Too desperate. Too strongly worded and certain to be rejected. Too weak. Finally, I kept to the simplest approach.
I have found what I believe to be a mosaic in a sizable Roman villa, perhaps third century...
I also drafted a letter to the more formal Society of Antiquaries, located at Somerset House within the apartments courtesy of King George III, but I dared not hope for an answer from them, especially after their prior silence years ago. I suspected they would throw out my letter upon receipt when they discovered a simple country miss was the author. Regardless, I addressed it, referencing the latest journal ofArcheologia, even if my knees shook when I signed my name. One missive for the young bucks who loved adventure and one for the white-haired scholars who hid in their libraries. Perhaps I might even stimulate a competition between the two groups.
As I held a cylinder of crimson wax over my candle, my mind wandered.
I had wrongly assumed the younger Lord Hawthorn would want prestige, to be known as a gentleman with a vast collection of ancient art, just like the aristocratic dilettanti who gallivanted across Europe and the Middle East, hunting for treasure. Their reputation for scholarly pursuit had led to the sponsorship of many unusual antiquarian expeditions and the documentation of newly rediscovered classical sites.
Truly, the process felt no different from a debutante seeking entrance at the Almack’s Assembly Rooms, where a group of snobbish women, known as the “Lady Patronesses,” issued invitations and determined who might attend the events. I had not a single chance in all the world of entering Almack’s. No doubt, I fooled myself into thinking I could entice or impress either the Dilettanti or the Society of Antiquaries.
I had hoped to publish my findings and earn that fifty pounds so tantalizingly offered byArcheologia. I nudged aside the nearestletter with the cooling wax seal and removed my art journal from beneath a stack of history books. After flipping open the pages, I thumbed past several notes regarding the dig, along with illustrations, until I reached a clean sheet. I grabbed a piece of charcoal and began scratching out an image.
Instead of sheep munching grass, or pillared ruins, or even a dominus, a man’s face started to take shape, followed by a hint of a shadow along a firm jaw.
Lord Hawthorn.
I put my charcoal stick down. Why had I ever thought to tempt him with fame? His derision scalded me. He was a private man, it seemed. Ambitious, too, and not afraid of trade, unlike his fellow lords. A smudge of charcoal, and I darkened the new lord’s eyebrows into something nefarious. He looked devilishly handsome now. A proper rake, with a contemptuous curl to his lips.
If I could convince either society to take interest in the history of Bramnor, perhaps then Lord Hawthorn might be more receptive to my cause.
I had nothing to lose in trying again with my letters.
No, not true.
I hadeverythingto lose.
11:Rafe
That’s one of the greatest curses ever inflicted on the human race, memory.
OVID
The mist enveloped me once again, swirling with tendrils as if it were a living thing. And with it came the ghosts.
I shook my head to clear the visions, yet I remained pinned on the mountain. I could not escape, helpless to see events play out once more.
’Tis only a dream,I warned myself.Wake up, you fool.Sometimes the plea worked and I would wake up, drenched in sweat, my leg aching. Other times...
The fog lifted as the morning sun cleaved the ridge, revealing the shadowy shapes of the advancing enemy. The French. So many of them. Though I braced for battle, I couldn’t prevent a shudder.
“Fire!” I at last screamed. Dimly I heard Lewis’s shouts to do the same.
Guns blasted, the smoke acrid, stinging my nostrils. The twelve cannons belched flames and fumes even as the French scurried to change from the formation of a column into a line.
I was not a coward. I wouldn’t tolerate defeat.
Yet even as the French fell, bile crawled at the back of my throat at the sight of so much blood and destruction. But orders were orders. I yelled again, the battle cry scarcely recognizable. Lewis charged alongside me, faithful as ever. Lewis, my dear friend, whom I’d sworn to his pregnant wife, Mildred, I would protect with my life. Lewis, who died in these dreams.
I collapsed, a bullet ripping into my lower calf and hobbling me when I reached for the man who had been like a brother. But his eyes were glazed and unseeing, his throat a mangled mess. I had indeed failed him. How could I forgive myself when I lived, alone in the world, while he died with a family left behind?
I cried his name again, and rough hands shook me.
“Blast it, I cannot wake him!”
I jerked awake to Mr. Whittle’s concerned face.
“Forgive me, my lord,” he said, gripping the bedpost. “You were hollering, and my wife bid me check on you.”
