The sound of shattering brought a low groan of frustration asI wiggled a small amphora free. The remainder of the vessel broke apart, the clay far too fragile to withstand my clumsy efforts.
A cry escaped me as a gold necklace tumbled to the dirt. My hand hovered over it, and as carefully as I could, I lifted it higher to examine it, counting eleven rounded amethyst stones, securely inset within the delicate goldwork. The heavy chain gleamed with beautiful craftsmanship, and to my amazement, a matching bracelet rested beneath it. Both pieces, remarkably preserved, revealed intricate swirls and circles, visible despite the centuries of grime.
I removed my handkerchief from my apron pocket and gently wiped the smooth surface of the gems.
Another thought circled my mind. Of course, I felt some degree of pleasure in finding such rare jewels. They would serve Mr. Perry’s finances well, and my research would bring a welcomed notoriety, further securing my position with the Antiquaries society.
The longer I held the jewelry in my ungloved hand, the more my heart collapsed into emptiness.
It was simply a necklace and bracelet in the end, hidden and of no use for centuries. Had the woman who wore them chased after empty baubles, only to find that they could neither fulfill nor save her? The heavy gold taunted me, unlike the Christian symbols etched into the doll and buried with a beloved child.
I did not withhold my heart from any pleasure, and indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind.
Father’s sermon on Ecclesiastes came back in snippets. Had I, too, chased after the wrong pursuits, seeking them to fill the chasm within me when the answer I needed had been with me all along? My mother loved to share the story of the lost coin with me, of the woman hunting throughout the house until it was reclaimed. I had assumed she meant rescuing Daniel from his recklessness.
But truthfully, I was that lost coin.
“Oh, God, do you truly care for Daniel and me?” I spoke out loud as I lifted my head to the heavens, my cheeks suddenly wet. “I know the right answers, but I struggle to believe. Help me in my unbelief.”
The wind brushed against me with a low moan and the clouds drifted across the sky as I awaited an answer.
“Miss Littleton!” A man’s voice shouted from across the field. “Do wait for us!”
Startled, I saw Mr. Barron striding across the field with Abigail in tow. He grinned broadly at me while she struggled to match his long-legged stride.
Strange. I had not noticed him drive up to the field. Had he waited in the Perry cottage all this while? Or just emerged from behind the copse of trees to the east, where Rafe’s stranger disappeared?
Quickly, I dashed at my eyes with my free hand. He had changed his foppish attire to something far more serviceable, with dirt marring his trousers at the knees and his white shirt lying open at the throat without a cravat. Before I could say anything, he reached into his shabby greatcoat and pulled out a pistol, aiming it at my chest.
I sucked in a horrified breath, my shoulders squaring as I rose. “What is the meaning of this, sir?”
He waved the pistol at me, gesturing to the jewels in my shaking grip. “You’ve been keeping secrets from Miss Perry. Whatever is hiding in your hand, I want you to give it to her.”
“Put the gun down,” I said as evenly as I could.
He cocked the hammer with a sneer. “Give the necklace to her, please. I won’t ask nicely again.”
Numb, I couldn’t move a muscle, my shock so complete, especially when Abigail slipped up to my side and reached for my hand. She tugged it upward, prying my fingers away from the jewels. Her mouth parted at the sight of the purple gems.
“Can we distract him?” I whispered to her. “I’ll throw the jewelry to the left and you run back to the cottage and nab your father.” An absurd plan full of risk, but I was willing to try it if it would keep her safe.
She blinked at my proposal. “You don’t understand. I haven’t a choice. He—he...”
“The necklace, Abigail. No speaking to Miss Littleton. It won’t do any good.” Mr. Barron gestured again with the pistol.
She exhaled sharply. “Please, Bridget. Do it for me.”
Horror dawned as my fingers clenched around the necklace. She had not been dragged against her will. She was Mr. Barron’s accomplice.
“Youwere the one who informed Mr. Barron about the ring.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, without any further hesitation she snatched both pieces from me, scratching my palm and wrist in the process, but her bottom lip quivered.
Muttering a curse, Mr. Barron snatched my arm with his free hand, his fingers digging deep into the flesh, far more so than they had on May Day.
“What else have you found?”
“You seem to know about the ring and the doll, and now the necklace and bracelet. Did you steal Bacchus?” I demanded.
