Mr. Beaumont with gambling debts? The news hardly surprised me. Thank God I didn’t let him edge Bridget and Mr. Harrington or Perry out of the mosaics.
I clasped Mr. Spencer on the shoulder. “I can’t help but wonder if he would have honored his precious note after all.”
Mr. Spencer smirked, his teeth a yellow hue against his weathered skin. “I about popped a button when you threatened to tear it up. A man doesn’t forget an insult like that.”
“Well, he’s on his way to London. Let us hope other diversions capture him,” I said as we returned to the abbey. “I believe my days of entertaining young lords are at an end.”
Riding Chaucer provided the only means for clearing my head. I left Mr. Spencer and Mr. Whittle and headed for the stable. Inside, dust motes danced within the streams of sunlight. A greeting nicker came from Chaucer’s stall. He nudged me with his velvet nose, eager as I to run and feel the wind in our hair.
Outside, I took him on the familiar path leading to the orchard where the hail had stripped the branches bare. A desolate expanse of thwarted dreams. The wind stirred the blighted leaves as I reined Chaucer in to a slow walk.
How strange that the abbey felt like the closest thing to home, even though it would likely revert to the Crown. Was there truly no way to save it on my own? Accepting Harrington’s assistance would mean leaning on another man’s resources, another reminder that I had not managed to revive the abbey by my own means. Beaumont had trampled my name, casting doubt on any chance of marrying an heiress or even securing a proper tenant to cover the upkeep.
Both ideas stung. No, I wanted to find a way to salvage the abbey on my own terms, without the debt of someone else’s goodwill. I had no desire to leave the valley or abandon those in my care. And most of all, I couldn’t imagine leaving Bridget—not when I’d barely begun to fight for her.
I bowed my head and breathed a prayer as a cool wind brushed past me, stirring Chaucer’s mane. A thread of peace curled within me, as faint as a wisp of smoke, but it was enough. The recent events in my life pushed up what had been buried for so long. If I hadn’t injured my leg, I would not have returned to the abbey. If I had not returned to claim my inheritance, I never would have known about my uncle’s change of heart.
Who knew where my path would lead next? I could only trust God’s whisper in my ear, telling me where to turn, even if it meant joining with Mr. Perry to open a tourist center for antiquities. I would have no choice but to rely upon Bridget and Mr. Harrington and Mr. Perry.
But if she didn’t want marriage, would my presence only cause further distress?
When I opened my eyes, Chaucer had drifted a few paces forward. He whinnied, his ears perking. I patted his neck while glancing around, but when I looked over the scene, my heart stalled. A dark void replaced what had once been the gladiator mosaic, with fragments of the tiles strewn across the area.
I swung off Chaucer and inspected what remained. It would have taken several men to remove it, likely with the use of a canvas or crate to carry it away.
A man’s brass button lay on the ground nearby, and I knelt to pick it up. Chaucer whinnied and I shifted on the damp ground to see what the matter was, when a thunderous blow struck the back of my head. I heard the sickening crack as stars flickered across my vision.
Reeling, I braced myself and cocked my fist, a cry ripping from my throat as several blows rained on my skull.
“Take him,” a muffled voice ordered as someone yanked an itchy burlap sack over my head.
37:Bridget
Gold tests with fire, woman with gold, man with woman.
SENECA
The sun began to set after Mr. Barron’s visit to the field. I slipped out of the parsonage with less than a few hours of daylight to probe the buried pot I’d uncovered earlier. Father and Mr. Harrington remained in the drawing room, deep in conversation over port—well, Mr. Harrington exclusively, as Father never touched the stuff.
I laced up my slippers and slid a pocketknife into my apron. Mrs. Herriot eyed me suspiciously as I grabbed my shawl and satchel from the hook on the wall. She hovered over a plate of gingerbread, her cheeks a bit full.
She swallowed an enormous lump and brushed sugar from her mouth. “Leaving at this hour?”
“Just a quick walk, I assure you. I’m heading to the mosaics. Not to worry, I’ll be back by nightfall.”
She shook her head, a few crumbs clinging to her chin. “One of these days, miss, all this gallivanting about will catch up with you.”
“Think on the bright side, Mrs. Herriot,” I called over my shoulder with an impish grin, “at least you can have my share of the biscuits this evening.”
I closed the door, hurrying down the wildflower-strewn path, gasping for air as I passed homes and farms until I reached Mr. Perry’s cottage. I would visit the Perry family after the field, should I find anything of value. And Iwouldspeak to Rafe soon regarding Mr. Barron’s accusation.
A knot formed in my stomach as a harsh wind rushed against the floor of the valley, and the endless sky above reminded me of my insignificance.
I should be used to being mostly alone. Sadly, I had accepted morsels in my relationships and pretended they were a feast. Was solitude the safer path to protect myself from betrayal and hurt? I didn’t know whom to trust anymore, especially since someone had told Mr. Barron about the ring. My heart stuttered at the idea of Rafe using it to his advantage. Or the mosaics.
Within moments, I found myself beside Ganymede, his mosaic figure soaring toward Olympus in vivid cerulean and gold—the spot where I had heard something crack. I knelt, trowel in hand. Yet, as I chiseled away the earth, my thoughts wandered to Medusa. She lay several feet away, her twisted face haunting the edges of my mind. Her story—the vengeance, the curse—seemed to reflect a deeper truth about human nature. What did her frozen fury say about the wounds we carry, unseen beneath the surface?
As I pondered these thoughts, my trowel hit something hard. A sharp clunk rang out in the quiet, pulling me from my reverie. I stared down at the dirt.
