A worse fate I could not imagine for her, other than Mr. Barron, especially if saddled with an imperious master who forbade me from being wholly accepted by the family or the servants. What could be lonelier than living in some forgotten wing, only to be taken out when needed? Never fully belonging or having a voice of my own?
I hit her lightly on the shoulder with my fist even though her teasing chafed. “I save those lectures foryou, you ungrateful miss who calls herself a friend.”
“We’ve been friends for many years now,” she said quietly once our laughter subsided. “This mosaic could change our situations. It is a miracle.”
I winced. Did I believe in miracles anymore? I dare not admit such a traitorous thought, even if we shared much of childhood grievances and delights with each other.
Abigail leaned closer to study my work. A stray blonde curl grazed her rosy cheek. “I should think those scholars will finally recognize your accomplishments.”
“I hope so.” Her praise warmed me as I placed my notes, along with the sketch of Bacchus into the leather satchel. The hour was late, the sun melting into the horizon, bathing the fields and grass in gold. We both rose and shook out our wrinkled gowns. I waved goodbye to Abigail after refusing an escort home. I wanted to reflect on what I might write to the Dilettanti and the Antiquarians, and I could hardly compose a letter with Abigail chattering or probing into my family affairs. I loved her dearly, but I needed a moment of quiet to compose my thoughts.
Surely we would uncover more ruins. The Romans had pushed back the Iceni tribes and conquered the land with brute force,taming it with bathhouses, amphitheaters, straight roads, and, of course, villas like the one I believed resided beneath Mr. Perry’s land.
As I glanced around the countryside at the gentle, verdant slopes of the valley, I could almost imagine myself transported back to ancient times as the lady of the villa. My hair would fall free with a ribbon wrapped around the crown of my head. My dress would be a simple tunic covered with a stola pinned at the shoulders. I would wear dangling silver earrings and cover my bare feet in soft leather sandals instead of itchy cotton stockings and snug slippers.
I tugged at my bonnet to loosen the tight strings. If only I could feel as free as I imagined the lady of the villa might live. Moving the leather satchel under one arm distracted me from the sound of thunder in the distance.
By the time I turned to greet the rushing menace, a stranger on horseback barreled down the road heading straight toward me. Clods of dirt shot from beneath the pounding hooves. For a moment I thought I stared at a Roman conqueror with a sword slapping at his side.
Twilight bathed the road in shades of muted gray and purple, with shadows hiding its poor condition. The man’s great coat billowed like raven wings, and his head was bent low. As he raced past the fields, flocks of birds scurried into the air, squawking their outrage.
I jumped out of the way as the fearsome horse thundered past and splattered mud against my gown, allowing me a glimpse of the man’s stern face with a harsh mouth pulled into a thin line.
Would he see the holes in the road ahead? Or would he break that poor beast’s legs?
My bonnet, freed from the knot that had secured it under my chin, slipped from my numb fingers and tumbled down my back as I hurried southward, away from Hawthorn Abbey. In my shock, I dropped the satchel, causing brushes and papers to scatter over the damp ground.
Crying out, I reached for the drawing first, only for a rebellious breeze to snatch it out of my grasp. I chased after it, my bonnet bouncing behind me as I ran toward the village and my father’s parsonage.
“You there, miss!” I glanced back to see the horse jerk to a halt.
I gaped for a moment, mesmerized by the height and breadth of that massive beast pawing at the ground. For once, I wished I had taken Miss Perry’s offer to escort me home. Good heavens, what a sight I must present! Nothing could disguise the state of my attire, not even the falling twilight. I wanted nothing more than to avoid the imposing man on the road and recapture my sketch of Bacchus before slinking back to the parsonage.
“Can you speak?” The man’s voice, deep and velvet, carried an edge I didn’t care for.
I swallowed hard, forcing my beating pulse to slow. The paper rolled out of my reach, fluttered in the breeze, and became trapped among the grass.
“I assure you, I can speak quite well.”
He drew closer, giving me ample opportunity to study him. Towering over me on a horse the color of midnight, the man assessed my bedraggled form from head to toe. His gaze dropped to the ground where my unfortunate picture lay. When he raised his head, his eyes narrowed.
“Your paper?”
“Yes, it is. I believe your horse is about to crush my drawing. Would you be so kind to remove yourself so I may retrieve it?”
I met his bold gaze with one of my own. His clothes, though marred with mud, were serviceable rather than stylish, from the Hessian boots to the buckskin breeches clinging to his legs. A simple knotted cravat and fitted coat hinted at something finer, and his clean-shaven jaw, though as dimpled as the satyr’s, clenched and unclenched.
Flinty eyes, almost black within the gathering darkness, stared at me. He was younger than I first surmised, and upon closer inspection, I recognized the military cut of the coat. Pain stabbed in my chest when I noticed the brass buttons. But this man was nothing like Daniel with his round cheeks and gap-toothed grin.
Without a word, the stranger dismounted. He snatched up the damp sketch of Bacchus and limped toward me. Of course, as fate would have it, the soggy paper chose that moment to unfurl into its full glory, providing a glimpse of the smirking god. The stranger glanced at it, one black eyebrow arching in question.
“Interesting. An acquaintance of yours?”
“That is not your concern,” I responded coolly, my frustration at odds with his limp. Had he sustained a recent injury? The frostiness of his tone drowned out any sense of pity.
Clearing his throat, the man offered me the paper, and I was careful not to wrinkle it as I took it.
I did not care to explain the drawing or the mosaic within the field. Nor could I help noticing how his greatcoat emphasized the stranger’s broad shoulders. He appeared equally intimidating on the ground without the benefit of his mount. A gentleman, perhaps—judging from the cut of his clothes—but not a dandy.
