Bridget didn’t answer, but the vicar stared at me. “We’ll take you up on the offer, Lord Hawthorn.”
33:Bridget
The wise want love; and those who love want wisdom.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
I tried to forget the ride, and the kiss. In the hours that followed, I repeatedly pushed the memory to the back of my mind, only to have it resurface. If I closed my eyes, I could still see Rafe’s disbelief after I had discouraged his attentions.
I knew I had made the right choice to keep him free from obligation, but regret lingered.
As evening fell within the parsonage, the muted hues of purple and blue matched my dismal feelings. Mr. Harrington and Father sat in the drawing room with borrowed books spread out across the desk, courtesy of Lord Hawthorn’s generous access to Roman history volumes. My own search, however, bore little fruit.
I turned a page, my finger tracing the text on Constantine’s reign. In the early fourth century, the Roman Empire began itsshift from paganism to Christianity, but here in Britain, the old gods held sway. Most families remained devoted to their pagan traditions, worshipping figures like Bacchus and Medusa, their symbols woven into daily life.
Regardless, Christianity had begun to take root, thanks to Constantine’s edict of Milan. Some had converted, practicing their faith in secret, even while the majority clung to the familiar rites of the past.
My eyes fell on the ring we had found at the villa—the one that had been pulled off as if in a struggle.
“The villa’s pagan mosaics—Bacchus, Medusa—they reflect the old ways,” I murmured. “Might some members of the household have resisted the shift to Christianity, while others embraced it? The struggle could have torn families apart.”
Mr. Harrington glanced up. “It’s a plausible theory. We may never know the full story.”
The thought saddened me—I longed to know more about the villa’s inhabitants. What had they cherished? What had they feared? Had a Christian mother prayed in secret, her love for her child a flickering light amid danger?
Father sat with an ancient volume on his lap, sipping tea, unaware of my inner turmoil. I watched him, my heart a storm of conflicting emotions. Constantine’s reign may have ended, but the questions left in its wake remained, echoing across time. Could love truly conquer all? The inscription on the once-lost ring had suggested so, but my own experience told a different story.
“Father, I must insist. Put down your teacup before you ruin those handwritten pages from the fifteen hundreds.”
Father set down his teacup on the table next to him, his owlish eyes blinking beneath his glasses.
“What do you think, Vicar? Is the villa’s story lost to the ages?” Mr. Harrington asked, looking up from his notes.
“I’ve often wondered about the challenges the early church faced within Britain. I cannot deny my heart is deeply encouraged by your discovery of Christian symbols. Not even the gates of hell could prevail against what God ordained. It is as if we’ve been given a glimpse of a miracle, tucked away until the proper hour, and dare I admit, one I needed greatly.”
“Here, here! I fear we have come as far as we can for logical answers,” Mr. Harrington said as he picked up the feathered quill and dipped it into the inkpot. Several papers lay on the desk, covered in notes. “Anything else will be conjecture. I am a scholar of science, not fiction. All we can note in any presentation is the suspected age of the mosaics, the jeweled ring, and...”
“The doll with the Christian symbol,” I murmured. No matter how hard I tried, I could only uncover fragments of the villa’s story. Perhaps the child belonged to a slave who kept her faith like a candle burning in the dark. Perhaps thedominusnurtured his fascination with gladiators and vice until his last wine-tainted breath, regardless of whether a Christian woman existed within his home.
A bittersweet end to my hungry search for answers regarding the lives of strangers who lived well over a thousand years ago.
I felt unsettled. Unfulfilled.
As Mr. Harrington and Father spoke about the items and the dig, making plans to gather and deliver the items to Lord Hawthorn in the morning, I found myself far more preoccupied with the present than the past.
What was Rafe thinking at this moment? Did he think of me? I touched my lips, remembering the kiss, but dropped my hand when Mr. Harrington gave me an odd look.
When the secretary retired for the night, I remained by the fireplace, studying the crackling flames. Father stayed with me.
“Bridget, you are not yourself this evening. Normally, you’dbe putting a hole in the rug by now. What happened earlier with Lord Hawthorn?”
How perceptive he was. I flushed, having no intention of telling him anything about the ride back to the abbey, nor the marriage proposal.
“I had another accident involving horses, as you well know, and it reminded me of Daniel.”
Father removed his spectacles and slid them into his coat pocket, his expression grave. “I have always regretted that day. You were in tears and stranded with a broken ankle. It was shortly after that incident when I sent him away to London to seminary, hoping he would find more honorable activities to occupy his days.”
“I want to understand why Lord Hawthorn thinks his broken uncle found redemption in the end. How can a boy who had love reject it, and a man starved for love, find it?”
