“It appears I have attracted the attention of the Society of Dilettanti after all. Mr. Beaumont’s secretary demands that I send all my sketches and findings to him at my earliest convenience.”
“Are we to expect more guests to the parsonage?” She squinted, holding the letter closer to read.
“I should hope not,” I answered. “I’m no longer certain I want to entertain Mr. Beaumont.”
Although the secretary had congratulated me on my recent success, I couldn’t quite shake the condescending tone or the demand to comply with Mr. Beaumont’s wishes. It was not a letter between colleagues, but an order.
It is only fitting that such a valuable discovery be placed in the hands of someone with the resources to appreciate its historical value. Please forward all of your recent research to the care of Mr. Beaumont at the soonest convenience.
She held out the letter, only to toss it onto the desk when I refused to touch it. “The same man who told you to stick to embroidery, isn’t he?”
“The same,” I said as I tapped my fingers against the desk, while a sense of restlessness swept through me. I had so desperately wanted them to acknowledge my find, a desire Daniel had affirmed before he left for London. Now they had done so, yet the triumph felt forced.
Mrs. Herriot’s eyes narrowed as she watched me. “Interesting timing, wouldn’t you say? Is it possible the Dilettanti read the London rags?”
I sighed. “I believe you are correct. They hadn’t believed me when I previously described the denarii and Bacchus mosaic.”
She appeared smug. “It’s a shame you’ve tried so hard to find acceptance with the most unlikely of groups. If only you had pleased your aunt. She might have helped you with a proper debut. You might be married and blessed with children as any respectable woman ought to enjoy.”
Normally, I had no trouble parrying words with Mrs. Herriot,but her admonishment felt like vinegar stinging a raw wound. She swept from the parlor, satisfied that her guidance had found the mark. Ihadtraded the opinions of one group, that of the marriage mart and polite society, for another group even more disdainful, all the while thinking I was free to do as I pleased.
I was not free. Not really. Mr. Beaumont and the Dilettanti had given me enough warning through their correspondence that I would be a fool to keep engaging their interest. So bent on my quest for acknowledgment and earning the funds to help my brother escape his sentence, I had ignored the warning signs. Rejection stung. Being used for someone else’s advancement stung even more.
I found a sheet of paper and prepared to draft a response. Hot words coursed through me, with all the fire and brimstone I had witnessed my father employ when defying the mine owners and their despicable use of children.
Pinching the feathered quill between my fingers, I blew out a noisy breath and curbed any inclination to unleash my emotions. Once again, I kept my answer brief, thanking Mr. Beaumont for his interest. However, I refused to part with my sketches or divulge my findings. As I addressed the envelope, I wondered about Mr. Beaumont, a man I had never met. Surely, he would give up any interest, especially now with the Society of Antiquaries involved.
24:Rafe
Without a ruler to do it against,
you can’t make crooked straight.
SENECA
Early on a Saturday morning, as the sun crested over the valley, I raced Chaucer outside the abbey, letting him stretch into a full gallop. The rosy hues of the morning sky chased away my worries. Two letters recently delivered, both equally disturbing, had driven me to seek solace in the fresh air of the countryside.
The letter from my barrister was direct:
My buyer, Mr. Beaumont, insists on meeting in two days to assess the abbey’s antiques and the gladiator mosaics. All of London speaks of Hawthorn Abbey.
The attached clips fromThe Times,Monthly Meteor, andThe Observerincluded details about the child’s remains and the salacious history of my family.
I should have been grateful Mr. Beaumont even wanted to meet with me. Any entrance into polite society, regardless of my rank, was forever closed, thanks to the scandal sheets. I would continue to pay for the sins of my father and the unforgivable crime of being a gentleman reduced to a trade. Was there nothing I could do to redeem my name?
The second letter hit harder.
My military colleague wrote to me far quicker than I had expected.
Daniel Littleton is gravely ill aboard the hulk. They won’t commute his sentence. A school of vice is no straightforward thing to escape. If he doesn’t receive aid, he will be dead if he stays longer than a year, regardless of his trial’s outcome.
A sleepless night of tossing and turning had brought a pounding to my temples not even fresh air could chase away. This was not the news I wanted to share with Miss Littleton. It seemed I would have no choice but to be the bearer of ill tidings. Daniel’s plight far overshadowed my ever-tightening purse. I could ill afford to send aid to him. A groan escaped me.
I still needed to make money to cover the mounting costs. I didn’t even want to think about repairing the abbey following the hailstorm. Progress seemed more elusive the harder I strained for it. I had no choice but to welcome this mysterious Mr. Beaumont and allow him access to Hawthorn Abbey’s treasures. But if I granted him access to the gladiator mosaic, what might Bridget think?
Chaucer galloped past the newly planted orchard, allowing me a glimpse of the battered saplings while I tried to sort my turbulent thoughts.
My thoughts drifted to her, wondering if she thought of me. I could never forget her sketch.
