grateful.”
I had more than enough dresses, borrowing what I needed from my mother’s trunk. Mrs. Herriot proved a genius at thread and needle and enjoyed altering older gowns into beautiful creations I had no use for.
I started to fold back the canvas that was stretched over the site and pinned with heavy stakes to protect the priceless mosaic from ruin. After it was situated out of our way, I surveyed the field. To my dismay, there were even more new holes than I first realized. Mr. Perry had taken it upon himself to do extra treasure hunting without my guidance.
Abigail winced when she caught my surprised expression. “Don’t blame Papa for his zeal. It is likely that he came at dawn to dig by himself.”
I mustered my firm voice. “Your father’s zeal is commendable, but you must inform him that he’ll damage the mosaics or shatter an ancient pot. Patience is a virtue. Such carelessness has ruined many a dig. I’ve heard horrible tales of men destroying statues with a shovel.”
Thankfully, Mr. Perry hadn’t disturbed the area around Bacchus. The mosaic appeared relatively untouched. However, at the next freshly dug hole, I sank to my knees, suddenly weak. Beneath the scattered mud were flashes of black and crimson.
While my irritation was still hot with Mr. Perry boldly seeking artifacts on his own—after all, it was his land—I couldn’t stifle the excitement rippling through my veins. He had dug deeper into the earth, and whatever was buried here was a good two feet lower than the other one.
The pit was modest, roughly five feet long and three feet wide, with the earth dug down to about two feet, revealing just a corner of the tiles lined with intricate patterns.
I looked over my shoulder at the canvas. “Go back to Bacchus,” I choked as I gestured to the tarp. “Count your steps carefully and come back to me.”
Abigail frowned, but she did as she was bid, wisps of her blonde hair escaping from a loose chignon. By the time she reached me, we had both counted eighty-three steps.
“This is no ordinary floor,” I gasped as I braced myself with my knuckles while tipping forward. “It sits significantly lower than our friend Bacchus. It might even be within a shallow pool. If so, we may uncover a villa encompassing much of your father’s field. A palace, if you will.”
“A pool?” Abigail knelt beside me to peer into the new hole. “How grand. It’s as lovely as a ballroom floor.”
My heart sang and all former anxieties were forgotten as I stepped into the space. In my eagerness, I had forgotten my trowel.
“Is it made of jewels?”
“No, it’s natural stone, pottery, brick, and tile. Sometimes the Romans used limestone or chalk for soft colors. Purbeck marble for blue and gray, and sandstone for reds and yellows.”
I paused, my excitement mounting as my fingers traced the new scrolling pattern. “I’ve even heard of gold being used.”
“La! Gold! We truly found gold at last!” she cried while clapping loudly until the sound echoed across the field.
I imagined Mr. Perry digging faster at the news and flinging shovels of mud. I could not deny the thrill of such a find—not if Father needed money to hire another Bow Street runner to locate Daniel—but caution must be observed.
“I doubt you’ll want to claw out that muck with your fingernails.” Abigail chuckled as she handed me the trowel. The brush followed, much to my gratitude, then a soft cloth.
“No, indeed,” I murmured. Brushing away the mud left only streaks, yet the face of a beautiful woman soon materialized with each brushstroke and a final rub of the cloth. Instead of Bacchus, Medusa’s cold eyes and snarling lips stared back at me.
Abigail leaned forward for a better look. “A monster?”
“Medusa, I believe. I’ve always pitied her. She became an object of men’s disdain and cruelty.”
Abigail wrinkled her nose as she stared at the Gorgon. “Do I detect a new lecture about to commence?”
Already warming to the subject, a wry chuckle broke free as I fumbled for my satchel and the sketchbook within so I could draw the writhing snakes sprouting from the outraged Gorgon.
“Come now, Abigail. Her story is worth studying since it involves the deepest of betrayals.”
A loud groan escaped my friend, but to her credit, she remained by my side with a tolerant twinkle in her eyes.
