Mrs. Herriot clapped her hands, her cheeks flushed. “Imagine the Society of Antiquaries in the vicar’s parsonage!”
My father cleared his throat, his gaze as misty as my own. “Remarkable news. I shall have to prepare a special set of sermonsfor the occasion, should Mr. Harrington’s stay extend to a Sunday. Shall I title it The Miracles of Prayer?”
I had not prayed for this blessing, too intent on drafting letters and preparing my excavation notes. Had God intervened regardless of my lack of belief?
Father’s innocent question would chafe at me in the days to come.
Late the next morning, I ran to the Perrys’ cottage, lungs burning from the effort. Breathless, I knocked on the door.
Once within the warm cottage, I brought out the letter, allowing them to hold it, to finger the portion of the wax seal now severed in half as it clung to the paper. Abigail exclaimed over the seal before enveloping me in a tight hug.
“You’re marvelous!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling as she pressed a kiss against my cheek. “You did it, Bridget!”
After finishing a light lunch, Mr. Perry had planned to return to his field, where he had been planting crops in a different section to avoid the contested area. However, the sight of the letter made him pause.
“This turns the whole game around,” he mused, holding the letter carefully. “Do you think this society will pay me for the use of the farm? If they’re serious, I might earn enough regardless of our crops.”
I nodded, still out of breath. “I hope so.” Never before had I held so much expectation that my plan might actually work. My only regret was that Daniel wasn’t present to share in our triumph.
Show them, Bridget, what you can do. You were never meant to be a caged thing.
“We will be the talk of the town!” Abigail motioned for her father to return the letter to me. He did, albeit reluctantly.
“It’s a marked change in fortune,” I said, pleased with their enthusiasm but mindful of the need for discretion. “But we must keep this quiet for now. We don’t want to draw attention until everything is secured.”
Mr. Perry nodded in agreement, and I felt a surge of relief. The thought of furthering my studies and finally being taken seriously in academic circles was almost too wonderful to imagine.
“If that is true, then I wonder at the footprints around our cottage?” Mr. Perry asked. “They appeared a few days ago. I woke up to the sight. Thought I heard rustling outside the cottage late at night, but I dismissed it as only the wind.”
Abigail rummaged through a basket and pulled out a shirt. She ducked her head and began stitching a tear with her thread and needle.
“You always hear things during the midnight hour, Papa. I investigated the fields after your fuss and there was nothing missing.”
My skin prickled at the idea of someone creeping around the Perry cottage.
“Might have been a farmer,” Mr. Perry said, although he didn’t sound convinced. “Rupert Miller often wants to borrow something or other when I’m not home. Remember when he tried to take my ax without telling me, Abigail?”
When I turned to see Abigail’s reaction, her attention seemed pinned to the square window where she sat next to the small table, another pair of shirts waiting to be mended.
“Yes,” she said faintly, before turning to offer me a tepid smile. “Perhaps it was old Rupert, after all.”
Mr. Perry had provided a perfectly reasonable explanation, but the thought lingered in my mind. The villagers’ interest inour affairs had been growing. Only yesterday, Mrs. Herriot mentioned that two women stopped her in the village, asking if the rumors about our excavation were true. And then there was Lord Hawthorn’s fury over his sheep.
“Mr. Barron offered his services, should we need them,” I added, though with some hesitation, for I feared he might prove more flash than substance.
Abigail flushed prettily before she pivoted to the cupboard to retrieve two teacups. “When did you speak with him?”
“At the apothecary the other day, just before the rains ruined our dig. Now that things are drying out, we can resume as soon as the boundary lines are reestablished.”
Even the viscount’s tenants, especially Mr. Cobb, had been asking questions about the excavation, his probing persistent and unsettling. The last thing we needed was word spreading and treasure hunters descending on our valley.
Mr. Perry snatched his pipe from the table and stuffed it into his coat pocket. “I didn’t tell you, but Mr. Spencer said the lord might be willing to buy my entire farm.”
“Did he?” I asked. If Lord Hawthorn intended to expand the orchards, that could put an end to our excavation altogether. It wasn’t just about the boundary lines anymore—he might try to halt our work entirely, claiming the entire stretch of land for his own use.
He chuckled without humor. “I told him my price would be too high.”
Relief washed over me. “Father reached out to the magistrate, but it seems the man has traveled to Bath on family business.”
