SENECA
Later that morning, Mr. Archibald Harrington arrived. His white hair was tied back, and though his coat and breeches were proper, it was his sturdy laced boots that caught my eye. I had expected an athletic man, but Mr. Harrington appeared to be an apple with a barrel chest and spindly legs and the roundest face I had ever seen.
I longingly regarded his boots, so different from a pair of polished Hessians.
Mrs. Herriot rolled her eyes when she caught my glance at his footwear.
We went to Mr. Perry’s field, where I pointed out the sections, including the missing Bacchus.
“A terrible misfortune to lose such a valuable piece,” Mr. Harrington said as he stroked his chin. “Your drawings at least give us some idea of what the mosaic looked like. I agree with you,wholeheartedly, Miss Littleton, that the Medusa is most unusual. Was this a portrait of thedomina? Or someone who might have been... ah... ah... ameretrix?”
A mistress. Apparently, Mr. Harrington didn’t realize the extent of my Latin. Equally apparent was that the Roman wealthy didn’t differ much from the wilder ton, who aped the Prince Regent with his list of torrid affairs.
Within the hour, Mr. Harrington had marched across the field correcting my views on third-century Rome, regardless of what I showed him. Even my ideas of the owner were soundly rebuffed.
“No. Not a farmer, Miss Littleton. No farmer, no matter how wealthy, could afford such artistry as we see with the mosaics. I suggest we confine our search to the upper echelon.”
He corrected how we dug, suggesting we mark the land with ropes, sectioning off squares to examine and unearth one at a time. And, of course, despite his enthusiasm for my notes and sketches, which he boldly critiqued and praised in equal turns, he recoiled when he witnessed Mr. Perry attacking the soil with a shovel.
A cracking sounded as Mr. Perry heaved the shovel full into the ground.
“Upon my word, sir! Nothing will be left!” Mr. Harrington motioned for my brush with impatient fingers. I handed it to him. He eased onto the dirt beside the mound.
“Basket!” he all but barked, and Abigail scurried to retrieve it.
After scooping up the soil, he carefully sifted it back and forth, allowing the finest particles to escape. Then, with the greatest care, as if he performed surgery, he brushed a strange piece. Pinching it between his fingers, he laughed as he held it up for us to see.
“Ah!” he cried. “Ah! By Jove!”
We had dug for weeks and found only mosaics and pottery. Mr. Perry shrugged when he met my incredulous gaze. He wiped one filthy hand across his sweating brow, leaving streaks behind.
“I see nothing to get excited about,” Mr. Perry said wryly.
“Indeed, it’s a clump of dirt at first glance.” Mr. Harrington frowned as he removed a white handkerchief from his coat and gently polished the piece before holding it up again. “It’s a gold ring, with a seal, no less. I see a man’s face with a laurel wrapped around it. Could this be the portrait of the owner of the villa? Or is this the god Bacchus?”
He carefully deposited the ring into my gloved hands. I immediately spied similar features from the mosaic. The god of vice and revelry.
“Gladiators and Bacchus. I daresay this villa saw a fair amount of wine and fighting and, likely, pretty women.” He flushed. “Pardon my language. In my excitement, I quite forgot about the ladies.”
Mr. Perry snickered, hiding his mirth behind a grimy fist.
“There’s more to discover,” I added, suddenly chilled by the thought of gladiators and women and the little child hidden beneath the twisted roots of the apple grove. “I’d really like your opinion on a grave site that was discovered on Lord Hawthorn’s land.”
He arched a bushy eyebrow, seeming torn between excavating the mound before us and investigating yet another site.
“We found the bones of a child buried with a doll the length of my hand near the Hawthorn orchard. I’ll see if we can arrange a visit with Lord Hawthorn as soon as possible.”
Mr. Harrington blinked. “That is strange to discover a child buried with a toy. And most un-Roman. How soon can I meet this Lord Hawthorn?”
We returned to the parsonage, my heart beating fast with triumph since the secretary of the Society of Antiquaries said he would write his colleagues this evening. His enthusiasm seemed a nearguarantee of the fifty pounds to be awarded to the best research. Even with the magnificent Bacchus mosaic stolen, plenty remained to entice Mr. Harrington. He took the gold ring to the guest room and proclaimed he would inspect it further, having brought a suitcase of his own utensils.
I went to change my dress, my spirits high. Mr. Harrington hinted that I might write a paper on the riches of Bramnor forArcheologia, along with my illustrations of the mosaics. But my jaw truly dropped when he casually asked if I could present my findings to the Society of Antiquaries, hinting at a permanentpositionas a researcher and illustrator to the tune of forty to sixty pounds per year.
Mind you, our current illustrator is retiring thanks to his eyesight. You will not earn his one hundred pounds per year. At least, not until you gain fame,he’d warned me.
As if he even needed to ask about my interest in such a proposition. My heart soared at the request I had pined for. Hope had never felt so real and tangible.
If only Daniel could stay safe and well within the hulk.
