A Call for Learned Submissions
The Society of Antiquaries of London cordially invites all enthusiasts of antiquity to submit their research, observations, and discoveries concerning the ancient history, monuments, and artifacts of Britain and other lands. A grand prize of £50 will be awarded...
When I was five and ten, I had found Roman coins near the now-deceased viscount’s estate, only two miles north of the parsonage. On many occasions, I accompanied my father to visit the former lord, who had passed away two months ago. Despite being a melancholic man, he had chuckled at my obsession with historical discoveries, patting my arm in dismissal as if I were his basset hound.
My collection of coins remained tucked within a handkerchief in my dresser, much like my dreams shelved for another day.Daniel had suggested that I write to the Society of Antiquaries and the Dilettanti in hopes of stirring their excitement regarding the find. The society never bothered to answer, and the secretary of the Dilettanti sent a clipped reply, admonishing me to confine my activities to embroidery.
I pushed aside the paper just as Mrs. Herriot, dressed in severe black with her white frilly cap, entered the drawing room with Molly following behind carrying a tray of tea.
“Good heavens!” She stopped abruptly. “Is that Miss Perryrunningdown the path toward us?”
I perked at the mention of my dearest friend, who was the same age as Daniel. Rising from my seat, I glanced out the window and knew something must be amiss. When she burst into the drawing room moments later, her chest heaving, she pushed back her straw bonnet and loose gold curls, so different from my red frizz, tumbled onto her shoulders. With her gray gown splattered at the hem and her slippers covered in dirt, she held up a hand to stop Mrs. Herriot from inviting her for tea.
“Oh, Bridget, do call for the vicar. Father has found a demon in his field!”
“A demon?” I repeated slowly while Mrs. Herriot snorted.
Abigail nodded, her cheeks flushed pink. “Yes, and Papa is quite beside himself. He swears it is a terrible omen, especially since—since the last harvest...”
She faltered but I knew what she meant. The previous harvest proved miserable for the entire valley, and as a result of mounting debts, Abigail and her father might have no choice but to leave for the factories in the coming year, like so many other families who had abandoned the valley.
“I daresay the vicar won’t want to be disturbed.” Mrs. Herriot sniffed as she poured the tea. Ever a stickler for propriety, she guarded my father’s study hours well.
My friend cast me a stricken look, silently begging for my intervention. Ever since her mother passed three years ago from childbirth complications, Abigail ran the Perry household by herself as the only child. Just as I did with my absent-minded father, too immersed in his theological studies to pay much attention to me. We were more like sisters, doing everything we could together.
“Tell me more,” I demanded.
“Horns, Bridget,” she hissed in a loud whisper. “I saw them myself.” She pointed in the direction of the Perry farm, a short walk from the parsonage. “Devil horns protruding from the fairest face you can imagine!”
Goose pimples flared across my skin at my friend’s declaration. “I daresay I need a change of scenery and Father remains indisposed. Let me gather my shawl and we shall battle this monster together.” I took my friend’s hand when she frowned and gave it a squeeze.
She exhaled as I drew her away from the drawing room. “I’m ever so grateful, Bridget. I can’t imagine what Papa will do. He’s been so worried, stewing over his finances and the farm. Now this...”
I blew out a long breath, eager to escape the confines of the parsonage and head outside into nature, away from the weight of my family’s concerns.
I would rather confront a demon in the field than the frustration roiling within me at my father’s distance and my brother’s disappearance.
Mr. Lewis Perry, in his excitement, quite forgot himself, and his muddy boots encroached on the hem of my oatmeal-hued muslin gown while Abigail and I knelt on the damp ground.
With trembling fingers, I brushed away the crumbling dirt his plow had shaken loose and inspected the hole at the edge of the field next to Hawthorn Abbey.
Sheep bleated far off, their soon-to-be-shorn wool dotting the emerald-green landscape, and in front of me, rows of apple trees formed straight lines leading off to the moss-covered abbey in the distance.
“Look at the tiles, Bridget. So many broken ones. Do you think there are more? Who is he?” Abigail’s curiosity was stronger than her father’s nerves.
I took out my long-handled art brush and swept away the dirt. A roguish face emerged, the tiles of his ivy-crowned head cracked, yet still visible. Faded tones of red, gold, and green peeked through the grime. The workmanship was undeniable, the tiny tesserae fitted together with care.
Abigail leaned closer, studying the mosaic in silence while her father muttered a quiet prayer.
“Bacchus,” I proclaimed.
“Eh?” Mr. Perry squinted as he bent lower to study the mosaic partially hidden within the ground.
“Bacchus. The god of drink and desire and...” I pressed my lips together. Most people wouldn’t consider Bacchus appropriate knowledge for a young lady. No need to scandalize Mr. Perry any further, especially as I was the vicar’s daughter. Abigail winked at me, her rosy mouth turning into a saucy curve.
I crouched lower, my heart racing as I stared at the mosaic. Something more lay here—just beneath the surface. The tiles were worn and cracked, but the way they stretched beyond the dirt hinted at a design far grander than the small patch Mr. Perry had uncovered. A larger piece of the past, waiting to be unearthed. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Daniel and I had always assumed more artifacts lay within the Bramnor vicinity after I had discovered the Roman coins on the very edge of Hawthorn land.
The advertisement in my latest antiquities journal came to mind, along with the call for submissions of research. Fifty poundswould prove more than enough since most Bow Street runners collected a guinea a day.
