“But the exact age, or date of death, might be harder to determine.”
“Why do you say so?” Lord Hawthorn demanded, his voice rough.
With my brush, I gently nudged aside the ancient earth, flicking away the remaining debris. A gasp escaped me as I studied a slender shape emerging with each brushstroke. The form of a miniature woman, jointed and yellowed.
“Miss Littleton, please—” Now he sounded anguished. “I promised the constable that nothing would be unduly disturbed.”
I raised my head. “I suspect this grave has existed for centuries. I can’t help but wonder if there is a connection to our Roman villa?”
“A Roman child?” Lord Hawthorn blew out a long breath while palming the back of his neck. He visibly relaxed with my proclamation, his relief palatable. Had he worried that the grave might implicate further secrets hidden by the Hawthorn family?
I nodded. “And buried with a doll, I think.”
“A doll?”
By then, the tenants had gathered around us, forming a tight circle as they jostled for a better view, their boots nearly stepping on my gown as I knelt. Lord Hawthorn pulled one man away who dared to tip too close in order to see better.
I pointed to it. “An ivory doll with jointed limbs. Her hair looks Roman in style, carved into rolls with a ribbon holding her curls in place.”
Father placed his hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “It could be more recent.”
“Yes. Even the Saxons buried trinkets with their loved ones, but not with dolls with Roman-era hairstyles,” I agreed readily. “Now, if it was a Roman family, that is interesting. Children needed no funeral rites since they were considered pure of spirit. Their deaths polluted none and hence they could not haunt the family. The smallest were buriedunder the eavesof the family home, otherwise known assuggrundarium. According to the Romans, children only gained full humanity by degrees, with careful teaching and discipline. Yet someone loved this little one enough to ensure a proper burial, which is unusual.”
My emotions must have played across my face, since Lord Hawthorn’s gaze softened a touch. My throat clogged at the idea of a mother forced to bury her beloved child. After all, I had buried someone I loved and the pain of it lingered still, ebbing and flowing with the seasons.
I forced myself to speak. “Do I understand, Lord Hawthorn, that you also have another mosaic?”
“Gladiators,” Lord Hawthorn answered readily as he reached for my hand to assist me. He wore no glove. After a moment’s hesitation, I took his hand. His warm fingers engulfed mine, lifting me to my feet. The touch was all too brief. Flustered, I allowed him to guide me to the recently discovered mosaic.
A gasp escaped from my lips when I saw the image of two men locked in immortal combat. “You have aretiarius, the fish man, tussling with asecutorand his sword. We know what vices the owner preferred, don’t we? Is it possible he hosted gladiatorial matches here? Did he dabble in buying and selling gladiators? Or was he but a simple landowner, following the latest decorating trends?”
Father winced, drawing back from the sight. “There is no new thing under the sun.Sin has always been, and always will continue.”
With a sigh, I retraced my steps to the grave to gather my satchel from the ground. “There is nothing so reliable as the blackness of souls.”
“And nothing so reliable as God’s grace to redeem us from that darkness,” Father replied gently.
I paused at his quiet admission, something in his tone striking a chord I hadn’t expected. Could I have misjudged him all this time? I had always assumed his sternness had driven Daniel away, that his countless hours spent with the old viscount were neglectful of us. But hearing him now, I wondered—had he been longing for Daniel’s return too? Had I been mistaken in thinking he cared more for duty than for his own children?
It was safer to change the subject. I moved closer to Lord Hawthorn. “May I take the ivory doll? It could help date the villa.”
I expected a firm no. Instead, he exhaled slowly.
“After the constable views the site,” came the careful answer.
A breath escaped from my own parted mouth as I stared at Lord Hawthorn to see if I had lost my senses. “I beg your pardon, did I hear you correctly?”
“The doll is yours. As long as...” He paused when the murmuring of other men rose, including one sullen man, Mr. Cobb, who was whispering about ghosts and curses and Hawthorn Abbey.
“It’s yours to study,” Lord Hawthorn said more firmly. He moved closer as well to peer at the crumbled earth and in doing so, his sleeve brushed against the sleeves of my pelisse. I could scarcely believe his acquiescence.
“Thank you,” I said as emotion clogged my throat.“Thank you.”
Something tightened in my chest at the hint of vulnerability in his eyes—or perhaps it was my imagination.
I glanced at the doll, itching to examine it more closely, but restrained myself, remembering his words. The constable needed to see it first. Instead, I carefully tucked the clean handkerchief back into my satchel, waiting for the moment when I could properly gather it safely and bring it home.
“Of course, I shall have to ask the Society of Antiquaries what their thoughts are on the subject and have them confirm the find,” I added absently as I stared at the doll as if I could coax answers from it.
