He raised a hand, the fingers lily white. “The mosaics, Lord Hawthorn. All of them. As much as I appreciate a stout drink, I want access to your orchard for what lies beneath. Once I purchase Perry’s land, I’ll be able to excavate the entire villa.”
“What of Miss Littleton? She was the first to document the findings. I believe all she wants is the recognition for her scholastic achievement. Will you allow her to continue to work with you?”
As soon as the challenge left my mouth, I despised the idea of her working so closely with Beaumont. However, she had admitted that she needed the Dilettanti or the Society of Antiquaries. Was partnership with them truly what she wanted?
“No one will take her seriously. If I present her findings to the society, what then? I will be the laughingstock before all the men.”
“What about the Society of Antiquaries?”
He waved aside the notion as if it were a bothersome fly. “Mr. Harrington can’t do much if he doesn’t purchase the farm first. The key to the dilemma is Mr. Perry. Not Miss Littleton, nor Mr. Harrington.”
Lord Ainsley watched me keenly. “If need be, we could rent the field at a generous price. Perhaps even the entire estate. You could leave the countryside and set up anywhere you preferred. London. The continent.”
“Or sell it,” Mr. Beaumont added. “If you are last in the entitlement.”
“I’ll think on it,” I rasped. I was not a gambling man, but I had sunk my commission into the abbey and had nothing else. The Dilettanti offered me an easy escape. But did I truly want to leave the valley, the Whittles, and my tenants who relied upon me? Or the vicar? Or...her?
Lord Ainsley clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Come, Rafe, stop looking so morose. Your Mr. Whittle shared that a country dance is to be held soon, just in time for May Day. Why don’t we enjoy ourselves while you mull things over?”
He used my first name as if we were old friends. We were not. With May Day fast approaching within a week, and the investigation into my estate looming ever closer, I had little desire to celebrate. The Crown’s inquiry weighed heavily on me, threatening everything I had worked for. Every step I took felt like one closer to losing the abbey, and I had yet to hear any promising news that might buy me more time.
Would either man persuade Mr. Perry to sell before the Crown’s decision? My steward had tried and failed. I despised the thought of Bridget being caught between such ruthless men, especially now when so much hung in the balance.
Her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, filled my mind. She was not someone prone to tears, as far as I could tell, and the thought of hurting her brought a bitter taste to my mouth.
28:Bridget
Faith is a living and unshakable confidence. A belief in God so assured that a man would die a thousand deaths for its sake.
MARTIN LUTHER
Polite society reserved visiting hours between one and three, but we Littletons hardly followed such conventions. When Mr. Harrington requested we focus on the doll and mosaics, I heaved a sigh of relief. After the unsettling visit from the two Dilettanti men, the idea of losing myself in ancient artifacts was far more appealing than engaging with any visitors.
Sensing my need for quiet, Father instructed Molly to turn away any callers.
Excitement flickered as we put on white gloves and compared our finds. The cameo of a man with a hawk-like nose reminded me of Lord Hawthorn—imperious, yet surprisingly kind. Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I pushed aside the thought of Mr. Beaumont’s claim of purchasing Lord Hawthorn’s land.
Mr. Perry and I had heard nothing further from the magistrate, despite Father’s recent visit to Chichester, where he had hoped to speak with the magistrate directly.
All my dreams and hopes felt as though they might dissipate as readily as smoke. If I could no longer access the site in the months to come, would Mr. Harrington still find work for me with the society? Any control over the situation felt as distant and evasive as the magistrate at Chichester.
“Could this man be the owner of the house?” I asked as we observed the ring.
“Perhaps, or a god,” Mr. Harrington said as he held it up to the light streaming from the window.
“An idol. Oh, Reverend, how can we allow such a hideous thing inside the parsonage?” Mrs. Herriot moaned as she bustled out of the room.
“Get a glove, Reverend, and you may hold something well over a thousand years old,” Mr. Harrington said, ignoring Mrs. Herriot’s protest.
Father slipped on the glove and picked up the ring. I saw a sense of wonder pass over his features as the ruby’s stone glowed, further revealing the handsome profile.
“I have no idealism about the Romans,” Mr. Harrington said. “When Pompeii was rediscovered, the French quickly covered the worst of the vulgar pictures.”
I didn’t need him to explain further. I had read plenty of Roman literature. Unfortunately, I had also seen things no respectable woman would ever admit to knowing, and they were as foul as Mr. Harrington intimated.
Father nodded at me, approval shining in his eyes at Mr. Harrington’s levelheaded assessment. “Proof, my good sir, of Christianity’s acclaim to change not just the individual but the course of the world. Men learned to blush again and discern good from evil.”
Trust Father to find redemption. Still, his thought settled into the cracks of my soul. As much as I felt like a doubting Thomas, I could not deny the change faith brought. Pain followed it too. Pain that made me wrestle with the goodness of such a God.
