Instead of retreating, I straightened my back, determination swelling in my chest. “Thank you for the warning, Mr. Spencer. But the former lord never took action on those threats. Why would the new lord prove any different?”
Mr. Spencer’s thin lips curled into a tight smile. “We’ll see, Miss Littleton. We’ll see.”
With that, he tugged on the reins, turning his horse with a sharp jerk before riding off, leaving us standing in the field.
I exchanged a glance with Abigail, her face pale. But I felt something else stirring within me—something far more powerful than the fear of curses or lords. It was the pull of discovery, the thrill of history waiting to be unearthed.
Beside me, Mr. Perry scowled. “I won’t be told what to do on my own property.”
I turned back to the mosaic. Bacchus stared up at me from the ground, his smirk daring me to continue, just like Daniel’s wink when he was about to embark on something rebellious.
The land had been waiting for centuries to give up its secrets, and I intended to uncover every last one. My brother would want me to. Whatever the new lord might say or do, neither I nor the Perry family had felt hope for a long while.
I would not abandon it so lightly.
2:Bridget
She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.
LORD BRYON
A week had passed since my first encounter with Bacchus, although I returned to the site repeatedly to work to uncover the full mosaic. Upon learning of the possibility of riches and robbers, Mr. Perry and Abigail had vowed to keep the mosaic a secret. Mr. Perry had also secured a canvas to cover the site and protect it from the spring rain.
As usual, Father had kept to his study, his door mostly locked as he lost himself in the tomes scattered across his desk, leaving me much to my devices and to my fretting over my brother’s plight. I was accustomed to managing on my own. Instead of further indulging in fear, I marched to the Perry field with renewed vigor, preferring the bright afternoon sunshine to the musty parlor.
Together, Abigail and I knelt in the field, cleaning the six-by-six section we had unearthed with the aid of damp cloths. Weworked in tandem, our movements careful as we wiped away the layers of earth that had hidden the ancient art for centuries. The stones gleamed with myriad colors—ochre, cerulean blue, and a startling crimson. The painstaking care required meant our progress was slow, and I doubted we would clear much more of the original floor today.
“I can’t quite decide if I should fear him or like him,” Abigail muttered as she shifted on the canvas intended to keep our gowns dry.
We paused and stared at Bacchus.
“Isn’t it fascinating that vice often carries a pleasant facade?” I murmured.
I didn’t catch a glimpse of her expression, but I heard her soft intake of breath. “Aye. I confess this Bacchus reminds me of your brother with those curls. That impish grin...” She no longer met my curious gaze. Her neck flushed as she picked up one of my paintbrushes to study the bristles, running a thumb against the tapered edge.
I inhaled the fragrant air as I considered her statement while rummaging in my satchel for a charcoal stick to sketch Bacchus. For years I had suspected she carried a tendre for my brother, although her affection was not quite as loyal as my own.
Daniel would have related to this cheeky god. Especially with his proclivity to drink wine and cavort with friends. Pressing my lips together, familiar emotions surged—ire, shame, regret, and the disappointment of not being able to save him despite my efforts.
She brushed the dirt from her hands. “What a pity he remains missing.”
An understatement if ever there was one. Men who frequented taverns often found themselves with a king’s coin slipped into their drink—a shilling, marking them for service in His Majesty’s Navy. Sipping from that fateful cup meant conscription, sometimesbefore the poor soul realized what had happened. A life-or-death consequence that few could escape.
“Until I publish my findings and receive a fee, I don’t know what else to do to earn enough to continue searching,” I finally admitted after a long pause.
“Marry?” She arched a brow at me, but the former amused smile had softened to something akin to pity. “You might find a reasonable man who would be more than happy to assist you. Surely you could wed a curate or a vicar or a farmer in the area.”
I was considered a spinster, even labeled a bluestocking with an absent-minded father who couldn’t tie his own cravat without help each morning. Most of the men in the village regarded me with amused tolerance as the vicar’s daughter. The only man—a curate, no less—to ask for my hand had been a man far past his prime with a set of wooden teeth, and a waistcoat straining at the buttons.
Besides, the men in my life had failed me far too often for me to rely on anyone beyond myself.
“I shall leave marriage to you,” I said. “Surely you must be fighting off the offers of half a dozen or so men by now.”
Instead of looking pleased, she released a heavy sigh. “None of them are suitable... except perhaps the inn owner, Mr. Barron.”
“Mr. Barron?” I cried out, picturing the man with a loud voice who put on foppish airs as if he were a fine gentleman. At least he retained most of his hair, even if the auburn hue unfortunately matched mine. Jim Barron ran two inns along with a tavern, the Jolly Wench, infamous for its overcooked mutton and blackened, greasy biscuits with the only redeeming quality being ale so sharp and strong, it left a man with fire in his belly. “Nay, promise me you won’t consider him.”
She shrugged a slim shoulder. “He’s well-off, Bridget. What can I say? At least I’d live in comfort. Better that than being agoverness.” A sparkle appeared in her eyes. “If the children misbehaved, at least you could punish them with endless history lectures and writing out the Greek alphabet. I, on the other hand...”
