“Might I see your doll, Miss Littleton?” Mr. Harrington asked, drawing me from my thoughts.
I pulled the jointed doll out of the tin, careful to keep the linen handkerchief around her. The face held no details, a blank slate waiting to be written upon.
“Somewhat of an older toy to give an infant,” I admitted as he carefully reached for it. He grunted assent, and it seemed as if Father and I had faded from the room. Mr. Harrington rose and took the doll. He sank into the petite chair, its legs groaning beneath his weight.
“Ah,” he crooned as he turned over the toy. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a large magnifying glass. “Ah.” Then a sudden intake of breath.
He pierced me with a look. “There is a Christian symbol on her. You knew this?”
I nodded. “I wanted to be sure before I claimed such a thing. I had hoped you would confirm my finding.”
“This explains why someone buried her in such a manner. Only a Christian would do such a thing. The question is, who did this child belong to? The master of the house? Or a slave or a servant?”
“I doubt we will ever know,” I murmured.
Mr. Harrington didn’t seem to hear my remark. “It’s a cross of sorts, otherwise known as the Chi Rho, a symbol used by Constantine, the first Christian emperor. It’s encircled too. At first glance, one might assume it was the letterPintersected with a simplex. The chi and the rho, both Greek letters. Using a wreath around the Chi Rho symbolizes the victory of the resurrection over death.”
“Then the doll gives us a framework. We can’t date the original building, but we know of such Christian symbols used around the fourth century,” I said.
Mr. Harrington shot me a glance full of approval.
“Bridget, this is marvelous.” Father peered over the man’s shoulder to see the markings. “It’s a sign from above.” His voice broke. “A sign of God’s mercy in troubling seasons. Of His perfect faithfulness even in the presence of evil and loss.”
I suspected what he left unsaid, his fear for Daniel’s well-being stealing the last bit of his strength. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears as he examined the doll with Mr. Harrington.
Yes, the doll’s marking was marvelous. And disconcerting in a way. Was God trying to tell me something? That He remained in control, even as my doubt festered?
Could I trust Him with my life and that of my loved ones, as Mrs. Eacher had encouraged?
Oh, ye of little faith.
29:Bridget
It’s not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste much of it. Life is long enough, and it’s been given to us in generous measure for accomplishing the greatest things, if the whole of it is well invested. But when life is squandered through soft and careless living, and when it’s spent on no worthwhile pursuit, death finally presses and we realize that the life which we didn’t notice passing has passed away.
SENECA
Father didn’t approve at all of May Day, which marked the beginning of the month with its pagan roots extending to the Celtic observance celebrating the beginning of spring, and if one reached further back, ancient Rome with the festival of Floralia, the goddess of flowers. The young girls wove crowns of wildflowers to wear during the parade. A flagpole draped with ribbons and set in the town square triumphantly waited for the revelers.
I didn’t care about the dancing or the ale that poured freely throughout the afternoon and especially into the late evening. However, the festival had been a tradition in our village since the sixteen hundreds when Charles II reinstated it. Many a girl, including Abigail, dreamed of dancing with a handsome beau and being crowned the May Queen.
“It’s Pentecost,” Father reminded me when I stepped into the drawing room that afternoon. In the past, we had stayed home together, enjoying a quiet evening. The day before, he spent in prayer, interceding for blessings on the flowers, fruits, and fields.
“Abigail made me promise I would go with her,” I responded, adjusting my gloves. “She needs someone responsible to ensure all the young swains don’t trip over her toes. Her father will be present. I doubt you’ll need to worry about either of us.”
Moreover, I dreaded nursing my morbid thoughts within a stuffy drawing room while trying to guess what Lord Hawthorn and Mr. Perry might do with their land. The longer I worked on the excavation, the more Mr. Harrington and Father advised a short rest. Torn by the need to uncover more of the mosaics and chaperone my friend, I finally settled on the latter, even if I felt a prick of resentment.
Father grimaced. “Mr. Perry ought to have better control over his daughter.”
I hid my smile as I touched my curls, artfully styled with ribbons, thanks to Molly’s expert interventions. Of course, Father heard the same said about me.
“We won’t stay late into the evening. We’ll wander the grounds and sample the tarts. Maybe we’ll even have a glass of lemonade. She dreams of being a queen for a night.”
“Chaperone, indeed. You look as though you need a chaperone of your own,” he said, taking in my newly reworked gown, sewn by Mrs. Herriot from one of my mother’s dresses. The pale-green fabric, accented with lace at the sleeves and a slightly lower neckline, caught his attention.
“Do you like it?” I asked, since I had allowed Mrs. Herriot the freedom to choose what she thought best. I had never seen a woman so happy.
He grunted as he pushed up his glasses. “It’s fetching enough.” Then his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Quite fetching. Do refuseany impetuous marriage invitations while you’re out. A father has to have some say in the matter.”
