Miss Bridget Littleton, bluestocking extraordinaire, has ruffled the Society of Antiquaries into action. One must beg the question, what kind of woman indulges in grave robbery? Her father, the local vicar, is known for his radical political leanings regarding child labor, and her brother awaits trial for treason.
The paper accurately reported Daniel’s predicament. But I was not a grave robber. I could not imagine a worse insult. Father hadn’t underestimated the risk to our reputation at all. Somehow, someone had discovered our secrets and blazed them across London for all the world to see.
Late one afternoon, I returned to the Perry farm to join Abigail in our continued excavation work. Our cotton gowns stuck to our backs as we dug and dusted, wearing gloves to keep the dirt out of our fingernails.
Mr. Perry grunted as he stretched, keeping one hand on his shovel. “My aching back.” He shielded one hand over his weathered brow and squinted into the harsh light. “Do you see that man to the west of us?”
I rose, my own back and neck throbbing. A tall man stood in the distance, too far for us to make out his features.
“I am expecting a visitor from the Society of Antiquaries,” I told Mr. Perry.
He frowned. “If the gent is planning to visit you, why not amble over and say hello? Why stand there and ogle us?”
Abigail leaped to her feet and waved enthusiastically. The stranger mounted his horse before disappearing into the rolling hills.
I chewed my bottom lip. A dreadful habit, but one that came with nerves. “I don’t think he is our representative, but I can’t be certain.”
“Maybe he’s curious, especially after Lord Hawthorn’s find. Do you think we’ll discover more graves?” Abigail asked as she retied her bonnet strings.
I shuddered at the thought of more bodies. I did not want to throw further kindling on the rumor of me as a tomb thief.
“I certainly hope not. Should we arrange for someone to watch the field at night?” I asked.
Mr. Perry shook his head as he continued shielding his eyes from the sun. “I haven’t the funds to hire anyone.”
“Why not ask Mr. Barron? He said he has men aplenty and many of them know how to handle themselves,” Abigail suggested.
Mr. Perry expelled a long-suffering sigh, his gaze straying to mine with a wordless caution. “No, not Barron. I refused his offer when he came by last week, sniffing around to see what he could gain. He’s too much in his cups, and he’s been asking too many questions about the mosaics. Maybe one of the Dixon boys can spare an evening to watch. They’re young and hardy and always up for an adventure.”
“Mr. Barron would prove a far more practical choice than the Dixon lads,” Abigail said. “I would hate to offend him after his offer of assistance.”
“You’ve taken a liking to him, eh?” Mr. Perry spat on the ground. “He’s been sniffing around to see what you’re worth, my girl. Fancies himself quite the gentleman and was in the sulks when I refused to give him answers about the mosaics. Nay, I want no business partners other than Miss Littleton. We’ve an agreement—she knew the value of the tiles right off and only asks that her work with the societies be recognized. She’s not after our land or profits, only the scholarly credit. That’s a fair deal to me.”
Abigail pouted but said nothing more, her brow furrowed as she worked silently to sift through the dirt for any items of interest. She filled her basket and shook it just as I had taught her, the vibrating motion often revealing the smallest secrets hidden within the soil.
I focused on cleaning the border of the tiles, but Mr. Perry’s words stung. My once-burning desire for recognition now felt hollow. Was I truly helping the Perrys and honoring Daniel, or had my ambition clouded my purpose? Unease gnawed at me as we uncovered more of the villa.
We soon finished our work for the day and pulled the canvas across the Bacchus mosaic. We had discovered a few pot shards far too shattered to reconstruct, but worth keeping and cataloging. I planned to take what I could home for inspection.
Yet I couldn’t help but wonder at the strange man in the distance who seemed as preoccupied with our work as we were.
A day later, while I sat in the parlor recording the latest finds within my journal next to Daniel’s worn copy ofThe Ruins of Palmyraby Robert Wood, Mrs. Herriot entered with a letter in hand.
“For you,” she said with a puzzled frown. “That’s the third letter to the parsonage sent by courier.”
Stilling any anxiety that a cancellation of the Society of Antiquaries was enclosed, I forced my breathing to remain even.
I expected to see Mr. Archibald Harrington, the secretary of the Society of Antiquaries, arrive any day. Poor Mrs. Herriot had spent the rest of the morning fussing over the state of the parsonage, forcing Molly to polish the silverware, beat the rugs, and repeatedly dust. Father and I assumed any guest would choose the quiet of the parsonage rather than one of Mr. Barron’s rowdy inns. Lord Hawthorn had the only other suitable lodgings. Considering his lack of staff, I hated to presume on him.
Our relationship, as of late, had moved into something tentative, reminding me of two fencers politely saluting each other at the end of a match.
I motioned for my housekeeper to bring the letter. She placed it on the desk with a flourish. Instead of leaving me in peace, she hovered close by, no doubt hoping to discover the contents. The heavy paper, the color of clotted cream with a muted wax seal lined with a Greek laurel, appeared different from the missives sent by the Society of Antiquaries.
“Blue,” I muttered to myself as I carefully broke open the seal. “The color of loyalty, truth, and strength.”
I quickly scanned the contents, my heart pounding as I read the lines.
“What on earth is in that letter?” Mrs. Herriot cried as she approached the desk again. I reached for it and showed her the elegant scrawl.
