The markings on the doll were of a Christian nature. Stunned, I turned the doll over, searching for a name or anything else, and finding nothing of further interest.
I had discovered a humble Christian symbol near one of the most majestic homes paying homage to Bacchus and Medusa.
If the Almighty had a message for me, I scarcely knew what to think.
The sound of a man weeping, from my father’s study no less, slowed my descent on the staircase as morning light poured through the window above the entry door. I had planned to leave for the Perry field after breakfast. Straining to hear better, I could not discern if other voices accompanied the weeping. At last, I tiptoed down the hall to my father’s study.
Familiar scents greeted me as I slipped inside. Leather, ink, and the faint whisper of chamomile tea. Father’s shoulders heaved with one long shuddering breath as he removed a handkerchief to wipe his face. His glasses sat on the desk alongside a letter.
“What is the matter?” I asked, my heart clenching at this new display of grief.
He pivoted, his eyes reddened. “I have just received word thatthe authorities have placed your brother under arrest in a hulk outside Portsmouth.”
“A hulk? A floating prison?” Shock rippled through me. I was not prone to hysterics or smelling salts, but suddenly my stays pinched in the most uncomfortable manner as I struggled to breathe.
“The charge?”
“Riot and striking an officer,” Father said, his voice thick with shame. “He incited the men—he was at the center of it. And now they’re going to court-martial him.”
“But the conditions—” I protested, trying to steady my shaking hands. “He was compelled against his will to join!”
Father shot me a disapproving look as he tucked a sodden handkerchief into his coat pocket. “Conditions or not, Bridget, Daniel has disgraced this family. Striking an officer in the middle of a riot? He is fortunate they haven’t hung him already. The Royal Navy presses men from all over the country, forcing each area to meet their quota. You think Daniel is the first to disagree with his superiors? He should have followed orders and learned something of discipline.”
My heart sank. I picked up the letter from the desk, its formal tone making the cold reality clear.
“Can we hire a lawyer? Plead his case?”
“With what funds?” Father said, sinking into his chair. “Who would extend us a line of credit after this? We’re ruined, Bridget. Completely ruined.”
I turned away, desperate for air. The society’s fifty pounds felt so far away, so out of reach, yet it was my only hope. Father didn’t know about my plans—the idea of telling him now felt laughable. How could I secure Daniel’s defense when I had nothing to offer but a dream of publication?
I did the only thing I could. I walked out and shut the door, letting the barrier fall between us. After I gained control of mybreathing, I escaped the parsonage with my book and tools in my satchel.
When I reached Abigail’s cottage, the curtains were drawn. After rapping on the door, I found myself face-to-face with my dear friend. Desperate for comfort and companionship, I gestured to my trusty satchel loaded with supplies.
“Care to join me for an hour?”
“La, how I wish I could,” she exclaimed. Her cheeks seemed unnaturally pink, and she refused me entrance into the house I considered as familiar as my own home. “I’m feeling a might peckish of late with a sore throat.” As if to reinforce her point, she fingered her throat, where I noticed her fichu sat somewhat astray to reveal a flushed collarbone. A bright smile bloomed on her face, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I shall rest today, if you don’t mind.”
“Shall I bring a poultice or herbs for you?”
She shook her head gently. “Nay, I wouldn’t want to cause any further trouble. I heard you’ve visited the viscount, so you must be running low on supplies. But if you happen upon anything interesting in Papa’s field, you’ll let me know?”
The door slammed shut just as I murmured an agreement, too shocked to argue. From the deepest part of the main room, I heard a loud sneeze. Someone was with Abigail, but I couldn’t quite place who it might be. Perhaps it was Mr. Perry, although I hadn’t noticed him being ill earlier. Abigail had always been private, but her guardedness felt new, making me wonder if I had upset her.
I whirled and marched to the field. Heavy in spirit, I crouched down at the villa floor, willing the earth to bring some distraction to the hollowness threatening to consume me. I pulled out my notebook and pencils and sketched a magnificent border withentwined loops to accompany my latest notes regarding the dig. With the endless sky stretched above, I had never felt more alone. More than once, the charcoal broke within my pinched grip.
Daniel... Father...
My mind drifted to the child’s bones. It was far easier to focus on the burial spot and the doll than to examine my family. Such a loving action to honor and cherish a beloved daughter, to place her in the prettiest spot of the valley where the butterflies danced among the wildflowers. Before I realized it, a tear splattered against my sketchbook as a writhing Medusa took shape with each stroke, her fierce stare forcing me to examine my own heart. A heart slowly freezing to stone.
Unable to stand Medusa’s gaze much longer, I fled to the only other place where I might find safety.
My dear friend greeted me at the door of her cottage. Her filmy eyes never wavered in staring at me, and a girlish smile brightened her face when she heard my voice.
We sat by the cozy fireplace. I arranged my skirts and opened the book, flipping the pages to our last spot.
“As the carriage-wheels rolled heavily under the portcullis, Emily’s heart sunk, and she seemed, as if she was going into her prison; the gloomy court, into which she passed, served to confirm the idea, and her imagination, ever awake to circumstance, suggested even more terrors, than her reason could justify...”
