Is this how you see me?
If I hadn’t known better, I might have assumed, nay, hoped something more lay within her fascination. I was not an artist, yet neither could I shake the image of her from my mind’s eye. How was it that in such a short period I had found myself bewitched with her? But what I wanted was irrelevant.
I returned my attention to the nature surrounding me while muttering a prayer for guidance. I had no idea how to fix the muddled mess of my life, nor that of Daniel. Nor my tenants. The more I tried to repair things, the worse the situations grew.
A horse nickered in the morning hush. Chaucer perked his ears, indicating that I had not imagined the sound. Reining him in, I studied the ruined orchard as the cool wind rustled through the saplings. Dawn crept slowly over the fields and the stone walls lining part of the southern field—stones Bridget claimed were taken from the Roman villa.
A figure rose from the Bacchus mosaic with a satchel, staring at me. Hat low, his features remained indistinct. Mr. Perry? I raised my hand in greeting just as the man whistled and sprinted across the grass. Chaucer snorted at an answering nicker. Perry wouldn’t flee. Treasure hunters?
I leaned into Chaucer, and with the press of my knees, he broke into a gallop while the stranger, sensing danger, threw himself onto his own creature and darted east, in the direction of Bramnor.
Chaucer needed no encouragement to take up the chase. As a war horse, he itched for battle, and with a whinny of triumph, his hooves ate up the ground beneath us. We pursued until the stranger disappeared into a copse of trees and we lost him.
When I returned to Mr. Perry’s field, the canvases normallypinned to protect the floor beneath had been pulled back to reveal a gaping hole within the moist dirt.
I halted Chaucer and dismounted. There, within the pit, lay a scattering of stones and tile and dirt. A curse escaped me. Bacchus’s impudent grin no longer greeted me.
Someone had stolen the face of the fallen god.
25:Bridget
Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.
ECCLESIASTES 4:9–10
On the morning we expected the society visit, Father frowned as he reviewed the proposed menu over breakfast porridge. “A country vicar should operate within his budget,” he protested. Mrs. Herriot and I had settled on consommé, roasted turkey, and custard tarts for dinner that evening.
“It is the Society of Antiquaries. King George’s scholars. Surely, we can do more,” Mrs. Herriot retorted.
Father stood firm, and I knew we would lose the battle. “I am a vicar, not an earl. Why shouldn’t boiled potatoes be sufficient as a side?”
Mrs. Herriot groaned while I swallowed a chuckle.
Boiled potatoes, it was.
“At least dress the part instead of this...” Mrs. Herriot made it a point to study my puce muslin gown. She waved a dismissivehand, as if description of the blandness of my attire had rendered her speechless.
“Don’t worry, I won’t look like a dusty scholar,” I assured her.
After she left, Father arched his eyebrows. “Really, Bridget, this entire situation is getting out of hand. I have no desire to attract the notice of the rector in Chichester, and I fear this excavation and the rumors surrounding it will prove unbearable if the Reverend Nathanial Pritchard gets wind of it.”
I could only agree. I had no use for overly pious men who were only concerned with their outward appearance. Any plans I had for the morning collapsed when Molly announced a caller.
“A gentleman to see you and your father, miss—though I must say, he doesn’t look the sort to be easily put off by boiled potatoes.”
I had settled at my desk in the parlor and shifted through sheets of pottery shard sketches. The sound of footsteps grew closer. I stood so quickly I nearly knocked over my inkwell.
Lord Hawthorn stood in my parlor.
The news of the theft took the wind out of my sails. I paced the room while Lord Hawthorn watched me. Father had joined us and sat on the settee opposite of mine.
My pulse skittered. “Bacchus was taken?”
“Someone cut out the face and stole it. I saw a figure out in the field early this morning, just at dawn. At first, I assumed it was Mr. Perry, but the man fled on horseback. When I went to inspect the site, I spied the damage. I’ve sent word to our constable,” Lord Hawthorn said. He stood by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantle.
I resumed pacing. If I didn’t stop, I would soon wear a hole in the carpet.
I forced myself to sink onto the settee. I wanted nothing more than to cover my face with my hands. All that hard work ruined, and right before the secretary of the Society of Antiquaries came to inspect the site. What if the thief ruined the mosaics in his haste to escape?
